The Sun God had never been in love. Until he saw a lovely nymph, whose beauty made his heart race with a feeling impossible to capture in the sweetest words. Until he was struck by Cupid's arrow of love, sending his mind spiralling into an obsessive lust. Until he decided to... soothe you a bit, like a true, filthy scum. But well, Satoru Gojo was truly just a man in maddening love!
included in tales, myths, romances
˖𖤓 ݁˖ pairing: ꒰ Apollo!Gojo Satoru x Nymph!Reader ꒱
˖𖤓 ݁˖ content & warnings: ꒰ MDNI 18 + :: Greek Mythology AU :: half mythologically accurate :: MY WIFE FEMJO MENTIONED :: yandere Gojo Satoru :: obsessiveness :: possessiveness :: virgin reader :: masturbation :: strong reader :: she's also meannn :: Satoru is a SCUM in love :: drugging (with aprodisiac) :: lose of virginity :: Suguru is a scum too :: we're fucking on the beach :: posessive sex :: breeding :: mating press :: oral sex :: pussydrunk Satoru ꒱
˖𖤓 ݁˖ words: ꒰ 11.4k ꒱
˖𖤓 ݁˖ notes: I need to learn how to write short fics, because it was supposed to be 6k. Anyway, it is half-mythologically accurate, as I, of course, added a few changes. There's not much said in mythology about Daphne's (nymph's) character, so I played with it a bit. Enjoy!
The common truth seemed to be that Apollo had been stricken by the wicked arrow of love by Cupid himself.
During the fight of sorts, Apollo, always so proud and pugnacious, killed the serpent Python. He slew him with a thousand arrows as the beast wrought devastation across the lush lands of mankind.
And so the God defeated it grandly, with his handsome cheeks and eyes kissed by the Mother Sea itself, shining majestically beneath the golden rays of the Mediterranean sun.
The end of the story it could be, yet the God of Music and Poetry and Sun, to put it bluntly, did not know how to shush a cheeky mouth of his that boasted round and round.
One day, flushed with foolish pride, he saw a God of Love, Eros, bending his bow, arrow drawn taut. A boy of young age who seemed too sweet not to tease, and as Apollo was known for his wicked, playful mind, he poked the little divinity with a laugh.
A laugh it was supposed to be, yet he went too far.
He joked a few too many times, laughing at how Eros shouldn't handle a weapon reserved only for the truest men. After all, who killed the serpent Python if not Apollo himself?
He had every right to be arrogant, yet the Gods and Goddesses couldn't stand the wicked smirk and unwavering haughtiness that always clouded his mind. He was beautiful and sleek, yet no one on Olympus's peak could ever match his arrogance and boldness.
Apollo was powerful, yet Eros was unkind. After he poked and played and had his fun, Apollo left Eros alone in the forest, giving him no mind. He didn't know, however, that the God of Love would prove far more wicked than he had thought.
As with his hurt pride, Eros plucked a few creamy feathers from his wings and prepared two arrows. They were completely different, one creating love, the other banishing it entirely. A savage decision, truly, yet how could a prideful man of Eros's sort leave Apollo without the fruit of his wrath?
So he drew the arrow of love and shot it right through his bones. Letting it seep deep and gravely, spreading the lustful obsession of the most wicked charm. The utterly deadly one, making one obsessed and wretched over the darling of their desires.
Usually, his arrows were meant to strike those who wished to be deeply in love. Yet, as the rage was ravaging Eros's mind, he decided to make Apollo the most obsessed yet unhappy man in the entire world.
As for the other one, meant to banish the love, he shot at the daughter of the River's God.
The most beautiful nymph of all, with a face carved by the waves themselves. A chin utterly kind and cheeks wholly sweet, as eyes carried a gentleness of petals' peppered kisses. A wild birdie she was, basking carefree beneath the searing sun, as she lay and drank and danced without giving a mind to no mankind nor other little divinities. Nothing plagued her cheeky mind, and no worry could ever haunt her velvety forehead.
After all, she was the River God's most precious child, and he allowed her everything, guided by a parent's blissful love.
Her giggle bloomed in the nearby trees, and tender gaze lit the powdery midnight sky. A true beauty of utterly rare sight, so impossible it seemed too not be caught in Apollo's sight!
The God of Sun and Music and Poetry had never been in love. He enjoyed the bodily pleasures rather often, yet had never come upon a thing so deadly and wicked called love.
He knew that Gods and mortals joyed in it with the passion seething in their blood – for there were Hades and his Persephone, Aphrodite and Ares, even Orpheus and Eurydice, too, although it seemed that love of humankind was of a rather cruel sort.
Apollo, or, well, Satoru Gojo, as his true name was, never gave it much thought. The Goddesses and Gods were utterly beautiful, true, yet none of them had ever made his heart race with the swell and tenderness that all the poets wrote of.
He had never felt this tickling pinch his spine, nor the sudden blissful pain puncturing through his heart. No lover had ever bewitched his soul in an almost maddening way, and so he thought that the thing called love was simply not a part of his fate. Even if, that was rather fine too.
And yet… the serpents of fate are wicked.
Another summer evening it was, while Dionysus threw a joyous party as Gods usually liked to do. With wine spilling all over the golden cups and jolly laughter swirling through the tall grasses of the midnight land.
Gods there were of all sorts – trees and rivers and plants, each with loveliest offspring too, joined the grand feast.
It happened thirty moons or so before Eros shot Satoru with an arrow of maddening love. One evening, when the God who devoted his mind to no one set his eyes on… you.
A Goddess? Dearests, no.
As if you were the Goddess, he would fear that Aphrodite, driven by jealousy, would quickly pluck your eyes out. For the moment you entered the banquet held on the hidden beach, where waves rolled in deep foams, and moonlight spilt its cold kisses onto the heavy stones, Satoru needed to hold his breath.
This feeling, which he had read – written – about so often, suddenly bloomed in the swells of his heart. His hand flew towards his chest, crumpling the ivory tunic that covered the sizzling skin. His mind was struck, as if by a trickery spell, making him lose interest in the men and women chirping by his side.
The lyre in his hands felt heavy as he plucked the crystal strings, producing an unpleasant tone. But how could he not, if his eyes were devouring a beauty he'd never seen before?
And that evening, he followed you like a lost pup. With an ocean gaze lingering longer on the swells of your body, wrapped in a flimsy dress, and on your sweet cheeks, giggling foxily as the salty breeze smooched them. The flicker of the candles peppering long tables cast a lovely flame upon your skin, basking it in gold and warmth, as he imagined licking it clean.
Satoru Gojo was a poet too. A God of Poetry, after all, yet his mind was miserably empty whenever he tried to put your beauty into words. No one had ever shone brighter than you, and no giggle forced this weird, foreign feeling to seep through the marrow of his ribcage.
He was always responsible for the music and jolly, while his dearest friend Dionysus spilt the wine into guests' cups. The merry atmosphere tickled him in a pleasant way, and the mere thought of going back to one of his temples with a few little birdies forced a cheeky smile upon his brazen lips.
The women, Goddesses, and little divinities who didn't wish to be smooched by Satoru's muscular arms were indeed few. Yet the nymph who bewitched his mind in the utmost wretched way didn't bestow him with lovely eyes even once.
Dionysus noticed Apollo's frown crumbling, so he jumped to his side with a whisper, "Hm, isn't she your type, my dearest God?"
Satoru glanced at the slyness on Suguru's lips and bit the inside of his soft cheek. "That's the problem. And yet it seems I'm not quite hers."
Suguru pushed a raven lock of his hair back behind his ear, and lavender eyes oogled your giggling body with a slight grin. "Do you wish me to give her a bit of my special wine?"
The special wine was simply spiked with an aphrodisiac. Some Gods loved to use it to heighten their own sexual pleasure, while others too… made the object of their desires a bit mellow. A bit more balmy and sweet, and so Satoru already imagined your body melting beneath his fingers as he held it dearly within his delicate grasp.
Feeding you the special wine would be easy. And yet, Satoru didn't wish to be a bastard.
"Oh, but you are," Suguru chuckled, sensing the thought in his friend's mind. "I don't think there's any God more selfish than you."
Satoru knew it was the truth, for his character was rather… oh well… let's simply say he wasn't known to be the kindest and most lovable pick among the women. The most beautiful one? Surely. The best in offering sexual pleasures? Indeed. Yet he was the most arrogant bastard on the Mountain's peak, and every creature living beneath the Midetarrean sun knew of it far and well.
You most likely knew it too, so that's why the stars bouncing off your eyes did not look his way even for a second.
His head fell against Suguru's shoulder, the heavy wine coating his tongue with a sweet taste. His mind buzzed with a clash of drunken and desperate thoughts, a pulsing desire already flowing like liquid through his veins.
"I want to approach her in a nice way," he muttered, feeling Suguru's body tremble with wicked laughter.
"You can only dream, my God. She had rejected all attempts to woo her. The men and the Gods were rebuffed before they could grasp the weight of her eyes," Suguru hummed, feeling Satoru's head suddenly grow heavy on his shoulder.
"Is it her father's fault?"
Suguru shook his head. "The River God wishes for nothing more than to see his grandchildren's blooming cheeks. It's she who sniffs at all her suitors. After all, she is a virgin huntress, bound by Artemis's chastity laws." Satoru's head grew heavier. "You'd better forget about her, my God."
But how could he! His heart raced for no one but her. And even if she was a virgin beauty, Satoru didn't mind it at all, for he truly believed in the power of his charming soul. The arrogant confidence of the Sun God was truly impossible to dim!
And so that evening, Apollo decided to fulfil your father's deepest wish and become a man worthy of his daughter's hand. The one who would turn the virgin huntress into his most delicate, lovely petal.
At first, he began strolling around the meadows you usually spent your time in. Where the river curved and bent like a serpent's snake, and crystal droplets smooched your body, immersing you deep. You often sat with other sisters, and Satoru would approach you all with his foxed smile, dripping with a few sweetish words about your utter charm.
The other nymphs giggled, blushing gently at the lyricism spilling from his lips, as if the words of the most passionate, heart-throbbing kind were meant for them indeed. They looked at your unfazed face with a sly smile, knowing that their sister would reject Apollo's advances as she did with all her other suitors.
The Sun God knelt on the riverbank, looking down at your naked body hidden beneath the water's gentle swells. He could see nothing but the swell of your breasts, with perked nipples smooched by the river's kisses. You were meant to stay a virgin, true, but no one said you couldn't use the charms of yours to make the men spill miserably right beneath your feet.
So you glanced, for the first time, at God's idyllic face and waved your hand with a soft sigh. "I don't need your courtship, my God. There's nothing you can say that will force my mind to change. And to answer the question you most anticipate – no, I won't marry you."
Other suitors would back away instantly, feeling the intimidating air your glance carried across the lush plains. Your head tilted wickedly, lips curving into a playful beam, as if you knew the wretched state you always left them in.
Because a man's nature was to challenge his luck. Who didn't think that maybe their fate would be to change the virgin's mind? As all of them thought of you as the gentle, timid petal, not knowing that the virgin huntress was indeed a true beast hidden beneath the loveliest female cheeks!
But the Apollo, of course, couldn't be more turned on by your harsh rejection. The truth was that he almost didn't hear a word. No, instead he focused on the way your lips curved into a tricky smile. How crystalline droplets clung to your half-dipped breasts, with liquid sun spilling all over your warm skin. He traced them one by one, dripping from the damp hair and down the chest. His eyes seemed to be enamoured by your heavy gaze, slightly squinted and teasing, as if you already knew that your rejection would pinch his wretched heart.
And so a truthful, "My Goddess, you're ethereally beautiful with this wrath-wrinkle of yours," fell with his deep, obsessed sigh.
The nymphs gasped, covering their lips with gentle hands. Their mingling eyes glanced between your squinted gaze and the God's wretched sigh, as they awaited how this concern would unfold.
"I'm not a Goddess, and I don't need your praise," you said, your voice dripping with disinterest. "Find yourself another muse, my God. There's no need to waste your precious time on a simple nymph."
You bounced off the river's edge and swam to the other one, where the Sun God knelt. With the golden halo smooching his pale cheeks and ivory tunic crumpling on muscular shoulders. Feet clad in long, serpent sandals, golden laurel laying high on frosted head.
You've seen men of his sort, yet he was the first to look down on you with such a wretched gaze. Like a doomed lover, trapped in a circle of unrequited love, as if his heart had never swelled for any beauty but your gentlest soul.
He watched you carefully as you swam his way, unhurriedly, slowly. Water flowed over your body in soft waves, and warm wind shook the sole strings of your hair as it fell.
Your arms rested on the lush grass as you looked up at him through a curtain of wet lashes. "My God, I think it's time for you to go."
Satoru smiled – foxily, slyly, yet truthfully – before his hand reached out to cup your lovely cheek. You quickly pulled back, letting the tips of his fingers only catch a whisper of your soft lips.
His head tilted, a few creamy strands falling loosely over his straight brows. "I don't wish to hurt you, my Goddess." He grabbed the hem of his tunic. "I simply hope you'll grant me a chance."
He was kneeling, propping himself on his toes, as his fingers itched to grab a single lock of yours.
"I won't. I pledged Artemis my virginity. I'm a huntress, not your silly muse. Leave this place, or you'll taste the blood of my arrows."
And these words had indeed been bold, as all three realms of this world knew that no man had been more skilful in archery than Apollo himself.
If anyone else had spoken them in such a daring manner, the wrath of Apollo would bring painful consequences.
Yet when he heard it in this lovely yet viper-like tone of yours, a shiver ran down his spine. His hair stood on end as if electrified, and an ethereal aura smouldering around his figure suddenly intensified.
He wasn't afraid, oh surely no.
But rather, the swelling enamour, pinching his fingertips, washed over his heart. Your wicked personality wasn't an issue of any sort, but rather made the Sun God burn with an unexplainable desire. Heat that seeped down to his loins as he took a whistling breath.
"My Goddess, do you know who you're threatening to?"
You knew, of course, yet the urge to play with his boastful ego suddenly proved stronger than the choice to simply leave him be. You've met men like him before – too proud, too arrogant, the ones who'd never heard the word no. Yet of all you'd rejected, Apollo – Satoru Gojo – was the worst of all.
He was the Sun God, after all, who took satisfaction in the fact that the world, indeed, revolved around him. A personification of vanity and smugness, surpassing even Narcissus's pompous pride.
He knew what spell his wicked beauty cast over the nymph's petal cheeks. He knew the virgin maiden would fall for him most pitiably, needing only a single glance from his lustful eyes. His touch was soft, and his hands roamed over the women's tender bodies in the most loving way, yet never leaving them with the true tenderness that should fill his heart.
Satoru Gojo was a simple scum you wished to have nothing to do with. A cheeky smile tugged at your lips as you rested your arms on the river's edge and lifted half your body out of the water.
He didn't try to hide the ocean gaze, immediately snapping down towards your perked nipples, with crystal droplets dripping down the lush glass. Your head tilted, eyes turning kitty-like, as the blessed kisses of sunshine, of his sun, peppered your wet cheeks.
"To just yet another miserable man," fell almost mockingly, prompting a sudden movement around his hips. You've noticed it, and so you turned your lips into a disgusted grimace. "Go away, my God, and know my mercy. I won't be that nice next time."
You fully lifted yourself from the water, standing next to his kneeling body, naked. His gaze followed up your thighs, the mound of your pussy, the plush of your belly, tracing every crystalline line carving into your body. When it finally met your eyes, his throat bobbed.
"My Goddess, you're truly underestimating my feelings for you."
A scoff slipped past your lips as your eyes rolled. "For the God of Poetry, I expected more flowery words."
And so, ignoring whether he wished to say anything next, you simply passed him by. Going deeper into the woods, leaving the Sun God with nothing but the lingering fragrance of your blooming skin in the air, and the painfully, wickedly wretched pleasure bubbling in his loins.
𖤓 𖤓 𖤓
You truly thought that he would give up.
That the Sun God, like any other man, wouldn't wish to pursue a woman who looked at him with nothing but a deep scowl between her beautiful brows.
And yet, for the next thirty moons, he always seemed to be there. Somewhere around, following you like a shadow, with eyes and lips and mind always speaking loudly, giving you neither peace nor serenity among the quiet fields of your home.
Whenever you went hunting, his arrows sliced through the air faster than yours, striking the animals and beasts with power that crumbled the heavens themselves, and a gasp always slipped past your lips.
Quiet, voiceless, yet somehow leaving you speechless upon seeing the strength the Sun God possessed.
He found you every single day, appearing like a spectre by the riverbank, a bow slung over his muscular shoulder, gold and softly feathered, mingling beneath the rising sun.
"Where are we going today, my Goddess?" He jumped to your side with a smile, immediately sniffing the fresh, flowery scent that clung to your sparkling hair.
You gave him no mind, simply following deeper into the warm, moist woods. The sun was barely high, and so you watched the trees wake from the slumber's tight arms.
"I'm going for breakfast, and you can do whatever you want."
Yet you knew that no matter how mundane your day was, Satoru Gojo would follow you nonstop. Just to steal a glance at your lips as you wrapped them around the orange's sweetest juice, the sugary stickiness dripping down your blooming cheeks. To watch the way your back bent whenever you drew yet another deadly arrow. How muscles beneath your flimsy tunic worked, and the sweat bubbled at the back of your neck as he traced it with a hungry gaze.
A few weeks had to pass before you started to tolerate his daily company.
He still acted bold and proud, often boasting like a peacock right in front of your irritated eyes, yet tried to keep his hands away, even though you'd noticed how his fingers curled whenever your tunic brushed their tips.
But then one day… something had changed.
You didn't know what, but well, he did.
Eros's wicked arrow had struck his bones, making his gut leak with maddening love. He was aware of the wretched ache in his heart, yet only after being struck by a love-spell of sorts did something beastly unlock in his mind.
As for the arrow meant to banish love, Eros shot it towards Apollo's dearest one. As all the Gods on Olympus already knew of his wretched state, Eros played his dirty trick, ensuring that the sweetest nymph would never glance at Apollo again.
But… well. A man in such haunting love is truly a hellish creature himself.
When the love-bound arrow struck his back, he took it with a wicked pleasure. Yet, when he saw another one flying boldly towards the curve of yours, he grabbed it swiftly, before the leaking peak could ever brush your skin.
It was a sudden movement as he stepped closer, his hand shooting toward something over your shoulder.
It happened yet another day, as you both walked the serpentine paths through his temple's lush garden. There's a little cove I wish to show you. How about a quick dip? After spending a month in his presence, you sighed and nodded, as nothing gave you more wicked pleasure than seeing him lose his mind at the sight of your naked body in fresh mountain waters.
And so, while your tunic fell to the ground and a warm wind brushed your hair with a soft tickle, he suddenly stepped closer.
Too close. Before a sudden crack of splintering wood sounded behind you, he drew an arrow, his long fingers clenching it.
"What is it?" you furrowed, looking at the long wooden arrow crushed in his strong grip.
He threw it to the side, taking the ivory tunic off his body. "Nothing, probably someone's lost arrow. Give it no mind."
But how could you, when something deep in your chest panged? You were a huntress, after all, so how could you not notice an arrow slashing at your side? There was never a moment when you would let your guard down, and yet, being in Satoru's presence somehow pulled a blissful laziness to seep into your mind.
He was always there – looking, watching, carefully observing each of your moves. Swooshing away a few men who dared to approach your side while he kept his eyes on you for too long.
To tear their limbs apart and unleash plagues across their lands with a single arrow. Something… you didn't know about, since there was no need to trouble your sweet mind. To reveal a sinister side of him that would shatter the gradually improving image you held of him.
His mind was already wicked. Heart wrenched by the pull of love so strong that it seeped into him from the inside. So the moment the love arrow struck his back, the feelings he had tried to keep within his heart suddenly burst with brutish, uncontrollable force.
He simply needed to make you his.
So you hummed softly, taking the first step into the little cove, with water slipping in from the nearby sea. A crisp chill hugged your limbs as you took a deep breath.
He watched you with a smile before dipping into the water too. "Rather good, isn't it?"
You nodded, leaning your arms over one of the sizzling stones. "Mhm."
Your bashful eyes roved over his ethereal body, lingering a moment longer on the broad, muscular back and meaty thighs. A warmth seeped through your loins, so you quickly looked away.
But he saw it. Of course he did, and so his body drifted a little closer, just to feel the saltiness wrapping your skin. Your hair fell loosely over your wet shoulder, and warmth crept up your soft neck.
The slight ache from the morning's hunt still pinched your muscles, so you turned to him again, only to see that he had suddenly come far too close.
A soft cough escaped your throat as you pressed yourself closer to the stone. "Could you, hm, give me a quick massage, my God?"
Satoru chuckled. "A massage? Is that how you wish to use the powerful Sun God?"
A scoff slipped past your lips as you turned back and rested your cheek against the warm stone. With eyes slightly lidded, you knew he, anyway, would give you whatever you wanted.
"Is there anything else you're good for?" A cheeky question slipped past your lips, followed by a low sigh.
He stood mere millimetres from your arched back, and the heat radiating from his body was smouldering your drenched skin. Long, thick fingers settled gently on your shoulders before he began pressing the muscles. Your body melted beneath his strong touch, and your mind went all fuzzy – nothing but soft moans and sighs would fill the little, hidden cove.
"I'm sure you can find a few things you could make good use of," his voice dripped with seduction, tickling your hair-covered cheeks.
A tsk fell past your lips. "You have only filth in your mind."
Well, how could he not? When your back arched so deliciously, with water hugging solely your slightly dipped hips? He could see the swell of your ass almost brushing his thighs, and if he took a little step forward, the tip of his leaking cock would surely brush your skin.
It was a blessing that you lay pressed to the stone in a blissfully unaware state, not knowing that the Sun God was going through pure torture right behind your back. With the fat, long cock sticking to his abdomen, little pearls of precum dripping down the veiny curve.
"You make me act filthy, my Goddess."
A month ago, you would have smacked his cheek and left him be. But now, with his fingers digging deep into the muscles of your back, a lovely laugh slipped past your lips.
"It's a pity I'm a wretched virgin, hm?" You straightened your spine, as if trying to give him a better view. "My God, you truly have extraordinary restraint."
Oh, how he loved this cheeky side of yours. The pure filth spilling from your virgin lips, eyes taking on a nasty look whenever you caught him staring at your nipples peeking through the tunic. The way you always undressed yourself in front of him without blushing like a birdie, taking full pleasure in the fact that he couldn't touch you as he wished.
Who said that a virgin should be timid and cowardly? If you could keep your chastity while still enjoying the wretched state you put men in?
And which God would be more fun to tease than the one who slipped through numerous affairs?
Satoru hummed, pressing your back a little harder. Slipping lower, and lower, through your ribcage and waist, rolling the little dimples just above your hips. "Have I? I'm afraid this restraint might one day snap."
A shudder ran down your spine as you tried to keep your head steady. Your bow lay still on the river's bank, and if he tried to misbehave even a bit, you would simply shoot him clean.
And yet, your hips rolled, as if trying to chase the pleasure his touch gave. "I'll be there when it happens." You looked over your shoulder, not missing the squint he gave you… "And I'll make sure to bring you to your senses," …and the reddened tip sticking to his hips. "I think you might wish to take care of it. Maybe with one of your muses?"
Or whores, as you actually wanted to say.
His cock trembled as you looked at it, and Satoru could only chuckle. Nastily, mischievously, with the fingers pulling your hips a bit closer. Yet not close enough for your wet pussy to feel the meaty shaft graze her lips.
"You are my muse, Goddess," he leaned closer, his warm breath brushing your cheeks. "Do you wish to hear the poems I've written about you?"
The sizzling sun licked your spine, eyes followed as his plush lips leaned to your ear. "Are they as filthy as your mind?"
He nodded, fingers slipping down towards the swell of your hips. Rolling deep circles, loosening the tightness in your muscles. "How could they not?" Snowy hair almost tickled your ear. "Who do you think I pleasure myself to? You may be a virgin, my Goddess, but I have my needs too."
With a sudden movement, he flipped you over, pressing your back to the warm stone. His thick cock stuck to the white trail of his abdomen, yet still not touching your dripping cunt.
You may've pledged chastity, yet you couldn't control your body's simple needs.
"You can't do anything to me," you said, yet something in your voice quivered.
His head tilted wickedly, and his eyes shone as he gripped the fat shaft. "But you can watch, hm?" A thumb swirled over the pearly tip, smearing the sticky cum over the reddened head. "Or is it also against your chastity?"
Maybe it was. Yet your head shook as back pressed closer to the stone. The water swelled over your hips, leaving your breasts bare to his starving gaze.
"Hm, thought so." His fingers slipped to your cheek, brushing a few wet locks away. "My Goddess, you truly are a wicked creature."
Pleasure, distress, haunting desire clashed with each other in your mind, yet your body froze in place. Lips fell only slightly open, eyes bulging like porcelain plates, seeing the fatness he gripped. Leaking with creamy droplets of precum, soaking his long fingers and veiny thickness.
Saying he was large would be an understatement.
Something in your belly squeezed, imagining his bulging head hit the deepest–
"Stop," the word slipped out in a shudder as you turned your head away. With warm cheeks and a trembling lip, as if the Sun God's look of himself pleasuring himself solely on your blooming face were against every pledge you had made. "Go and find one of your filthy muses."
Satoru chuckled before his fingers pinched your chin, turning your head back. He leaned closer, his lips almost brushing yours. "I can't think of anyone but you, my Goddess. Look what a wretched man I am because of you." His thumb brushed your lower lip, then slipped boldly onto your tongue. "Do you truly wish to put your Sun God through such a tor–"
Yet before he could finish, your hand met his cheek. A slap bounced off the water, turning his face left. To bring it back to face your wrath, you slapped it again.
His creamy face bloomed like the softest rose, and a shiver of pleasure ran down his spine. Excitement pinched his heart as fingers clenched around the fat shaft with a low, groany moan.
He bit the inside of his cheek, looking down at your face, burning with rage. "Slap me again, my Goddess, and I'll make you arch that pretty ass of yours for me again."
You didn't know where this sudden change had come from, yet the man standing in front of you was not the one who had pestered you for the past thirty moons.
No, as Satoru Gojo, who now stood mere millimetres from your body, with his musky scent clouding you tight and his fat cock trembling at the sheer look of yours – look much, much madder.
Wretched, obsessed, with the flame dancing behind his watery eyes and a wicked smile tugging at his rosy lips
Another shiver ran down your spine when he started pumping his shaft faster. Smearing the creamy cum all over the bulging veins, throwing his head back yet still following the gentle rise of your trembling breasts.
The rage bubbled beneath your heart, and a tiny thread of heat smouldered on your cheeks. He leaned a bit closer, and closer, and closer, until his forehead rested against your shoulder. He didn't touch you in any other way, yet the sole impact left you breathless.
"My Goddess, you smell so good," he took a deep breath close to your neck, letting another groan escape his lips. "So delicious, ah, I can only imagine how sweet the scent is down there."
A shuddered breath escaped your tightened throat, feeling his muscular, massive body looming over yours like a deathly threat. Long fingers pumped his cock faster, breathless moans hit your drenched skin, before he finally stilled.
With the gentle, petal kiss upon your shoulder and his cheek nuzzling against your skin.
Something warm spilt over your belly. And you didn't need to look down to know what it would be.
"You're disgusting," fell in pure wrath, as you pushed him away. "Nothing but filthy scum. I hope this satisfied your hunger, because the next time I see you, my God, not even your wicked arrows will be able to save you from my rage."
You left the water with a shuddering, vexing tremor washing over your spine, and this little, agonisingly rubbing feeling that spilt hotly all over your mind.
Satoru followed your body with a slick smile, the saltiness of your skin still tasting heavy on his lips.
The Sun God was of a cunning nature. Wicked and wrathful, always doing things one way. His way.
Three weeks had passed before he had a chance to see you again.
His heart heaved in agony as he couldn't find you anywhere. As always, he came at the first break of day to join you on the morning hunt, but you simply weren't there. Waiting for him with a scowl, yet still giggling at all his foolish jokes and accepting a bit of help.
He was waiting by the river's bank from morning till night, yet you hadn't appeared even once. As if the waves themselves had trapped you beneath the surface.
He asked around – the nymphs, the Goddesses, the plains – yet everyone said they hadn't seen you for days. Or maybe they simply lied to him, as you couldn't simply disappear.
And so for the next three weeks, he walked through the lands like a shadow. He barely enjoyed anyone's company, sitting in his temple only to get drunk on the sweetest wine, letting his creamy skin be scorched beneath his own, merciless sun. A shadow of a man he was, as his heart simply couldn't bear the separation you imposed with such anger.
After two weeks, he met his twin sister, Artemis, to whom you pledged your chastity. He loved his sister dearly and knew her like the back of his hand. Thus, with a single glance, he could tell she knew everything that had happened between the two of you.
And based on her furrowed forehead and tsk that fell when she saw his grinning face entering her temple – she wasn't happy.
"I won't tell you where she is," she murmured, brushing her long, creamy hair aside as she enjoyed the warm kisses in the sun.
She lay on the sofa by her pool, with nothing but a long tunic gently wrapped around her body. Satoru hung over her wrinkled forehead and pressed a finger to satin skin. "My sister, such a beautiful woman you are, and yet you always seem so angry."
Shihori smacked his hand, glancing up at his brother with the same blue eyes. "Because you always make me angry, fool."
Satoru lifted her legs and rested them on his thighs as he joined her on the sofa. "Tell me where she is."
Shihori couldn't care less about her brother's wicked wish, so she shook her head. "You know she pledged her virginity, hm?"
Satoru hummed, playing with the long tunic as he brushed his sister's ankles. "I do."
"So you also must know what will happen if she breaks her vow?"
Of course he knew. That's why he came here.
"What if I told you I love her?" he asked, drawing his sister's attention. "I want to make her my wife. Give her to me, and I promise I will be in your debt forever."
Shihori propped herself up on elbows, letting long white hair brush her rosy cheeks. She was as beautiful as her younger brother – by a minute only. Possessing the same archery skill and a power that trembled the heavens.
With a slim chin and wicked eyes, matching the proudish smile. Strong and bold, with neatly carved muscles bulging beneath her satin skin and an authoritative tone that always made Satoru slightly squirm. But she was his older sister, after all, so how could he not feel the utter love and respect for the same blood?
"And why would I do that?" Shihori lifted her straight brow. "Why would I change my rules for this little nymph?"
"Because you love me," Satoru grinned. "And I suppose it would be rather proper to remind you that enjoying women's company also counts as losing one's virginity. My dearest virgin-goddess sister."
Shihori squinted, kicking his side with her foot. "Whatever I do with my nymphs is none of your business."
Satoru grabbed her ankle before biting her big toe, just as he used to tease her when they were children.
"I suppose some Gods would be interested in how the protector of young women and their virginity fucks with her dearest followers," he chuckled as she kicked him again. "You're no better than me, my sister. The same scum-blood runs in our veins. So let me have her, and I won't say a word."
Shihori glared at him. Morality and the need to give her little brother everything were clearly at war in her mind before she waved her hand and lay back down.
"Fine, I won't punish her. Just don't do anything stupid," she laughed, feeling Satoru's sweet kiss on her cheek. "She'll join another feast in a week. Just wait for her there. Oh, and bring me some of this Suguru's special wine."
Satoru tilted his head, another wicked grin already tugging at his lips. He knew his sister wasn't the saint everyone took her for, yet he had no idea how coy she was.
"And what do you need an aphrodisiac-spiked wine for?"
She opened one eye, shooting a set of daggers straight at his heart. But before another bark could pass her plush lips, Satoru chuckled once again. "Ah, what was this rumour, hm…" His eyes gleamed with a foul grin.
"What rumour?" Shihori asked through her teeth, yet the rosy warmth hit her cheeks.
Satoru stood up from the sofa, giving his muscular back a long, groany stretch. He scratched his chin before looking over his shoulder towards his sister. Oh, her anger only fueled his playful mind.
"Nothing, just that our dearest stepmother has been surprisingly benevolent lately," he observed, another wave of warmth wrapping around her neck. "I suppose it's because Hera truly enjoys the company of her stepdaughter. I wonder what makes her so happy that even Zeus no longer gets scolded for all his affairs."
Shihori slipped a pillow from beneath her head and threw it at his head. "Go out, before I change my mind!"
And so he left, with a crackling chuckle bouncing off the temple's walls and his older sister burning from embarrassment.
Yet now, with his sister's blessing, there was nothing that could stop him from pursuing your love.
And so he knew that the next time you met, he would make you his, whether you liked it or not.
𖤓 𖤓 𖤓
The moon spilt coldly over the feast's heavy tables as the Gods and Goddesses gathered around the flickering candles. The night was warm, as the summer breeze tickled the cheerful cheeks of the giggling nymphs, who listened to Satoru playing soft harp tunes.
An ivory tunic, as always, fell down his muscular shoulders, as the moon spilt dripping kisses on the lightened side of his face.
Finger played softly through the harp's gentle strings, yet lingered on your laughing cheeks. Something panged deep in his chest at how carefree you were with other divinities. You sipped your wine without giving Satoru much thought, as if you hadn't disappeared from Earth for the past three weeks.
Your laugh sliced sweetly through the air, tickling his ears. He desperately tried to force eye contact, yet you gave him nothing but the lovely side of your cheek.
An irritated tsk escaped his lips, an unpleasant anger bubbling deep in his chest. A few Gods approached you with a smile, forcing another wave of rage to wash over Satoru's spine.
Before he could step in, seeing how you slowly warmed yourself to some small God's side, a low, chuckling whistle slashed through the air.
"It seems like things didn't work your way," Suguru said, brushing Satoru's arm with his. "What? She rejected you?"
Satoru sighed, rolling his tense shoulders. "She's just a little nervous."
Suguru squinted his lavender eyes, clearly dissatisfied with such a roundabout answer. Raven hair tickled Satoru's cheek as he tilted his head. Satoru rarely saw his friend concerned with anyone but him, yet his forehead furrowed with a gentle wrinkle.
"Give her some of this wine," Satoru mumbled.
Suguru drew in a long breath, shooting his head towards Satoru. "But you said–"
He started, but Satoru quickly added. "I know what I said." He bit the inside of his cheek, his eyes squinting furiously. "Give her a little. Just to soothe her a bit."
Suguru chuckled, hitting his friend's back. "As you wish, my God."
"Ah, also, prepare a bit for Shihori."
Looking over his shoulder, Suguru rolled a laugh. "Your sister? What does she need it for?"
Satoru gestured with his chin towards the start of the table, where three of the brothers and their wives sat among the elite. With Persephone straddling Hades's hips, a quiet goddess wrapped around Poseidon's arm, and Hera… sitting utterly bored and giving Zeus's drunken laugh no mind.
Suguru followed his gaze before a devilish laugh escaped his throat. "Don't tell me she fucks with the queen mother herself?"
Satoru crossed his arms over his broad chest and let out a soft hum. Suguru tilted his head, admiring Hera's gentle cheeks. "Well, she's quite beautiful. No wonder she's stopped going crazy over Zeus's affairs lately."
Satoru watched as his friend took another pot of wine before rejoining the Gods. His golden tongue whispered the sweetest secrets, and the divinities laughed and blushed beneath Dionysus's soothing lines. After all, a God of Laughter, Wine and Theatre, he knew exactly how to play on people's minds.
You weren't an exception. As he approached and wrapped his arms around you and your friend, a gentle laugh made your eyes lift. Satoru bit the inside of his cheek, catching Suguru's sly glance, while his fingers clenched around your soft arm.
But still, he poured you another cup of the sweetest wine, watching you close as you took a sip. And another, another, another, before humming softly about how delicious it tastes.
A few minutes passed before something warm began to spill across your chest. A kind of fog clouded your mind – sweet and gentle, yet sizzling like the sun.
The nymph sitting right next to you grabbed your arm, looking at your hottish face with a furrow. "Hey, are you okay? Do you need some water?"
You drew in a sharp breath, feeling her cold skin against yours. Your head shook as a soft "I'm fine" barely passed your lips.
Excusing yourself, you rose from the chair and headed to a quieter part of the beach, where gentle waves lapped inside the small cove. Surrounded by the forest and shielded by tall trees, the spot offered a peaceful retreat. The salty breeze gently touched your cheeks, while your throat felt parched, and you scratched it with long nails.
The fog clouding your head was getting thicker, denser, spreading all over your body till the fingertips tingled with a pinching pleasure.
Something wet dripped down your inner thighs, and as you hid yourself behind a tree and slipped a hand beneath the long dress, you felt the stickiness coating your sizzling skin. But more so… the moment your finger brushed your swollen folds, a low bounce of the softly rolling waves.
"Fuck," slipped in a whisper, as you felt the burning pleasure fill your lower belly.
You looked around, seeing that neither mortal nor God peered into the little cove. The bay seemed completely private, with nothing but moonlight spilling onto the smooth sand and soft whispers rolling off the crystal waves.
You took a deep breath, unconsciously rubbing your thighs together. Just to feel a faint friction, yet too embarrassed to slip your finger up again.
You've never felt it before. This… sensation.
Pleasure.
Or maybe you did, yet your mind refused to accept that Apollo, or Satoru Gojo, was the only man who woke a dangerous flame deep in your chest.
Maybe you simply wished to forget about the warmth that boiled deep within your lower belly when his muscular body stood right in front of yours. The look on his handsome face, lost in utter pleasure, and his long fingers wrapped around his filthy cock.
You tried not to think of it again, as the moment the image of his shaft slipped again into your mind, another moany sigh rolled past your lips. Your pussy clenched around nothing, letting another batch of stickiness coat your thighs. Trickling down the skin, till you've noticed a little, wet drop landing on the sand.
"Fuck, fuckfuckfuck," you cried, feeling the burning sensation pinch your skin harder. Perking your nipples, softening your body, as if preparing you to accept the pleasure that needed to be spilt.
Bracing yourself against the stony wall, you took a few steps. On trembling legs, you felt the weakness slowly seep into your marrow. You walked slowly, trying to go deeper into the nearby forest, just to reach the river.
Somewhere safe.
You moved slowly, with wetness dripping down your legs and heavy breaths escaping your burning lungs. Your eyes were misty, nearly teary, as the feverish, floral heat enveloped your entire body.
Waves rolled past your bare feet, sandals long forgotten somewhere in the back. Your burning body couldn't bear the dress clinging to your skin, so you began to undress unconsciously.
One cloth after another, before falling down your knees, to crawl towards the river's banks.
"Do you need help, my Goddess?"
Someone's voice filled your balmy mind.
No, not someone's.
His.
Of the God whom you wished to see the last, as the sole fragrance of his skin pinched your senses in an utmost sinful way.
And, oh, he must've watched you now in such an embarrassing stance!
Kneeling with your sizzling body, you shed the sea-drenched dress behind you. The intense desire overwhelmed your reason as you presented yourself fully before his daring gaze.
"Go away," you barely breathed. "You can't see me in such a state."
But Satoru merely chuckled before you heard his heavy footsteps coming your way. Ocean eyes hummed at all the garments you'd left behind before settling on your clenched thighs and slightly arched back as you tried to crawl towards the nearest river.
He squinted, seeing the wetness dripping down your thighs and a gentle shimmer from your swollen pussy.
"My Goddess, it seems that you do feel unwell," He chuckled, taking another step your way. "Is there anything I can help you with?"
Your head shook as you tried to crawl faster, only to get away from him as fast as you could. An attempt to stand up ended in a miserable fall onto the sand, drawing a soft giggle from Satoru's lips. He knelt by your side, brushing away a few strands of hair sticking to your cheeks.
"Oh my," he hummed, seeing the utter loveliness of your drugged face.
With cheeks sweet as fresh cherries and eyes softened by an alluring scowl. A gentle pout tugged at your lips as you unconsciously nuzzled against his skin. Another hand cupped your cheek as he held your face in a possessive grip. His big thumbs, tight yet delicate, brushed your skin.
"What is it, my Goddess?" He whispered, allowing a lenient sigh to spill past your lips. "What happened here, hm? Are you a bit too drunk?"
You nodded, thinking of nothing but the pleasant grip of his fingers.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, you were slowly giving in.
A miserable attempt to push him away ended solely with you even more pathetically landing on the soft sand. Your back hit it with a dull thud, as Satoru placed his fingers on your knees. Thumb rolled gently in circles, as if he knew how much pleasure your body took from each brush of his skin.
"Say it," he muttered, leaning closer. Plush lips brushed one of your knees, eyes never leaving your fogged face. "Say that you want me to help you, my Goddess. I know how to make you feel good."
Oh, and you knew too, which is why your knees tried to close again. But his grip was too strong, and he brutally forced them forward, folding you in half.
With your bare pussy dripping filthy onto the sand and perked nipples waiting to be softly brushed by his thumb.
The moonlight kissed his handsome, sharp side as he leaned in once again. To hang right over your face, observing with wicked pleasure the tears forming beneath your lids. As if he could see the fuzzy mess of your mind, with morality and a simple, human need drawing a brutal tight.
"I c-can't," you mumbled, feeling the heat drip down your tongue. It felt much heavier than before, barely touching your feverish roof. "Stop, I can't, the chastity–"
"Shhh," Satoru cooed, pressing your thighs to your chest. Till the swell of your ass glued off the drenched sand. "Artemis will forgive you."
His nose traced the plush of your cheek. Lips peppering your skin softly, leaving traces down your chin. His tongue swirled sweetly around one of your nipples, through the burning neck, perked breasts.
You wished to fight it – you truly did, yet a sugary moan slipped past your lips.
"No, she–ah!" you cried, as he softly bit your nipple.
"It's alright, my Goddess. Don't resist it," he murmured, with one hand feeling your breasts as his lips traced a path down your body. He gently bit, grazed, and nipped your skin before resting his cheek against your mound. "Allow me to take care of you. Just say you want it," he whispered, as his finger rolled your nipple, causing another cry to escape your lips.
"I'm a v-virgin, wait…" Your hand landed on Satoru's head, tugging softly on his hair.
Satoru groaned, feeling your gentle finger scratch his scalp. "I'll take good care of you. It won't hurt, I promise," he mumbled right into the drenched mound of your cunt, as the fragrance of sugary juices already hit his senses. "Fuck, my Goddess. Just let me have a taste. I won't put it in…" promise?
You bit the inside of your cheek, feeling his warm breath almost brush your core. Not quite, yet the mere sight of him, lying so handsomely between your thighs, was enough to force a nod.
A nod, which would never happen if your mind wasn't on the verge of spilling. If your body wasn't melting beneath his touch, thighs spreading even wider, just to open your cunt to his starving mouth.
It was utterly embarrassing, humiliating, mostly sinful act and yet… when his tongue finally licked the juices off your clit, a shuddering moan bounced off the cove's stones.
He didn't waste a time, pushing the drenched muscle right inside your spasming cunt. Slurping, ravishing on the waves of wetness that spilt from your hole in unnaturally large bursts. Droplet after droplet, trickling down his chin and landing softly on the sand.
"My Goddess, fuck, I knew you would taste so good," he slurred, letting your juices stick to his lips. "My sweetest love, mhm, I was waiting a month for you."
Your fingers clenched around his hair as you tried to slightly pull him back. "W-wait, that's–nghhh–too much, my God!"
Your body had always been much weaker than his, but now, with neediness running through your blood, it seemed impossible to do anything but allow yourself to be wrapped in his lips.
He took your hand, slipping it down your belly. Down to your clenching cunt, only to press your two fingers against the swollen clit.
"Do you feel it, my Goddess?" He chuckled, looking up at your warm cheeks. "Do you feel how wet you are? That's what you wanted to take away from me."
He directed your pads to press softly, pinchily, till another moan spilt past your lips. His tongue slurping on your tight core, fingers of one hand rolling your nipples. Squeezing the plush breasts, till a painful pleasure tickled your spine.
And the other hand…
"Wait!" You screamed, quickly catching his wrist. "N-no penetration… just…" Oh dearest, how embarrassing it was to say out loud! "… use your tongue. I can't lose my virginity."
My sweet foolish nymph, Satoru thought, before an innocent, "Of course, my Goddess," fell past his plush lips.
The waves and waves of ethereal pleasure washed over your spine as he devoured your sweet pussy with a starving need. Nose all glued with your juices, cheeks nastily squeezed by your trembling thighs, tongue working on your clit and hole, trying to stretch her as much as he could.
His creamy forehead furrowed with a wrinkle, brows tight, as you pushed a few soft strands of his hair away.
"My God, please t-take a breath," you cried, yet the spilling lustfulness seeped like a flame through your skin. "I'm–mhmm–t-there's something…" Before you could point at your lower belly, his hand pressed right there.
Squeezing your little pouch, as if trying to feel the slick, filthy cum splashing beneath your skin.
"You need to cum, my Goddess," he mumbled drunkenly, sucking on your plush clit. "But for that, I need to put my finger in."
You bit your lower lip, looking down at his wretched face.
His cheek nuzzled against your soft thigh, kissing the clit softly. "Please? Just a finger. I promise, it'll be fine."
Oh, he looked stunning. With those alluring eyes and innocent pout, as if aware that his angelic face alone was enough to make your head spin.
So you nodded, rather unconsciously, and watched him push one finger in.
"Oh," slipped moany at the new feeling. "Oh, my God, mhmm, i-it's–"
"Now you can cum for me," Satoru whispered, going back to sucking your clit.
He knew where your sweet spot was – how couldn't he? – so within a second, you started squirming beneath his grip.
One of his hands rested on your belly while the other was deep inside your tight, clenching walls. He kissed, brushed, and lightly peppered your most sensitive spot with his finger until your thighs finally clenched around his head.
Locking him in a tight, shuddering embrace as he drunkenly moaned over your spilling juices. With a single flick of his tongue, you melted beneath his maddening touch, squirting all over his cheeks, chin and nose, till the Sun God was left nothing but a wretched man, hugging nastily to your velvety skin.
Your head felt a bit less feverish, with the crimson fog finally clearing from in front of your eyes and fresh summer air finally filling your lungs.
For a mere second, you felt normal again.
Satoru still lay between your spread legs, kissing the slippery skin of your inner thighs softly.
"Welcome back, my Goddess," he muttered, licking the last juices dripping from your pussy.
You watched him with pure terror swirling behind your eyes. "I… this feeling…"
"Mmm," he hummed, softly biting a plush of your thigh. "Someone must've spiked your wine, my Goddess. Have you angered anyone recently?"
Oh, he was such a scum.
Your lovely brows furrowed, a drop of sweat slipping down your temple. "No, I… I don't know. There was…" you, wanted to slip, yet you bit down on your tongue.
Satoru pouted, but his eyes sparkled with mischief. "My Goddess, I vow to find that bastard and slash his throat," he whispered, kissing your thigh and moving upward, even biting gently into your calf. "But for now, brace yourself for another wave."
And true to his promise, the heat once more kissed your cheeks. It climbed up your neck, seeped into fingertips, curled beneath lower belly, and caused another slick to slide down your cunt.
A fogginess once again swirled in front of your eyes, and an anxiety bubbled somewhere deep in your tightened throat.
Satoru flipped you onto your belly, with a soft, "Shhh, it's fine, my Goddess. You'll be fine."
Gentle, wet kisses landed on your shivering spine, leaving hottish traces down the skin.
"What a-are you doing?" fell shuddered.
But you didn't catch his reply. Truly, you heard nothing at all but the swoosh of his tunic as it landed close to your sand-plastered face.
"My God–ah!" Slipped in a pitched moan, as something fat poked on your swollen pussy.
The heat was teasing, gently pinching your damp folds, rolling waves of intense pleasure whenever Satoru stirred your cunt. His fingers spread the heat in a soft hum, and something heavy, round, pressed against your tight entrance.
"My God, what–"
"My love," Satoru let out an utterly innocent whimper, as if trying to stifle the tears wracking beneath his lids. You couldn't see the devilish smile tugging at his lips, his face tightly pressed into the sand. "Allow me to make you feel good. I can make the pain go away, just let me…" His swollen head slipped in a little, forcing a shattered moan from your throat.
"Wait!" You tried to crawl away, but he pressed a hand between your shoulder blades. Keeping you tight in place, with his massive body fully resting on yours.
"It's okay, my love. It won't hurt, I promise," he hummed, another hand massaging the swell of your hips. Spreading your drenched folds a bit farther to see the tip of his cock getting sucked by your weeping cunt. "My Goddess, don't make her wait any longer. She's just wishing to get fucked, ahh."
You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to stop your hips from slamming against his. As, dearest heavens, the way his sole head stretched your cunt brought an unparalleled, maddened pleasure, bubbling deep inside your belly. The pledge you made re chastity was trying to fight the aroused, lustful thoughts. The thick, warm fog that made your body liquefy beneath his touch, and your mind go all hot.
"My virginity–" You started, yet Satoru quickly snapped back.
"I talked to my sister, love. She won't punish you," he whispered, leaning down to lick a long stripe down your spine. "Because now you're mine. So say you want it, hm? Say you want me to fuck your tight cunt and fill her up."
He bit, licked, kissed your skin, while slowly, oh so painfully slow, poking your drenched hole.
"Just the tip, my love," he whispered, brushing away a few strands of hair hiding your lovely side. "I don't want to hurt you, my Goddess. I'll slip just a little tip."
And with an arousal fogging your mind, you nodded. Forcing a wicked laugh past his plush lips as he kissed your cheek.
"Mhm, that's right, my love," his cock slid through your tight walls, snugging inside your plush warmth. "Oh fuck, my Goddess, you truly are a fucking virgin."
You drew in a sharp breath, feeling his heavy cock slip into your belly. It was anything but the tip, forcing a sudden burst of tears to roll down your cheeks.
The pain mixed with pleasure as his shaft forced its way deep inside your pussy. You could feel every pulsing vein throbbing against your walls, the pumped head smooching your sweet spot, as he pushed and pushed, while pressing your body to the sand.
A moany cry bounced pitifully off the crystal waves before he quickly rolled you again.
This time, your back hit the sand, thighs folding up to your chest.
And when you looked up at his face… oh.
The Sun God hung over your crying cheeks with nothing but an utterly wicked, handsome smile. Eyes shining beneath the cold moon, adding to their ocean-blue hues a kiss of sin. He giggled, kissing the single tear that soaked your cheek.
And an angel, no, rather a demon, keeping you in his tight, possessed embrace.
Your hands pressed to his chest, as he pushed harder. "My God, you said just the tip," fell harshly, seeing a grin coiling in his gaze.
"My Goddess, you truly are ruthless," he leaned down to place a soft kiss on your lips. "How could I ever lie to you? I'm barely in, I promise."
Yet when you tried to look down, his strong fingers grabbed your chin, keeping your eyes fixed on his.
"You don't trust me?" He pouted, peppering your skin with soft kisses. "Don't look down there, my love. Focus on me."
Your head lulled right as he bit the side of your neck. Licking, sucking on it gently, while still forcing his cock through your walls.
It wasn't just the tip, and although you should be angry, the way he kept you folded left little room for movement. With his single arm pressing your legs tight, fingers keeping your chin up, and massive, heavy body leaning on yours.
He started to move faster, faster, faster, pumping you poor, weeping cunt with his heavy cock. It hit every inch of your lower belly, brushing past the sweet spot and smooching up to the slowly swelling womb. You could feel his round head nuzzle deep inside your pulsing warmth, as your tight walls wrapped around him, as if trying to lock him in.
A low hiss slipped past his rosy lips as you cried out in painful pleasure. Your blood ran hot as he tried to fuck each drop of aphrodisiac from your veins, pushing your body deeper into the sand.
The nasty squelch bounced off the water, spilling deep into the cave and catching in your scattered hair. He brought your face back, giggling at the sight of your utterly fucked eyes.
"My beautiful Goddess," he whispered, before slipping his hand down your belly. At this point, with heat bubbling in your belly, your thighs stayed open, pressed to your chest, as if your body was freely inviting him in. "My sweet, beautiful Goddess. Tell me how good you feel."
His demand forced wrath and balmy submissiveness upon your fucked mind, and so a sweet, honest, "G-good, ahh, you're filling me s-so good," fell embarrassingly past your lips.
As no matter how much you wanted to refuse, it did feel good. Dearest, it felt amazing, handling his hefty cock fully sliding inside your warmth, till wet balls hit your lifted ass. Head kissing your womb, veins pulsing in rhythm with your plush walls, as they pushed out waves and waves of fresh cum. Coating his full length in your juices, till whenever he pulled out, a crystal thread formed between your cunt and his creamy, happy trail.
His hands kneading your softness turned your mind to balm, and fingers playing with your swollen bud forced a moan, so you truly, shamefully so, allowed your body to give in to his touch.
"My God, nghh, I'm going to–"
Before you could finish, he crashed his lips against yours. He slipped a groan deep inside your throat as he started to fuck you faster. More relentless, brutal, forcing upon your virgin cunt a strength you weren't used to.
"My God, p-please–ahhh–slow down," you cried into his lips, yet received only a low chuckle.
"I know how to make you cum, my love. Your pussy needs to be fucked properly," he licked the tears dripping down your cheeks before capturing your lips again. "You're close, hm? I can feel it in your belly."
His hands pressed to your lower pouch, feeling his cock hit the soft skin, before slipping down to your cunt. Rolling your clit in mean, squelching pinches.
"S-satoru," his name finally escaped your throat, as you wrapped your arms behind his neck. "So good, you're–ngh–filling me–ahhh."
He chuckled, seeing your lidded eyes and messy blabber falling past your lips. "I know, my Goddess, your–ahh–pussy feels so fucking good. My sweetest, I promise to take good care of you."
He hid his face in the crook of your neck before finally going still. Your back arched, nipples pressing to his chest, before a soaked cry ripped from your throat. Juices gushing all over his abdomen, cock, as he hit your womb painfully, filling it with sticky ropes of cum. Till you felt the heavy creaminess sticking to your walls, stuffing you heavily, madly full.
A filthy fog once again seeped into your mind, and for a single minute you felt your strength return to your body. For a mere moment, it allowed you to smack his fair cheek. It left him fully unfazed, with a cheeky grin still plastered to his handsome face and a low chuckle forcing its way past his lips.
"My Goddess, is that how you should treat your future husband?" he asked, then brutally turned you back onto your belly. You tried to crawl, kicking him back, but he simply smacked your ass. "Come on, my love. Don't try to fight me. If I hadn't found you, who knows who would?"
Your breath hitched when you felt his cock harden again. Still snuggling deep inside you cunt, as you felt his shaft stretch your poor, weeping walls.
"I–ahh–I fucking hate you," you snapped through gritted teeth, your hips slowly rocking against his. Whatever you'd drunk still flowed in your veins, forcing another fog over your mind. "I hate you, so, s-so–mhm Satoru, just, fuck, p-please–"
His fingers dug deep into your perked-up ass, ocean eyes glimmering at the sight of your arched back. Sweat beaded on your neck, and your teary gaze looked over your shoulder in a furious, desperate, pleading manner.
He chuckled, taking a little vial from his tattered tunic. Opening it with his teeth, he handed it your way.
"What is it?" you asked, trying to sound at least a bit suspicious.
His eyes squinted, lips turned wickedly up. "Just a simple water. You'll feel a bit better."
"Drink it first."
"You don't trust me?"
You bit down your lip, shaking your head a bit.
Satoru hummed before taking a sip of the liquid without hesitation. It seeped warmly through his body, dripping down to the burning loins.
Seeing that he truly acted normally, you took it from his fingers and drank it all in one go. But… oh.
You shot head his way, seeing nothing, but a nasty grin. "This…"
He leaned closer, pressing his hand back between your shoulder blades. His face drew nearer, then he licked your lips with his wine-sweetened tongue. "Tastes similar, my love?"
A wave of heat was rolling faster, an even stronger aphrodisiac flowing through your veins. Breathing became harder, your mind already blind, as he pushed your melted body into a deeper arch.
"I love you so much, my Goddess," he whispered, peppering your sizzling cheek. "I'll make you feel so good. So fucking good, I promise. My sweet, beautiful wife. Just trust me."
゛★ nerd ! satoru gojo is your best friend’s older brother.
# NERDJO AU ⋆ 14k words ⋆ 3 years younger!reader ⋆ not your typical nerdjo ⋆ toru has nipple piercings ⋆ smut, p in v the whole shtick ⋆ reader is a HORNDOG ⋆ side character: lia, gojo’s sister & reader’s best friend ⋆ uni setting ⋆ skip to day 9 if ur just here for the smut you perv ⋆ 18+ MDNI NSFW . art by zeilorene0
HOW TO BA(N)G A NERD IN 10 DAYS
(or: your completely unhinged, totally foolproof plan to make Satoru Gojo fall in love with you and hopefully rail you into next semester)
DAY ONE
You’re not proud of yourself.
Okay, that’s a filthy lie. You’re extremely proud of yourself. The kind of proud that has you smirking at your own reflection in the spoon like a gremlin who just discovered the cheat code to the hottest man alive.
Because you’ve just cooked up the single greatest idea of your horny little life.
It started with a text from Lia—your roommate, your ride-or-die (who you’ve known for less than a year), and the biological sister of the man who has been living rent-free in your ovaries for three straight months.
Lia: do you want to come over this weekend? my brother’s gonna be home and he’s making his famous carbonara. i swear to god it’ll change your life
Your thumbs betrayed you instantly.
You: i’ll be there with bells on
Lia: please don’t actually wear bells i live in an apartment
You: no promises
You sat there, chopsticks frozen halfway to your mouth, and the realization hit you like a freight train made of pure, throbbing lust.
Satoru Gojo.
Fourth-year genetics god. Certified nerd. Unholy levels of hot.
The man who wears wire-rimmed glasses while buried in textbooks but also has fucking nipple piercings. You know this because you’d accidentally walked in on him shirtless that one time and your brain blue-screened so hard you saw the pearly gates. Silver bars through both pink nipples, perfect lean muscle, that stupidly narrow waist, and a happy trail that made your mouth water like a Pavlovian whore.
He’d just looked at you with those glowing blue eyes, raised one eyebrow, and said, “Wrong room, kid.”
Kid.
He called you kid while you were having a religious experience over his pierced tits. Rude. And devastatingly… attractive.
You’d immediately fled, texted Lia YOUR BROTHER IS JACKED AND HAS HIS NIPPLES PIERCED WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME?!?!?!? and she’d replied lol yeah he works out. it’s the autism.
To which you’d replied ??? and she’d elaborated with: he’s not actually autistic he’s just psychotic about his routines. anyway don’t be weird about it
Too late. You were very weird about it. You’d spent the rest of the night with your hand between your thighs imagining what those pierced nipples would feel like against your tongue.
So here you are at 2 AM, eating sad instant ramen, and you’ve finally accepted the truth: Satoru Gojo is not a normal man. He’s a nerd. And normal flirting bounces right off his beautiful, dense skull.
You need a plan. A filthy, calculated, 10-day siege on that man’s self-control.
You snatch your phone and start hammering into your notes app like a woman possessed (a very horny possession.)
HOW TO BA(n)G A NERD IN 10 DAYS
Step 1: Research
• Find out every single one of his nerdy interests
• Learn what makes his brain (and hopefully his dick) tick
• Memorize his schedule so i can “accidentally” keep appearing in his line of sight
Step 2: Infiltrate
• Become a permanent fixture at Lia’s apartment
• Force him to notice me in increasingly slutty outfits
• Make it impossible for him to ignore the horny roommate-shaped problem in his house
Step 3: Engage
• Talk to him about genetics like i give a fuck (i don’t, i just want to watch his mouth move)
• Drop strategic nerdy compliments that slowly transition into “I want you to bend me over your genetics textbook”
• Deploy feminine wiles at maximum power (respectfully. kinda?)
Step 4: Execute
• Confess (horribly so. who the fuck’s good at confessions??)
• Kiss him
• Let him destroy you in every position known to man (and maybe a few new ones he can genetically engineer)
• ???
• Profit (multiple orgasms)
You lean back, cackling quietly to yourself in the dark kitchen like a madwoman. This was an inexplicably terrible plan.
Ten days. That’s all you need. Ten days to turn Satoru Gojo from “Lia’s hot jacked nerd brother with nipple piercings” to “the man who folds you in half and calls you a good girl while those pierced nipples drag across your skin.”
You swipe out of notes and into messages, fingers already typing out a message to Lia.
You: what time should i come over on saturday
Lia: are you okay ?? since when do you need a timeframe
You: i've never been better. i need one today. now. what time
Lia: idk like 6?? he usually starts cooking around then
You: i'll be there at 5
Lia: why?
You: no reason
Lia: you're going to be weird around my brother again aren't you
You: i'm never weird around your brother
Lia: you literally stood in our kitchen staring at him for 10 minutes last week while he was making a sandwich
You: i was admiring his sandwich making technique
Lia: i don’t think you blinked once
You: that's just how i show respect
Lia: you're going to marry my brother aren't you
You: i'm going to do a lot more than marry him
Lia: ew shut up, i'm telling mom.
You: don't you dare
Lia: i’m afraid she’d love you actually
You: i know. it’s perfect for when she’s watching us walk down the aisle
Lia: you’re insane. like actually crazy
You throw your phone on the bed and grin at the ceiling.
Saturday can't come soon enough.
DAY TWO
You’re not stalking him.
You’re conducting reconnaissance. Big difference. Stalking is creepy. Reconnaissance is strategic, horny, and completely justified when the target has arms like that.
So when you “casually” plant yourself at the library on Thursday afternoon—perfectly positioned with a direct line of sight to the returns desk—it’s not because you memorized his genetics lab schedule (2-4 PM) and know he always swings by here afterward. No, you’re simply a dedicated scholar who loves knowledge.
And penguins. Apparently.
You’ve been pretending to read an article on penguin mating habits for thirty minutes when he finally shows up. Gray henley stretched across that stupidly broad chest, white hair looking like it was styled by sex itself, wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose while he carries a textbook that probably weighs more than you do.
Your cunt clenches so hard you nearly drop your phone.
Get it together, you thirsty gremlin.
He returns his books, flashes that devastating smile at the elderly librarian (who actually blushes—same, grandma), and starts to leave. Then he pauses like he’s trying to look for somewhere to sit.
His eyes find you. Mission successful.
And he walks straight over.
“You’re Lia’s friend, right?” His voice is low and smooth, like warm sin sliding down your spine. You want it whispering filthy things against your neck while he’s—jesus, stop.
“Yep… that’s me,” you manage.
“Lia talks about you constantly.” He nods at the empty chair across from you. “Mind if I sit? Got a break before my next class. Need to review some stuff.”
Your brain short-circuits. Your ovaries throw a full-on rave. The logical part of you that still exists is screaming say yes, you idiot.
“Sure,” you squeak. That was not cool. That was the opposite of cool. “Go ahead.”
He doesn’t seem to notice (thank fuck) as he drops into the seat and you catch a hit of his cologne—clean, masculine, expensive. It makes you want to crawl across the table and bury your face in his neck.
“You’re reading about penguins?” he asks, glancing at your book. The one you forgot you even had opened. Penguins pale terribly in comparison to the specimen who just sat across you.
“Uh, yeah. Just… curious.” You’re not even pretending to be normal anymore.
He nods seriously, completely unaware he’s two seconds away from being mentally undressed. Two seconds passed. “Emperor penguins are fascinating. The males can hold their breath for up to twenty minutes underwater. Females lay one egg, then the males incubate it for two months while the females hunt. They huddle together for warmth, rotating positions so no one freezes. It’s actually pretty efficient.”
You’re nodding like you give a damn about penguins when all you can think about is how those long fingers would feel stretching you open, how that deep voice would sound groaning your name while he fucks you slow and deep.
“That’s really sweet,” you say.
He shrugs. “It’s evolutionary. Not about being sweet—it’s mostly just survival.”
“Can’t it be both?”
He looks at you then, like he’s studying you, and something flickers behind those ridiculous blue eyes. You wonder if he can tell you’re soaking through your panties just from listening to him talk about bird foreplay. Ugh, you’re pathetically horny.
The conversation shifts easily after that. You tell him your major is undeclared (true) but you’re leaning toward psychology (also true, specifically the psychology of why you want this man to ruin you). He talks about genetics like it’s the hottest thing on earth, and honestly? The passion in his voice is doing more for you than most guys’ entire bodies.
By the time he checks the clock and sighs, you’ve collected vital intelligence:
Favorite color is a very specific sky blue (you’re already planning outfits).
Morning person (disgusting, but you’d wake up at 5 AM if it meant getting him to screw you eventually).
Thinks The Expanse is the best show ever (you’re downloading it tonight).
Has a rigid morning routine and gets genuinely cranky if it’s disrupted (noted—do not fuck with his routine until he’s addicted to waking up next to you).
Looks even better up close. Unfairly so. The kind of hot that makes you want to climb him in public.
“I should head out,” he says, gathering his stuff. “But it was nice talking to you. You’re not nearly as annoying as Lia described.”
He’s grinning. Teasing. That smile should be illegal.
“I’m telling her you said that,” you shoot back.
“Please don’t. I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Too late. Phone’s already out.”
“Damn.” He laughs, low and warm, and your brain immediately files it under sounds to masturbate to later.
He stands up and you let yourself stare as he walks away—those long legs, that perfect ass, the way his shoulders fill out the henley. You want to sink your teeth into his back while he fucks you from behind. You want to watch those pierced nipples tighten when you ride him. You want him to lose that calm, nerdy composure and absolutely wreck you.
You’re in deep.
So fucking deep it’s embarrassing.
DAY THREE
You’re lying on Lia’s floor in her childhood bedroom, staring at the ceiling and trying (and failing) not to think about the fact that Satoru Gojo is sleeping just down the hall.
It’s Friday night. You’d texted Lia I’m bored, come over and she’d hit you with I’m at my parents’ house? so you’d immediately replied cool I’ll come there like a completely normal, non-desperate person. Now here you are, in the Gojo family home, wearing tiny sleep shorts and a thin tank top that’s doing absolutely nothing to hide how your nipples are already perked up just from knowing he’s nearby.
Lia is sprawled on her bed, scrolling on her phone. “So,” she says without looking up, “you gonna tell me what the hell is going on with you?”
“Nothing’s going on.”
“Bullshit. You’ve been extra unhinged all week.”
“I’m always unhinged.”
“Weirder than usual. You got all slutted up to go to the library yesterday. You hate the library.”
“I was expanding my horizons.”
“You were stalking my brother.”
You sit up so fast you almost concuss yourself on her bed frame. “I was not stalking him.”
“Uh-huh.” She gives you a flat look. “So you just happened to be at the exact table with the perfect view of the returns desk where he always goes?”
“It’s a public library. Lots of people study there.”
“And you just happened to be wearing lip gloss and a low-cut top?”
You deflate. “Fine. Maybe I was strategically positioning myself. It’s not stalking, it’s… tactical thirst.”
“Tactical thirst,” Lia repeats, deadpan. “Jesus Christ.”
You shrug. “I want him to notice me, okay?”
Lia puts her phone down. “Why? Because you want to bang him?”
“I don’t just want to bang him,” you protest.
“Oh? So you want to date him? Marry him? Have his kids?”
Your brain immediately supplies a vivid image of Satoru behind you, big hands gripping your hips, those long fingers digging in while he fucks you deep and growls about breeding you. You squeeze your thighs together.
“…Maybe eventually,” you mutter.
Lia starts laughing so hard she nearly rolls off the bed. “Oh my god. You’re actually down bad. You want to date my brother.”
“Is that so weird?”
“Yes! He’s the biggest nerd on planet Earth. He has a beaker collection. He watches hour-long documentaries for fun. He once spent an entire dinner arguing with Dad about the ethics of gene editing.”
“That sounds hot, actually.”
“You have issues.”
“I have a crush. Big difference.”
Lia sits up, suddenly serious. “Look, I love him, but he’s… a lot. He hyperfixates. He forgets to eat when he’s in research mode. He’s obsessive about his routines. He’s not exactly easy boyfriend material.”
“Maybe not for most people.” You grin. “But I like the weird. I like how passionate he gets when he talks. I like that he’s smart as hell. And I really like that he’s jacked.”
“Okay, that part is fair,” Lia admits. “He’s got an insane body. I hate saying it because he’s my brother, but yeah… he works out like a maniac.”
“I know. I’ve seen it.”
Lia’s eyes widen. “Have you seen him shirtless?”
Your face burns. “Lia—”
“That’s a yes. When?!”
“It was an accident! I opened the wrong door in the dorms when i was trying to get to yours and he was changing. Shirt off. Just… standing there.”
“And?”
You bite your lip. “I saw them… the piercings.”
Lia loses it again, cackling like a hyena. “You saw his nip piercings and now you’re feral. That explains everything. No wonder you’re trying to move in.”
“I’m not obsessed—” you start, but she cuts you off.
“Name three reasons you want him that aren’t the piercings.”
You pause. “He’s smart. He’s really tall. And he has huge hands. Like… long fingers. You know what those could do—”
“OKAY STOP!” Lia slaps her hands over her ears. “I get it. You want to bang my brother. Congratulations, you’re the first girl who’s ever shown genuine interest after realizing how weird he is.”
“Wait, seriously?”
“Seriously. A couple girls have tried, but they bail when they realize he’d rather talk DNA than make out.”
“Their loss,” you say, already imagining pushing him against a wall and shutting him up with your mouth on his.
Lia sighs. “If you’re really doing this, you’re gonna need my help. He’s dense as hell when it comes to flirting. You’re going to have to be obvious. Like, ‘I like you please marry me ’ obvious.”
“I can do obvious.”
“You’re going to be so weird about this, aren’t you?”
“Probably.”
She groans but smiles. “Fine. I’m in. Let’s make a plan before you embarrass both of us.”
You launch yourself onto her bed and tackle her in a hug. “You’re the best.”
“I know. Now stop fantasizing about my brother while you’re in my room, you whore.”
Too late. You already are.
Hours pass and you can’t sleep.
Lia passed out an hour ago, snoring softly with her phone still glowing on her chest. But you’re wide awake, mind racing with dirty strategies and the knowledge that Satoru is sleeping just down the hall. Shirtless, probably. Maybe in nothing but those ridiculous novelty boxers he seems to own.
Your throat is dry. Your brain is horny. So you slip out of Lia’s room in nothing but an oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts that could double as underwear because of how little they hide anything, tiptoeing toward the kitchen like a woman on a mission for water… and maybe a glimpse of the nerd who’s been ruining your sleep.
The house is dark except for the soft glow of the fridge light when you round the corner.
And there he is.
Satoru Gojo, standing in front of the open refrigerator in low-slung gray sweatpants and no shirt, the silver bars through his nipples catching the light like a fucking invitation to grope him. His hair is messy from sleep, glasses nowhere in sight, and the way those sweatpants hang on his hips shouldn’t even be allowed.
He’s reaching for something on the top shelf, back muscles flexing, that narrow waist tapering into the most biteable ass you’ve ever seen.
Your brain short-circuits so violently you make a small, embarrassing noise that was supposed to be you clearing your throat.
He turns, blue eyes landing on you instantly.
“Oh. Hey,” he says, voice rough with sleep. It goes straight between your legs. “Couldn’t sleep either?”
You try to play it cool. You really do. But your eyes keep dropping to his pierced nipples, then lower, following the faint happy trail disappearing into those sweatpants. You can see the outline of his dick through the fabric and your mouth actually waters.
“Water,” you croak. “Just… needed water.”
He steps aside, gesturing lazily at the fridge. “Help yourself.”
You move past him, hyper-aware of how close he is. His body heat. That clean, masculine scent. The way his arm brushes yours when you reach for a bottle.
You turn around too fast and suddenly you’re chest-to-chest with him. Well, chest-to-stomach. He’s so fucking tall.
“Sorry—” you start, but the word dies when you look up and realize he’s staring down at you.
“You’re wearing my shirt,” he says quietly.
You glance down. The oversized tee has some faded genetics pun on it. You stole it from Lia’s laundry pile earlier without realizing.
“Shit. I didn’t— I can change—”
“Looks better on you,” he murmurs, and the low timbre of his voice makes your nipples tighten against the fabric.
Your brain supplies a very vivid image of him bending you over the kitchen island, yanking your shorts down, and fucking you until you can’t remember your own name. Those big hands gripping your hips. Those pierced nipples dragging against your back while he rails you from behind.
You swallow hard.
“Thanks,” you whisper.
He leans in just a fraction, eyes dark. For one electric second you think he might kiss you.
Then he straightens up, smirking like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.
“Night, Lia’s friend.”
No no no no don’t go… you were having such a good time just staring at him.
“I have a name, you know,” you blurt out and you’re not sure where that came from.
He pauses, turns to face you with that subtle smile on his face—the one that does terrible things to you.
“I know.”
He walks out, sweatpants riding low enough that you get a perfect view of the dimples at the base of his spine.
You stand there clutching your water bottle like a lifeline, thighs pressed together, heart hammering.
Yeah.
This sleepover is definitely a sleepover. And you are so screwed.
DAY FOUR
You wake up stupidly early—barely past 6 AM—because your bladder has no respect for your sleepover plans. The house is dead quiet. Lia is still snoring softly on the bed. You slip out from under the blanket in your shorts and his shirt, hair messy, eyes half-closed, and shuffle down the hall toward the bathroom.
You push the door open without knocking (big mistake) and freeze.
Satoru is already in there.
Fresh out of the shower.
A towel slung dangerously low around his hips, water still dripping down his bare chest. Those silver nipple piercings catch the light like fucking bait. His white hair is wet and pushed back, glasses off, and the steam in the air makes everything feel way too intimate.
Your brain short-circuits so hard you can hear the dial-up tone.
He turns his head, blue eyes meeting yours in the mirror. For a second he looks surprised, then that lazy, amused smirk slides onto his face.
“Morning,” he says, voice still rough with sleep. “Didn’t know I had company this early.”
You’re standing there like an idiot, thighs pressed together, suddenly very aware that your nipples are visible through your thin shirt and your shorts are barely covering anything. Your gaze keeps betraying you—dropping to the defined lines of his abs, the sharp V disappearing under the towel, the way the fabric clings to his hips.
You want to drop to your knees right here on the bathroom tile and see what’s under that towel. You want to tug on those pierced nipples with your teeth while he fucks your throat. You want him to bend you over the sink and make you watch in the mirror while he ruins you.
Instead you squeak out, “Sorry— I didn’t— I’ll just—”
You start backing up but he chuckles, low and warm, and reaches for his toothbrush like this is completely normal.
“You’re fine. I’m almost done.” He glances at you again, eyes flicking down your body for half a second before returning to the mirror. “Sleep well?”
Your face is burning. Your down there is throbbing. “Yeah. Great. Perfect. You?”
“Same.” He starts brushing his teeth, completely unbothered by the fact that he’s mostly naked and you’re two feet away looking like you want to devour him. “You sticking around today?”
“Uh-huh.” You can’t stop staring at the water droplet sliding down his chest, right toward one of those fucking piercings. “Dinner. Carbonara.”
He rinses his mouth, turns around fully, and now you’re getting the full frontal view—broad shoulders, lean muscle, happy trail, and that towel that looks like it’s one deep breath away from falling.
“Good,” he says simply. “See you then.”
He steps past you in the doorway, close enough that his bare arm brushes yours and you catch the clean scent of his body wash. Your knees nearly give out.
He disappears down the hall toward his room, leaving you standing there like a horny statue.
You close the bathroom door behind you, lock it, and immediately lean against it, pressing your thighs together.
Holy fuck.
You’re never going to survive ten days if every morning starts like this.
Later that morning, after you’ve (barely) recovered and Lia has woken up, the two of you are sprawled across her bed with snacks, turning this into full war council mode.
You and Lia spend most of Saturday morning working on what you’re calling “Operation Bag and Bang the Nerd.”
“Well, first we need to figure out what he likes,” Lia says, scrolling through her phone. “He’s got a lot of interests.”
“I already know some of them. Genetics, The Expanse, the gym…”
“Okay, but you need specifics. What kind of genetics? Favorite episode? Gym routine?”
You shrug helplessly.
“Exactly. Research time.” She pulls up a document titled Satoru Intel like the unhinged best friend she is. “I’ve been collecting this for years. It’s a little creepy but extremely useful. I do it for my parents too.”
“You’re a good sister.”
“I’m the best. Okay—population genetics, especially the genetics of blue eyes for his thesis. Favorite He’s a big fan of those self help books, has a bunch. Gym at 6 AM sharp every day.”
“6 AM? Gross.”
“Right? But it means he crashes early. Evenings are prime territory for you.”
“Can I just… come over whenever?”
“Obviously. But you need to make him want you around. He’s not exactly Mr. Social.”
“So I make him want to spend time with me.”
“Bingo.”
“How?”
“Pretend to be interested in his research.”
“I am interested. I want him to explain it while I sit on his lap.”
Lia snorts. “Then ask him about his thesis. Let him nerd out. That’s the fastest way to his heart.”
You grin. “And his dick?”
She smacks your shoulder and you giggle shamelessly, “gross, woman!”
“Also, get physically close. He’s oblivious as hell. Touch his arm. Sit right next to him. Brush against him. Wear something slutty.”
“Revealing clothing?”
“Obviously. He’s dense but he’s not blind. Weaponize the tits.”
“Already planning on it.”
“And be patient,” she warns. “He’s not going to fold overnight.”
“Ten days,” you say, dead serious. “I’m getting him in ten days.”
Lia raises an eyebrow. “Ambitious.”
“I’m an ambitious slut.”
She laughs and holds out her hand. “Ten days. Starting now.”
You shake it. “Oh, I’m on day four already.”
“What?!—“ she blurts out, confused as hell. “You think you can do this in six days?”
“Just trust me, okay. I have my ways.”
Lia shrugs and lets out a chuckle, “alright then. If it doesn’t work you owe me coffee every day for a whole month.”
“That’s not fair!”
“You were so confident a second ago?”
“Fine... you’ll see.”
“One day you’re gonna get that ego checked.”
“Not today.”
You’re already mentally picking out your outfit for dinner—something tight, low-cut, and guaranteed to make those blue eyes linger.
After this morning’s bathroom encounter, you have a feeling he’s at the very least noticed your sexual appeal. You just need to keep pushing.
DAY FIVE
You spend an embarrassing amount of time getting ready.
Four outfit changes, two complete hair redos, and so much makeup reapplication that you’re starting to look like a different person which you start to hate and then remove entirely and settle on mascara and lipgloss. You settle on pants that make your ass look great and a tight black top with a plunging neckline (per Lia’s very helpful suggestion).
Your phone buzzes as you’re leaving the dorm.
Lia: are you coming or what
You: omw
Lia: good bc satoru is already cooking and if you miss his carbonara i will personally end you
You: you’d fight me for missing pasta??
Lia: it’s that good
You: fair
The second you step into the Gojo house the smell of carbonara hits you like heaven. Creamy, garlicky, sinful. Lia lets you in with a wicked little grin.
“He’s in a good mood,” she whispers. “Thesis breakthrough. He’s feeling generous.”
“Perfect timing.”
“Just… don’t be too obvious. He gets weird about it.”
“I’ll be subtle.”
“You’ve never been subtle in your life.”
“I’ll be my version of subtle.”
“That’s what terrifies me.”
You walk into the kitchen and there he is—Satoru Gojo in a “Kiss the Cook” apron, looking unfairly domestic and hot as hell. The apron strings are tied around that stupidly narrow waist, and you immediately picture untying them with your teeth.
“Hey, Lia’s friend,” he says.
“Hey, Lia’s brother,” you fire back.
He glances up with a smirk. “Satoru. You can call me Satoru.”
“You know my name and you still call me Lia’s friend.”
“Good point.” He stirs the pasta, muscles flexing under the apron. “Staying for dinner?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Good. I made enough for a small army. Lia always invites strays.”
“I do not,” Lia protests.
“You literally just did.”
The carbonara is obscene—rich, silky, perfectly cheesy. You moan around your first bite and don’t even care how it sounds. Satoru’s eyes flick to your mouth for a second.
“Holy shit,” you say. “This is better than sex.”
He raises an eyebrow, amused. “High praise.”
You spend the rest of dinner complimenting him shamelessly and then steering the conversation to his thesis. The second you ask about the genetics of blue eyes, his whole face lights up. He launches into a passionate ramble about OCA2, HERC2, melanin production, and ancient mutations while his hands gesture wildly.
You don’t understand half of it, but you’re riveted anyway—mostly because watching him get excited makes you want to climb him like a tree and ride him while he keeps talking nerd shit in your ear.
“Most people zone out when I talk about this,” he admits at the end, looking almost shy.
“Nope. I could listen to you talk about genetics all night.”
He blinks, then gives you a real, soft smile. “You’re weird.”
“Good weird, I hope.”
“Very good weird.”
Lia watches the whole exchange like a proud mother.
After dinner she claps her hands. “Movie time. The Expanse. Season one, episode one. No skipping.”
Satoru perks up immediately. “You haven’t seen it?” he asks you.
“Nope.”
“We’re fixing that right now.”
The carbonara plates are cleared and dropped into the sink, compliments thoroughly given, and the three of you migrate to the living room. Satoru takes his usual spot on the big sectional couch while Lia claims the armchair so you two can sit together. You deliberately sit right next to him instead of leaving a polite gap—close enough that your thigh almost brushes his.
He doesn’t comment on it. Just queues up The Expanse and starts explaining the premise, talking with his hands the way he always does when he’s excited. You watch him more than the screen.
Lia lasts about twenty minutes before she fakes the world’s most obvious yawn.
“God, I’m wiped. All that science talk drained me. You two keep going—I’m tapping out early.” She shoots you a quick little smirk behind Satoru’s back and vanishes down the hallway before either of you can protest.
Now it’s just the two of you.
The episode plays on, but you’re barely paying attention to the plot. You’re too busy watching Satoru’s face light up every time something interesting happens on screen. He keeps pausing to explain details—Belter culture, the physics of space travel, the political tensions—and you find yourself actually leaning in, not just because you want his hands on you, but because the way he gets lost in it is weirdly endearing. Cute, even. This giant, jacked nerd with nip piercings rambling about fictional solar system politics like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.
It’s hot. And sort of adorable.
You shift closer under the pretense of getting comfortable, letting your shoulder press against his. He doesn’t move away. If anything, he relaxes a little, arm stretching along the back of the couch behind you.
“So the Belters,” you say, genuinely curious, “they’re basically space miners who got screwed by Earth and Mars, right? That whole ‘we were born in space, you were born with gravity’ thing?”
His eyes flick to you, surprised you actually seem into this. “Yeah. Exactly. It’s this whole class and resource struggle layered on top of incredible sci-fi worldbuilding. Most shows would make it black and white, but this one actually shows how everyone’s kind of right and kind of wrong at the same time.”
You nod, letting your knee rest against his thigh now—body slightly tilted towards his on the couch. “That’s cool. I like when stories don’t treat the audience like idiots.”
He turns his head to look at you properly. Those ridiculous blue eyes are softer in the dim TV light. “Most people just nod and wait for me to shut up when I start explaining stuff like this.”
“I’d like to think I’m not most people.” You tilt your head, letting your shoulder settle more firmly against his chest—he stiffens for a second before relaxing, letting out a soft breath he thought you wouldn’t notice. “Keep going. What happens after that scene?”
He launches back into it, voice dropping into that low, enthusiastic register that does terrible things to your insides. You listen, asking real questions, but your mind keeps wandering to filthier places—imagining that mouth against your neck while he explains genetics, those long fingers sliding under your top, pinning you down while he rambles about melanin between thrusts.
At one point he laughs at something on screen and the sound vibrates through his chest into your shoulder. You have to press your thighs together.
“You’re actually paying attention,” he says after a while, sounding almost impressed. There’s a flirty little edge to his voice now, playful. It’s so hot and so distracting. “Most girls pretend to be interested for about five minutes before they start checking their phones.”
“I am interested,” you say honestly. “It’s well-written. And I like how passionate you get about it. It’s… cute.”
The second the word leaves your mouth his eyebrows shoot up. “Cute?”
“Shut up. You heard me.” You nudge his side with your elbow, but you don’t pull away. If anything you sink in closer, letting your head tilt toward his shoulder. “Don’t let it go to your head, nerd.”
He chuckles, low and warm. “I’ll think about it.” His arm shifts slightly behind you—not quite around you, but close enough that his fingers could brush your arm if he wanted. “You’re weird, you know that?”
You look up at him through your lashes. “You’ve mentioned, but weird how?”
“You listen. Ask surprisingly good questions. Wear tops like that.” His gaze drops to your cleavage for half a second before flicking back to your face, a little guilty, a little heated. SCORE!! He noticed your tits this is going beautifully. “And you smell really good. It’s distracting.”
Your pulse spikes. Heat pools low in your stomach. You want to straddle him right here on the couch and see how fast that nerdy composure cracks. Instead you smirk.
“Good. I like distracting you.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind those eyes. Then he turns back to the TV, but his arm settles more deliberately along the back of the couch, fingers lightly grazing your shoulder.
The episode keeps playing. You keep leaning into him. And for the first time, it feels like he’s actually seeing you—not just as Lia’s friend, but as something a lot more interesting.
You’re still going to fuck his brains out the second you get the chance.
But damn if the nerdy rambling isn’t growing on you too.
DAY SIX
You wake up at 5:30 in the morning like a masochist.
Your phone alarm is blaring. Your body is begging for mercy. But you drag yourself out of bed anyway because the mission demands it.
Satoru Gojo works out at 6 AM sharp every single day. And today, you’re going to “coincidentally” be there too.
You spend way too long picking an outfit: black leggings that hug your ass, a matching padded sports bra that gives excellent lift and cleavage, and a loose tank top that keeps slipping off one shoulder. Your ponytail is artfully messy. You look like the kind of girl who lives at the gym.
In reality, the last time you ran was to catch the bus in high-school.
You walk into the gym at 5:55 AM and immediately spot him.
Shirtless.
On the bench press.
Holy fuck. You might be here every day from now on if it means getting front row seats to him in all of his glory.
Sweat is already glistening across his broad chest and down those ridiculous abs. His arms flex with every rep, veins popping out, and those silver nipple piercings catch the harsh lights like they’re kindly asking you to stare. You nearly walk straight into a weight rack.
He racks the bar and sits up, towel around his neck, catching sight of you.
“You?” He blinks, surprised. “What are you doing here?”
You try to sound casual. “Working out. New fitness journey and all that.”
“Since when?” He wipes sweat from his forehead, muscles shifting in a way that should be illegal before breakfast.
“Uh… since recently. I’m turning over a new leaf. Becoming a morning person.”
He raises an eyebrow, amused by your new goal. “You told me two days ago you hate mornings.”
“I’m evolving,” you deadpan. “It’s a process but hey, I managed to get out of bed and come here. Good progress.”
He nods, studying you for a second, eyes drifting down your body—leggings, sports bra, the way your tank top clings to your skin—before flicking back to your face. “Alright. Treadmills are over there if you’re running. Good view of the TVs.”
“Thanks.”
You climb onto a treadmill and start at a light jog, trying not to look like a complete and utter fraud. Your heart is already racing and it has nothing to do with the speed—okay it has some to do with the speed.
A couple minutes later he appears beside your machine, still beautifully shirtless, towel slung over one shoulder.
“Your form’s off,” he says without preamble.
“My what?”
“You’re heel-striking. It’s gonna wreck your knees long-term.” He steps onto the side rail of the treadmill. “Can I fix it?”
“Please.” You slow the treadmill to a stop and stand there with your heart beating against your chest as he reaches down and taps your ankle, guiding your foot placement. His fingers are warm and firm against your skin through the thin legging material. You clench involuntarily.
“Land on the ball of your foot,” he instructs, voice low. “Like this.”
Then his hands move to your hips, adjusting your posture with gentle pressure. He’s so close you can smell his sweat mixed with that clean cologne, feel the heat radiating off his bare chest. Your brain floods with vivid images: those big hands gripping your hips harder while he fucks you from behind, sweat-slick skin sliding against yours. Maybe those biceps putting you in a chokehold. You have to snap yourself out of it before you forget where you are.
“Lean forward just a little,” he murmurs, right next to your ear. “Not too much. There… yeah. That’s it.”
Fuck, you’re pretty sure you’re soaking through your leggings.
“Better?” he asks, stepping back but not far.
“Much better,” you manage, voice a little breathless. “Thanks, Satoru.”
“No problem.” He gives you that crooked, flirty smirk. “Always happy to help pretty girls with their form.”
Your eyebrows shoot up. “Pretty girls?”
He shrugs, casual, but there’s a spark in those blue eyes. “What? You look good. The outfit works. Just… don’t push too hard if you’re new to this. I don’t want you sore tomorrow.”
Too late, pretty boy. I’m already sore in all the right places.
“I can handle it,” you say, turning up the speed a notch. “But if I die, you’re carrying me home.”
He laughs—low, warm, genuine—and the sound shoots straight down in between your legs. “Deal. I’ll spot you on the weights after if you want.”
You spend the rest of your (very short) workout stealing glances at him. Watching him load plates onto the bar, muscles bulging, sweat dripping down that perfect V-line into his shorts. You want to lick the sweat off his chest. You want to see how sensitive those nips are. You want him to pin you against the mirror and fuck the “morning person” energy right out of you. Or into you. Whatever, potato potahto.
But underneath all the raging lust, you’re also weirdly into how focused and disciplined he is. The way he tracks his reps, the quiet intensity on his face—it’s hot. And impressive.
When you finally step off the treadmill on shaky legs, he wanders over again, handing you a spare towel.
“Not bad for a new morning person,” he teases.
“You watching? High praise from the 6 AM regular.”
He lingers for a second, eyes flicking over you again. “Making sure you don’t fall over and hurt yourself. You coming back tomorrow?”
“Maybe. If my legs don’t fall off.”
“I’ll be here.” He gives you one last slow smile. “Don’t be a stranger.”
“Hard to when I’m basically a resident at Lia’s.”
You watch him chuckle and walk back to the weights, that glorious back and shoulders on full display, and feel a rush of triumph mixed with pure, aching want.
Day six is a huge success. You’re sweaty, exhausted, and hornier than ever. But he noticed you. He touched you. God you’ll be thinking about that all day.
DAY SEVEN
You’re at the Gojo family home again. At this point you basically live here. Lia has started making jokes about charging you rent, and you’re starting to worry she’s only half-kidding.
You’re sprawled on the couch with her, pretending to watch some trashy reality show while mostly scrolling on your phone, when Satoru walks in from the hallway looking annoyingly good in just a plain black t-shirt and gray sweats.
“I’m making coffee,” he announces casually. “Anyone want some?”
“I’ll take one,” Lia says lazily.
“I’m good, thanks,” you reply.
He nods and disappears into the kitchen. A few minutes later he returns with two mugs. He hands one to Lia, then turns to you and holds out the second.
“I made you one anyway.”
You blink. “I said I was good.”
“I know.” He shrugs like it’s nothing. “But it’s got hazelnut creamer. You mentioned you like it that one time.”
You freeze mid-reach.
He remembered. Not just that you drink coffee, but the specific creamer you like. From a passing comment days ago.
You take the mug, fingers brushing his, and feel a stupid little flutter in your chest. “Thanks. That’s… pretty thoughtful.”
“It’s just coffee,” he says, but there’s a small, pleased smirk playing on his lips.
“It’s not just coffee. It’s thoughtful coffee.”
He leans against the doorway, studying you with those oh so pretty blue eyes. “I pay attention to things. Especially people. I like figuring out what makes them tick.”
Your pulse kicks up. You take a sip to hide how much that affects you. The hazelnut is perfect.
“And what makes me tick?” you ask, trying to sound casual.
He holds your gaze for a long moment. “Still working on that one. But I’m getting there.”
Then he pushes off the doorframe and heads back toward his room, leaving you staring after him like an idiot.
The second he’s out of earshot, Lia whips around on the couch, eyes wide.
“Oh my god.”
“Shut up.”
“He’s so into you.”
“He’s not. He was just… being nice.”
Lia snorts so hard she nearly chokes on her coffee. “Nice? My brother doesn’t do ‘nice’ like that. He forgot my birthday three years in a row. He barely remembers to make himself coffee most days. But he made you one with your favorite creamer? Unprompted?”
You look down at the mug in your hands, the steam still curling up sweetly. “Maybe he’s just trying to be a good host.”
“Please. He doesn’t give a shit about being a good host. Half the time he ignores people who come over. But he remembered your creamer preference and brought it to you anyway?” She pokes your arm. “That’s practically a confession for him.”
You laugh, but your face feels hot. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m right. And the way he looked at you when he said he’s ‘figuring you out’? That was flirty as hell.”
You shift on the couch, thighs pressing together as your mind immediately goes to images of him figuring you out in much more hands-on ways—those long fingers between your legs while he murmurs nerdy observations about what makes you tick.
“He does have a habit of paying attention to details,” you admit.
“Exactly. And right now all his attention is on you.” Lia grins excitedly. “Operation Bag and Bang is working. My brother wants you.”
You take another sip of the perfect hazelnut coffee, warmth spreading through your chest that has nothing to do with the drink.
Maybe she’s right.
Maybe he really is starting to like you back.
And maybe, just maybe, you’re not only in this for the filthy fantasies anymore. The way he listens when you talk, the way he remembers little things, the look he gets in his eyes when he looks at you… it’s doing something stupid to you. Makes your heart flutter, makes you blush like a lovesick girl.
Doesn’t mean you aren’t going to still absolutely fuck him senseless the second you get the chance, though.
DAY EIGHT
You’re in Satoru’s room.
His room.
You’re sitting cross-legged on his bed, physics notes, textbooks, and crumpled practice problems scattered everywhere. He’s leaning against the headboard looking unfairly hot in a loose black t-shirt and gray sweatpants, glasses perched on his nose as he flips through your messy notes.
You’d asked him yesterday to help you study because you’re genuinely shit at physics and the test is in two days and you’re sure you’re going to flunk. He’d agreed immediately, telling you to bring everything over. You told Lia and she encouraged you and said she’ll leave the house so you two can be alone (best wingwoman and best friend ever btw) Now here you are—surrounded by his nerd clutter of books, beakers, and posters—trying (and horribly failing) to focus while the sexual tension threatens to burn the room down.
“Alright, pay attention,” he says, voice casual but firm as he taps your paper. “This free body diagram is still fucked. You keep forgetting the normal force direction. If you do this on the test you’re gonna lose a ton of points.”
You nod, but your eyes keep drifting to the way his t-shirt stretches across his chest, the faint outline of those nipple piercings visible through the fabric. You want to push him back on this bed and ride him until he forgets every equation he’s ever learned. Maybe you’ll make him solve some while he’s buried inside you just to see him struggle. God you’re getting horny just thinking about it. That’s until he rudely interrupts your fantasies.
“Hey.” He snaps his fingers lightly in front of your face, smirking. “Focus. This test actually matters. I’m not letting you bomb it because you’re too busy staring at me.”
“Sorry,” you say, not sorry at all. “You’re distracting.”
“Yeah, well, get used to it. We’re staying here until you can do these problems without thinking.” He scoots closer, large muscular thigh pressing firmly against yours as he leans in to redraw the diagram. His arm brushes your chest and you have to bite your lip. “See? The force arrow goes this way. Not that way. Mess this up on the real test and you’re pretty much screwed.”
You try again. He checks your work, nodding when it’s better but immediately pointing out the next mistake.
“Better, but still not perfect. Come on, you’re smarter than this. I know you are.” His tone is light, but there’s real concern underneath it. And fuck if that doesn’t turn you on because what the hell’s hotter than a dude actually caring? “I don’t want you stressing out the night before because you half-assed it. Let’s do the next one.”
The tension is unbearable. Every time he leans in to correct something, his knee stays glued to yours. Every explanation comes with casual touches—his fingers brushing your hand when he passes the pen, his shoulder pressed against yours, his breath warm against your ear as he talks through equilibrium problems. You swear he’s doing it on purpose just to torture you.
You keep getting distracted by your uncontrollable filthy thoughts—his hands gripping your hips, that deep voice in your ear explaining exactly how he wants you to move while he fucks you.
“Focus,” he says again, gently flicking your forehead. “I’m serious. This shit builds on itself. If you don’t get the fundamentals now you’re gonna be fucked for the rest of the semester.”
“You’re really invested in my grade, huh?” you tease, shifting so your thigh slides more firmly against his.
“Yeah, I am.” He looks at you directly. “I like when people actually learn stuff. Especially you. So stop looking at my tits and solve the damn problem.”
You laugh but actually try this time. When you get it right he gives you a pleased little smirk and ruffles your hair.
“There we go. See? You’ve got this. Just need to stop getting distracted by how hot your tutor is.”
“Impossible,” you mutter.
He chuckles, low and warm, but immediately dives back into the next concept. “Torque next. This one trips a lot of people up. Pay attention— I’m not explaining it three times.”
You spend the next couple hours like that: bodies pressed close on his bed, heavy tension crackling between every word, while he stays surprisingly focused on making sure you actually understand the material. He’s casual and flirty, throwing in teasing comments and lingering touches, but he never lets you derail the session for too long.
“Last set,” he says eventually, handing you more practice problems. “Nail these and I’ll be impressed. And maybe… reward you somehow.” His eyes drag slowly down your body before flicking back up, heated. Holy shit. Is he implying what you think he’s implying? “But only if you actually get a decent grade. Deal?”
You swallow, already thinking about everything. “Deal.”
He leans back against the headboard, arm stretched behind you, fingers idly playing with the hem of your shirt while you work. The concern for your success is weirdly attractive—mixed with all that casual confidence and the constant undercurrent of want.
You’re definitely passing this test.
And you’re definitely going to fuck your tutor senseless the second it’s over.
DAY NINE
(except it’s actually day eleven because the last two days were just non-stop tutoring and you finally crushed that physics test)
You don’t mean to confess.
It just slips out.
It’s late. The house is quiet. Lia passed out on the couch an hour ago, and Satoru suggested the two of you keep watching The Expanse in the living room. Now you’re alone with him on the big sectional, sitting so close your thighs are pressed together and your shoulders keep brushing.
The show is on, but neither of you is really watching anymore.
Your heart is hammering. His hand rests on the cushion between you, fingers twitching like they want to close the last inch of space between yours and his. The tension has been building for days—those long study sessions where he’d scold you to focus while his eyes lingered on your mouth and legs.
“So,” you say, breaking the charged silence. “I got my physics grade back today.”
He turns his head, blue eyes sparkling with interest. “And?”
You smirk. “A solid B+. Would’ve been an A if someone hadn’t kept distracting me with his hands and voice the whole time.”
Satoru lets out a low laugh, but there’s heat in it. “Told you to focus. I take my tutoring duties seriously.”
“You also promised me a reward if I did well.” You shift closer, letting your hand rest on his thigh. “I did well, Satoru.”
His breath catches. The tension snaps tighter. He looks down at your hand, then back up at your face, eyes darker now.
“I did say that, didn’t I?” His voice is rougher. “What kind of reward were you thinking?”
You lean in until your lips are inches from his. “I think you know exactly what kind I want. I think you’ve known for a while now. Unless you’re just… super dense. Which Lia told me you are, but I think you’re smarter than that.”
He swallows hard. The air between you feels electric. “You’re really not subtle anymore, huh?”
“Nope. I’ve been trying to be subtle for a while now.” Your fingers trace slow circles on his thigh, teasingly high. “So… about that reward.”
He exhales sharply, hand finally moving to cover yours, squeezing. “You’re killing me here.”
“Good.” You tilt your head, lips brushing his jaw. “Because I’ve been dying for days. Sitting in your room, letting you play teacher while all I could think about was climbing onto your lap and shutting you up with my mouth.”
His grip on your hand tightens. “Fuck.”
“Yeah. That’s the idea.”
He turns fully toward you, free hand coming up to cup the back of your neck. The show is completely forgotten. “You really want this?”
“I’ve wanted this since I walked in on you shirtless that first time.” Your voice drops and you bite your lip. “Since I saw those piercings. You’re gonna need to tell me the story behind those someday. Preferably after I’ve had them in my mouth.”
His eyes flare and he chuckles nervously—breathlessly. The tension is so thick it’s suffocating in the best way. He’s breathing harder now, thumb stroking your neck.
“I’ve been trying to be good,” he mutters. “Trying to make sure you actually passed that test instead of just thinking about bending you over my desk every time you leaned over your notes.”
You grin against his mouth. “And now?”
“Now?” He leans in, lips hovering just above yours. “Now I’m thinking about collecting on that reward too.”
You close the distance first.
The kiss starts hungry—three months of built-up tension exploding all at once. His mouth is hot and demanding, tongue sliding against yours as he pulls you closer. You moan into it, and he swallows the sound greedily, hand sliding into your hair.
When you finally break apart, both of you are breathing hard.
“Well,” he says, voice hoarse, “that was a long time coming.”
“Too long.” You nip at his bottom lip. “And we’re nowhere near done. I still want my full reward, tutor.”
He laughs, low and filthy, forehead resting against yours. “Greedy.”
“You have no idea.”
He kisses you again, slower this time but no less intense, hands roaming your sides like he’s been dying to touch you. The living room feels too small, too public, but neither of you cares enough to stop.
Satoru pulls back from the kiss just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breathing ragged. “We can’t do this here,” he mutters, voice low and rough. “Parents are upstairs. Lia’s literally passed out on the couch. If anyone hears—”
“Then take me to your room,” you whisper against his mouth, nipping his bottom lip. “Now, please.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. He stands up, grabs your hand, and practically drags you down the hallway, both of you moving as quietly as possible. The second his bedroom door clicks shut behind you, he pushes you up against it, kissing you hard again. This time there’s no hesitation—his hands roam down your sides, gripping your ass as he grinds against you.
“Fuck, I’ve wanted this for so long,” he groans quietly against your neck. “You have no idea how many times I had to stop myself from bending you over my desk during those study sessions.”
You laugh breathlessly, hands already sliding under his shirt like you’ve imagined a thousand times over the course of the past ten days. “Then stop stalling and show me, nerd.”
He tugs your shirt off first, then his own, and there they are—those perfect, lean pecs with the silver bars through both pink nipples, already hard from the cool air and the tension. You stare like a woman starved.
“God, I’ve been so fucking obsessed with these,” you admit, running your palms over his chest, thumbs brushing right over the piercings.
Satoru hisses sharply, hips jerking against you while his abs clench abruptly. “Sensitive— fuck— they’ve been extra sensitive since I got them done.”
“That’s to my advantage.” You push him back toward the bed, watching him sit on the edge as you climb onto his lap. “I’ve honestly wanted to play with them for months.”
You lean down and drag your tongue over one pierced nipple, flicking the bar lightly. Satoru’s head falls back with a choked groan, one hand flying up to cover his mouth, teeth digging into his fingers.
“Shit— easy,” he hisses, voice strained. “Parents are right upstairs. You’re gonna get us caught.”
You smirk and suck the other nipple into your mouth, tugging gently on the piercing with your teeth. His cock twitches hard against your thigh through his sweatpants.
“Fuck, you’re so evil,” he pants, trying to sound cocky but sounding wrecked instead. “I’m trying to be all cool and collected here and you’re— ah— sucking on my tits like you’re trying to milk me.”
“I wish i could,” you murmur, switching sides and rolling the other bar between your fingers while you lick and suck. His chest is flushed, nipples puffy and oversensitive from the attention. Every tug and flick makes him shudder underneath you. “They’re so pretty. Look at how they get all hard for me.”
“You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he groans, chest heaving, biting his fist to stay quiet. His face is so red he’s hard to recognize. You’ve never seen him lose his composure this hard but damn if you’re not getting off on it. “I’m supposed to be the one ruining you, not the other way around.”
You grind down on the very obvious bulge in his sweatpants, still lavishing attention on his chest. “Who says we can’t do both?”
He finally snaps, flipping you onto your back on the bed with surprising strength. He hovers over you, sweat dripping down his chest, hair messy. “My turn. Shorts off, baby… please.”
You obey, shimmying out of your shorts and panties while he kicks off his sweatpants. His cock springs free—long, thick, and already leaking. You gasp—audibly so—at the sheer size of him. You knew he was big because you’d seen him in those sinful grey sweats but you never could picture it in your head. But now it’s right here… fuck, you’re soaking. You reach for it but he catches your wrist.
“Not yet,” he says, voice cocky but with that nervous edge underneath. “I’ve spent too many nights jerking off thinking about this. I’m not rushing it.”
He kisses down your body, mouth hot and eager, but you pull him back up by his hair. “You’ve jerked off to me?” You ask breathlessly, a little cocky smile on your lips. “I’m flattered.”
He chuckles and rolls his eyes right at you, licking his lips. “Don’t act like you haven’t done the same, pervert.”
“Never acted like anything.”
“Good.” He’s about to go down on you, his lips finding your neck and then gradually moving lower but you can’t help but want to toy with his nips again. Your fingers gently coax him up to your face again by his hair and he groans. “C’mon…gimme’ a chance to make you feel good.”
“No. I want these again.” You cup his chest, thumbs circling his swollen nipples. “They’re so fucking sensitive. Look at you—shaking just from me playing with them.”
Satoru buries his face in your neck to muffle a moan as you pinch and tug on the bars. “You’re— fuck— such a brat. I’m trying to be a good tutor-turned-lover here and you’re using my piercings against me.”
You laugh softly and lick over one again, sucking harder while your hand strokes his cock slowly. “They’re pretty much mine now. I’ve earned them after all that studying.”
He shudders, hips bucking into your fist. “Yeah? Then keep earning them. Just— quiet, baby. I swear if my mom hears us I’m so dead.”
You keep teasing his chest relentlessly—licking, sucking, tugging on the piercings while your hand works his cock in long, slow strokes. He’s panting into your shoulder, trying so hard to stay quiet, occasionally letting out these choked little whimpers whenever you twist the bars just right or squeeze him a little tighter on the upstroke.
“God, you’re so hard,” you whisper. “All this from me playing with your tits?”
“Shut up,” he groans, embarrassed but clearly loving it. “They’ve always been sensitive but you’re making it so much worse. Or better. Fuck, I don’t know anymore.”
You push him onto his back again and straddle him, rubbing your soaked pussy along his length while you continue lavishing attention on his chest. He grips your hips hard, biting his lip bloody trying to stay silent.
“You gonna fuck me now, sir?” you tease, grinding down. “Or do I need to keep playing with these until you beg?”
He lets out a shaky laugh. “Don’t—don’t call me that, it does things to me,” he groans, cock twitching against you. “Come here— I need to be inside you before I lose my mind.”
He reaches over to his nightstand, grabs a condom with trembling hands (still nerdy enough to be prepared), and rolls it on. Then he pulls you down onto him in one slow, deep thrust.
Both of you moan—his muffled against your shoulder, yours against his neck.
“Fuck, you feel good,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “So tight. Been thinking about this for days.”
“Try three months,” you groaned into his neck, breathing heavily. You start riding him slowly, still playing with his oversensitive nipples, tugging and rolling the bars while you bounce on his cock. Every time you pinch them he thrusts up harder, trying desperately to stay quiet.
“Quiet, Satoru,” you tease breathlessly, echoing his earlier words. “Wouldn’t want your parents knowing their genius son is getting his pierced nips played with while he fucks his sister’s best friend.”
He groans, hips snapping up. “You’re evil. Absolutely evil. I’m never— shit— gonna recover from this.”
You don’t let him recover. You keep the pace torturously slow and deep, spoiling his chest with attention while the pleasure builds and builds for both of you. His cock fills you perfectly, stretching you with every downward grind. The room is thick with the sound of skin on skin and muffled breathing and held back moans.
Satoru’s hands slide up your waist and cup your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples with deliberate pressure. He’s not gentle about it—pinching and rolling them between his fingers while he thrusts up to meet you.
“Fuck, these are perfect,” he mutters, voice low and rough. His eyes are dark, needy, but there’s that cocky edge as he watches your face. “Been wanting to get my hands on them since you kept leaning over my notes in that tank top.”
You moan softly and he immediately covers your mouth with one hand, the other still tugging on your nipple.
“Shh,” he whispers, a little smirk playing on his lips even as his hips snap up harder. “Parents are literally right upstairs. You want to get caught, hmm?”
You shake your head, but the way he’s playing with your tits makes it hard to stay quiet. You lean down and take one of his pierced nipples into your mouth again, sucking hard while you roll your hips.
He groans into your hair, the sound needy and broken. “God— you’re like an addict.”
You pull off with a wet pop, still riding him slow and deep. “Why’d you get them pierced?” you ask breathlessly, fingers tracing the silver bars. “They’re so sensitive. Was it for pleasure purposes?”
Satoru’s hands tighten on your hips, guiding you faster for a few strokes before he forces himself to slow down again. Dominant and needy all at once. “Got them after I lost a bet in second year. Didn’t realize how fucking sensitive they’d make me.” He thrusts up sharply, making you gasp. “Now every time you touch them it’s like they’re wired to my dick. It’s torture. I fucking love it.”
You clench around him at that, riding him a little harder. “What about your cock?” you tease, voice low. “Ever think about getting that pierced too?”
He laughs, the sound shaky and turned on. One hand leaves your hip to slap your ass lightly—playful, teasing—before gripping it again and pulling you down with a soft whine. “Thought about it. A lot, actually. Prince Albert maybe. But I chickened out. Figured I’d rather have someone else decide if they want to decorate it.” His eyes lock on yours, needy but cocky. “You offering to help pick one out?”
You moan at the image, grinding down harder. “Maybe.”
His hands are back on your tits, squeezing and playing while he fucks up into you with controlled, deep thrusts. He’s the perfect switch—letting you ride and tease him one second, then taking over the pace the next, pulling you down onto his cock like he owns your pussy.
“What about you?” he asks, voice husky as he pinches both your nipples at once causing you to moan. “You ever think about getting these pierced?”
You arch into his touch, riding him faster now. “Thought about it. Especially after I saw yours. Thought it’d be hot to have you play with them the way I play with yours.”
Satoru groans, the sound muffled against your shoulder as he buries his face there. “Fuck, don’t say shit like that while I’m inside you. I’m trying not to lose it.” He flips you suddenly—smooth, easy—putting you on your back without pulling out. He hooks your legs over his arms and starts fucking you deep and steady, eyes locked on yours.
“I’d love it,” he admits, voice rough and needy again as he leans down to suck one of your nipples into his mouth. “Love watching you get all sensitive and shaky for me. Love marking you up.” He bites gently, then soothes it with his tongue. “We could match.”
You’re close—both of you are—but he keeps the pace deliberate, drawing it out. His mouth moves between your tits while he fucks you, occasionally lifting his head to kiss you hard, swallowing your moans.
“You feel so good,” he pants against your lips. “This is insane… I’m so into you.”
You tug on his nipple piercings again and he shudders, stomach clenching and hips stuttering. “Keep doing that and I’m gonna come,” he warns, but he doesn’t stop you. He just fucks you harder, switching between needy groans and cocky little comments.
“Yeah? Gonna come from me playing with your tits while I ride your cock?” you whisper.
“Shut up, you brat,” he laughs breathlessly as he pins your wrists above your head with one hand and keeps pounding into you. “You’re gonna come first. That’s an order from your tutor.”
He keeps you right on the edge—slowing down when you get too close, speeding up when you beg, all while his mouth and hands stay on your tits and his cock stays buried deep inside you. Every thrust drags his cock against that perfect spot inside you, but he’s not letting you race to the finish. He’s controlling the pace—slow and grinding one moment, sharp and punishing the next.
His mouth is on your tits again, sucking one nipple while his fingers pinch and tug the other. You’re arching up into him, one hand fisted in his white hair, the other still toying with his nipples.
“Fuck— pull harder,” he groans against your chest, voice muffled but needy. “Yeah, like that. God, you’re gonna make me lose it.”
You yank on his hair and he moans, hips stuttering. At the same time you scratch your nails down his back—hard enough to leave marks. He shudders violently, a full-body reaction that makes his cock twitch inside you.
“Oh my god,” you breathe, doing it again. “You like that? You little masochist.”
He lifts his head, eyes glassy but still cocky. “Yeah. I like it when you mark me up. Pull my hair, scratch me, bite me— fuck, I’m into all of it.”
You laugh softly and bite his shoulder, then suck a mark right next to it. “So the nerd’s a little pain slut, huh?”
“Shut up,” he laughs breathlessly, thrusting harder to shut you up. “You’re the one obsessed with my chest. I’ve been edging you for ten minutes and you’re still playing with my nips.”
He suddenly pulls out completely. You whine at the loss and he smirks, kneeling between your spread thighs. He takes his cock in one hand and slaps it against your soaked pussy—wet, obscene sounds filling the room as the head smacks your clit, your folds, dragging through your slick.
“Look at this mess,” he murmurs, voice low and dominant again. “Dripping all over my cock. You were so cocky earlier about your reward. Where’s that energy now?”
You reach down and spread yourself open for him. “Still cocky. Just desperate. Put it back in.”
He slaps his cock against your clit again, harder this time, then rubs the head up and down your slit without pushing inside. “Ask nicely.”
“Satoru—”
He pushes just the tip in, then pulls out again, teasing. “Nuh-uh. Use your words, baby. Tell me what you want.”
You glare up at him, pouting. “I want you to stop being a tease and fuck me properly. Or I’m gonna flip us and ride you with my hands on your tits until you’re the one begging.”
He chuckles, low and filthy, and finally sinks back into you in one smooth thrust. “There she is, atta-girl.”
He fucks you harder now, one hand braced by your head, the other sliding between your bodies to rub your clit in tight circles.
“Been thinking about this every night after tutoring,” he admits between thrusts, voice rough. “You leaning over my desk in those shorts, asking me about torque while I was imagining bending you over it. You have no idea how many times I had to adjust myself because you kept playing with your hair and biting your lip.”
You moan and pull his hair again, making him curse. “I knew. Why do you think I kept doing it?”
“So mean,” he pants, but he’s grinning. He pulls out again, flips you onto your stomach, and yanks your hips up. Doggy this time—deeper, rougher, nastier and so fucking hot. One hand grips your hip while the other reaches around to play with your pussy, two fingers rubbing your clit while his cock slides back in. He lifts one arm and pulls you upward so his chest’s pressing right up against your back. He puts you in a chokehold, bicep against your jaw as he leans in to nibble on your ears.
“Touch your tits for me,” he orders, voice strained. “Play with them while I fuck you. I wanna hear you.”
You do as he says, pinching your own nipples while he pounds into you from behind. Every time you clench around him he groans and fucks harder. When you start getting too close—thighs shaking, moans getting louder—he slows down dramatically, almost stopping, just grinding deep and circling your clit lazily.
“Not yet,” he whispers against your ear, chest pressed to your back. “I’m not done with you. I edged myself for hours thinking about you. Turnabout’s fair play.”
You whimper into his arm, hands coming up to grab onto it for support while he fucks you so torturously slow from behind. “Satoru, please—”
He bites the back of your shoulder, then soothes it with his tongue. “Please what? Use your words, pretty.”
“Please let me come. I’ll be good. I’ll stop teasing your nipples— for five minutes.”
He laughs, the sound warm and wrecked, and starts fucking you properly again. “Five whole minutes? That’s generous of you.”
He keeps you right on the edge for what feels like forever—changing angles, pulling out to slap his cock against your cunt again, fingering you open while you’re empty, then slamming back in. Every time you get close he eases off, kissing your spine, murmuring filthy praise.
“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” he says, voice husky. “All desperate and dripping. My smart girl who aced her test and now can’t even form sentences because my cock’s inside her.”
You reach back and scratch down his thigh, then up to his ass. “And you’re the one who gets hard from having your hair pulled and your back scratched.”
“That makes us a perfect match,” he agrees, flipping you onto your back again so he can see your face. He hooks your legs over his shoulders and folds you in half, fucking you deep and slow while his thumb circles your clit.
“Come for me,” he finally says, voice cracking with need. “I’ve got you, baby. Come for this nerd.”
You do—hard. so hard it’s life changing—clenching around him with a muffled cry into his shoulder, arms wrapped around his neck and fingers tightening in his hair. He follows right after, burying his face in your neck, hips stuttering as he comes with a low, broken groan followed by a few shorter ones. Your insides grow warm with the weight of his load-filled condom.
For a long moment neither of you moves, just breathing hard, sweat-slick and tangled.
Satoru lifts his head, hair messy, lips swollen, looking thoroughly fucked out but still smug.
“So,” he chuckles breathlessly, voice hoarse. “Same time tomorrow for round two? I still have more physics notes to go over.”
You laugh weakly and tug his hair one more time. “Only if you let me play with your tits again.”
“Deal,” he murmurs, kissing you slow and sweet. “Brat.”
“Pain whore.”
He grins against your mouth. “Sure, but I’m your pain whore.”
DAY TEN
You wake up tangled around Satoru like you’re trying to fuse with him.
Legs hooked around his waist. One arm slung across his chest. Face buried in the warm curve of his neck, breathing him in—skin, faint sweat, that clean scent that still makes your brain lag. Your other hand rests on his narrow waist, thumb brushing the sharp cut of his hip bone, resisting the urge to slip underneath his pants and squeeze that gorgeous ass.
Holy fuck. You actually fucked Satoru.
And it was filthy. Perfect. The kind of night that ruins you for anyone else. The way he’d switched between pinning you down and letting you play with his oversensitive nips until he was shaking. The way he’d edged you for what felt like hours, cocky and needy at the same time. You’re sore in all the right places and already thinking about round… whatever number you’re on now.
You squeeze your thighs around him tighter, pressing your body closer. God, you’re obsessed with how he feels. All that lean muscle, the way his skin is stupidly soft over hard lines, the little shivers he gives when you accidentally brush his piercings.
Satoru stirs, letting out a low, sleepy groan. His arm tightens around your back, hand sliding down to palm your ass possessively.
“Morning, clingy,” he mumbles, voice rough from sleep. “You gonna let me breathe anytime soon?”
“No,” you answer without hesitation, lips brushing his neck. “I earned this. Ten days of plotting and I finally got the nerd in bed. I’m collecting my trophy.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest. One hand comes up to scratch lazily at your scalp. “Trophy, huh? That what I am now?”
“Yep. Property of me.” You drag your nails lightly down his back, right over the very obvious scratches you left last night. “These marks are cute, by the way. Very ‘I got banged’ esque.”
Satoru hisses softly but presses into your touch. “You’re such a shit. I told you my back was sensitive and you still went crazy on it.”
“Ehh.. you liked it.” You nip at his neck, then soothe it with your tongue. “You liked it so much you almost came just from me tugging your hair and playing with your piercings.”
“Shut up,” he says, but there’s a grin in his voice. He shifts his hips, letting you feel that he’s already half-hard against your thigh. “You’re the one who couldn’t stop sucking on them. Thought you were gonna give me a hickey on my fucking nipple.”
You laugh quietly and flick one of the bars with your thumb, making him twitch. “They’re too pretty not to. I’ve been obsessed with these things since the first time I saw them. Still can’t believe you let some random person stab metal through them.”
“Regret nothing,” he says casually. His hand slides between your bodies, cupping one of your tits and lazily playing with your nipple. “Especially not after last night. You were real into it.”
You hum happily and press closer, face still tucked into his neck. “Best decision of my life. The sex was insane. You’re surprisingly flexible for a nerd.”
“Surprisingly?” He squeezes your ass. “Rude. I’ll have you know I’m very coordinated.”
“Yeah, yeah. Big talk from the guy who almost dropped me when we switched positions.”
He snorts. “That was your fault. You started playing with the piercings again and my brain shorted out.”
You smile against his skin, inhaling him again. The realization hits you somewhere deep in your chest when his fingers card through your hair—this isn’t just about how hot he is or how good the sex was. You actually like him. Him. The rambling, the routines, the way he remembers stupid little things, the way he looks at you like you’re entertaining as hell even when you’re being annoying.
You’re catching real feelings. You’re definitely going to marry this guy.
“Ten days,” you murmur. “Took me ten days to get you here.”
Satoru’s hand strokes down your spine. “Took me about three to realize I was screwed. You kept showing up everywhere looking like that and asking me questions about my thesis. You sure knew the way to my heart.”
You lift your head just enough to look at him. His hair is a mess, eyes half-lidded, that lazy smirk on his face. He looks stupidly good in the morning light.
“You’re not mad I basically stalked you into liking me?” you ask, half-teasing.
“Nah.” He leans in and kisses you, slow and easy. “Worked out pretty well for me.”
You settle back against his neck, legs still locked around him, arms holding him close. “Good. Because I’m not moving for at least another hour.”
“Fine by me,” he says, voice already drifting back toward sleep. His hand keeps stroking your back in lazy circles. “Just don’t fall asleep with your hand on my nipple again. Last night you almost twisted it off when you came.”
You giggle softly. “No promises.”
He squeezes your ass in warning, but he’s smiling.
You stay wrapped around him for a while longer, trading lazy kisses and occasional teasing touches, until your stomach starts growling loud enough for both of you to hear it.
Satoru huffs a laugh against your hair. “Hungry?”
“Starving,” you admit, finally untangling your legs from around his waist. “We did burn a lot of calories last night.”
He smirks, sitting up and stretching. The morning light hits the scratches you left down his back and the faint hickeys on his neck and chest. You didn’t exactly do a great job hiding them. Neither did he—there’s a very obvious bite mark on your shoulder and bruises on your hips that ache in a weirdly pleasuring way.
You both throw on clothes quickly—him in fresh sweatpants and a t-shirt, you in one of his hoodies that swallows you and a pair of his huge sweats you had to tie really tightly because they kept falling.
As you’re about to head out the door, you pause.
“So…” you say casually, leaning against his doorframe. “What are we doing here? Like, are we actually a thing now? Or do we just keep doing… whatever this is and see where it goes?”
Satoru turns, one eyebrow raised. He looks a little rumpled and stupidly hot. “I mean, I’m down to make it official. If you want. I’m not really into the casual thing if it’s with you.”
You nod, keeping it light. “Yeah. Same. Boyfriend, then?”
He grins, walking over to pull you in for a quick kiss. “Boyfriend. Sounds good.”
“Cool.”
“Cool.”
The conversation ends as easily as it started. Wow. It really is that easy huh.
You head downstairs together.
The second you step into the kitchen, it’s immediate. His mom is at the counter cutting fruit. His dad is scrolling on his phone at the table. Lia is already stuffing her face with toast.
All three of them look up at the exact same time.
The silence is deafening. Terribly so. You want to sink into the ground.
You’re pretty sure the bite mark on your neck is visible even with the hoodie. Satoru has fresh scratches peeking out from under his collar and his hair is doing that freshly-fucked thing. You both tried to look normal. You failed miserably.
Lia’s eyes flick between the two of you, then she smirks around her toast like she just won the lottery. She doesn’t say anything—just goes back to chewing with this shit-eating grin.
His mom raises an eyebrow. His dad just stares for a second before clearing his throat.
Satoru, cool as ever, walks straight to the coffee machine like nothing’s weird.
“Morning,” he says casually, grabbing two mugs. “Oh yeah, we’re dating now, by the way.”
He says it like he’s announcing the weather. Like he’s making small talk. Like he didn’t just announce a relationship.
You freeze mid-step, eyes wide. Wait—right now? Just like that? You were still processing the conversation upstairs and now he’s dropping it on his entire family like it’s no big deal. Your face heats up but… you don’t really mind though. It’s very… him.
Lia snorts so hard she has to set her toast down. His mom pauses mid-slice, then just nods slowly like she’s processing. His dad blinks twice.
“…Since when?” his mom finally asks, fighting a smile.
“Since last night,” Satoru answers, pouring coffee like this is the most normal conversation in the world. “Pass the hazelnut creamer?”
You stand there awkwardly for a second, still a little stunned he just launched it like that, before grabbing a piece of toast and sitting down quickly. You take a big bite to give yourself something to do.
His dad clears his throat again. “Congrats. Try to keep it down next time. The walls aren’t that thick.”
You nearly choke on your toast. You start coughing hard, face flushing bright red as you reach for water. The memories of last night—moaning into Satoru’s shoulder, him telling you to stay quiet, the headboard—flash through your head at full volume.
Satoru just smirks like that didn’t even fucking faze him at all, sliding the creamer your way like nothing happened. “Noted.”
Lia is openly grinning at you now, kicking your foot under the table. His mom is pretending to be very focused on the fruit again, but her shoulders are shaking with silent laughter.
You’re mortified. His dad heard you?! THE WHOLE—
“Relax,” Satoru chuckles like it’s no biggie as he slides in next to you, arm resting on the back of your chair as he hands you your coffee.
“I told you be quiet,” he teases, whispering against your ear like he was sharing some sort of secret. Which technically he is—but now they all know so is it really a fucking secret????He lets out a low groan followed by a laugh when you jab at his side with your elbow, your mouth stuffed with said toast because you’ve been trying not to choke it down.
But despite it all, sitting here in his oversized hoodie, with your crush who’s now your boyfriend and having dinner with his family like he didn’t just fuck your brains out for hours last night, you can’t help but grin through the embarrassment.
This family is never going to let either of you live this down.
But… that’s not too bad, is it?
Because the plan worked and in the span of ten days (technically eleven but that’s not the point), you’ve managed to bang and bag the nerd you’ve been pining after for three months.
well that was fun and took ridiculously long to write this is my longest fic yet but yk what hell yeah. consider this a 1k special because i can’t get anything else out on time LMFAO. i will be continuing this as a mini series that isn’t really a series it’s just oneshots of this gojo x reader and some drabbles and shit idk anyway yeah i hope u guys enjoyed this !!! took me pretty much two days to write and i was writing like nonstop LOL <3 !! side note i had to do so much stupid ass research abt blue eyes and fucking genetics for this shit i am SICK
50 Ways to Say Goodbye | finance bro!gojo x reader
Dumping your narcissistic finance-bro boyfriend should have been a clean break. You get rid of a manchild, he finally gets humbled. Simple as that. Except Satoru Gojo refuses to admit he got dumped. Instead, he spends the next six months convincing everyone that you fell victim to a series of increasingly bizarre, tragic accidents.
It’s a foolproof plan to save his pride. Until you return. Very much alive. And completely unimpressed. Suddenly, his whole world starts to collapse, taking his career and his God Complex down with it. But the real problem isn't figuring out how to ruin him—it's admitting you both actually might be the villains.
pairing: gojo x reader
warnings: explicit sexual content, 18+ (mdni!!), corporate settings, reader insert, smut, fluff, crack treated seriously, exes to lovers, slow burn, mutual delusion, miscommunication, fake death conspiracy, narcissistic ex, god complex, ego deaths, finance bro!gojo, petty revenge, hate sex, piv, face sitting, mutual pining, denial, happy ending
word count: 18k+
a/n: a bit of toxic romance never killed anybody. 💔
masterlist | crossposted on ao3!
You didn't just wake up one morning and decide to blow your entire life up.
You were just supposed to be an external consultant. A twelve-month contract to be his tech firm's new auditor. Get in. Audit their mess. Get the hell out.
But Satoru Gojo was the Senior Project Manager on your account. Thirty-two. Wearing a bespoke suit—in hindsight, he definitely financed. And annoyingly, devastatingly charming.
He cornered you by the espresso machine on day five. Smiled that stupid—okay, dangerously gorgeous—smile that made his blue eyes crinkle. Memorized your lunch order. Bought you expensive coffees. Told you he must have been the luckiest guy to ever exist to just take you out on a date. Charmed his way right into your pants before your first invoice even cleared.
So practically you were stupid, he was sly. Moving on.
Almost a year. That's how long the delusion lasted. The first three months were great. The rest almost left you bald and in a straightjacket.
Because the shiny veneer rubbed off. Turns out the "untouchable executive" aura was completely manufactured. He spent half his paycheck projecting a God Complex just to hide the fact that he was an exhausting manchild.
The “networking” dinners where he talked over you. The constant Slack pings during movie nights. Treating you less like a girlfriend and more like a highly-functioning accessory. Acting all self-righteous and annoying even if you made more money than him.
The latest of last straws then came as your one-year anniversary gift. The box was massive. Rectangular in this specific, expectant way. Sitting right in the middle of the living room with a cryptic, romantic note taped to the top.
You stared at it. Your heart actually did a stupid little flutter.
Finally. He listened. You’d been dropping hints for months about this vintage leather travel trunk. The kind that practically screamed we are going to Santorini for our one-year. You thought he was actually paying attention.
You tore the paper. Your left eye twitched.
Titleist.
Fucking golf clubs.
He walked in ten minutes later. Dropped his briefcase. Wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. Looking at the open box like he’d just cured a disease.
"Do you like 'em, baby?" he purred. "Now you can come to the networking retreats n' look hot on the green while I secure our future."
Looking hot. While he secures his future.
So for the next week, the fucking clubs laughed at you from the corner of the room while you actually plotted how to move on from this ridiculous hellhole of a relationship.
A heavy, titanium reminder that you weren't a partner. You were just a walking prop with boobs—
You had enough of fulfilling his macho corpo alpha male fantasy.
You were constantly tired, agitated, sporting this super specific 1,000-yard my-boyfriend-is-a-massive-narcissist-but-at-least-the-sex-is-good stare. But even a good dick only goes so far.
You had enough of his self-important, stupid speeches while his boss doesn’t even like his atrocious LinkedIn posts. This man had to get properly humbled.
Satoru was sprawled on the sofa. Laptop balanced on his knees, performatively typing on Teams chat. Looking incredibly important. Actively pretending to save the global economy.
You walked out of the bedroom.
"Satoru, I think it's for the better if we break up."
He stopped typing. Looked over his screen at you. Eyes narrowing.
"Baby, what? Did you get your period early?"
Yeah. No. What the fuck.
You snapped. You pointed directly at the golf clubs gathering dust. You laid out the exact, suffocating hypocrisy of him treating you like a doll.
He then rebutted with some questionable corporate, future-this, finance security-that bullshit until it turned into a full-blown screaming match you two shared honestly quite often. His neighbors certainly loved this apartment building feature.
You spun on your heel and marched right back into the bedroom. He actually left the laptop. Followed you. Leaned against the bedroom doorframe.
He saw you throwing clothes into the suitcase while your face was red with rage. But his narcissism physically prevented him from registering this as a permanent exit.
He crossed his arms. "Oh, so you're packing?" The patronizing executive voice. God, you hate that voice. You wanted to rip out his vocal cords and feed it to his smug-ass mouth—
"What, going to your parents' place for the weekend? Fine. Cool off. See you on Monday."
Ziiiip.
He followed you into the hallway, the smugness slipping juuust a fraction. "Okay, so are you actually throwing a tantrum right now? I give you everything. My apartment—"
"You give me a goddamn headache daily!” You spun around and he actually flinched.
"I'm done being your freaking doormat," you snapped, gripping the handle of your suitcase so hard your knuckles went white. "You're thirty-two, Satoru. You're an average project manager, not a god. Get a fucking grip."
His jaw clenched. "You're being completely irrational. You take that back—"
You grabbed your bag. Looked him dead in those stupid, piercing eyes.
"You're just a lucky bastard, Satoru. And I hope your luck finally runs out." A beat. "I genuinely hope the universe curses you n' karma gets you."
He scoffed. Literally scoffed. Like you were a kid playing witch. But before he could even think of another stupid rebuttal, you violently slammed the front door right in his face.
BAM.
Satoru was just standing there in his empty entryway. Arrogant little scowl perfectly plastered on his face. Waiting for the elevator ding. Waiting for the inevitable knock when you realized you made another emotional mistake.
Nothing.
He uncrossed his arms. Recrossed them. Looked at the front door like it owed him an explanation.
Fine.
Fine.
You'd be back by Monday. You always — okaay, this was technically the first time you'd actually packed a bag and left, but the energy was still very you'll be back by Monday. He knew you. You ran hot. It simply was the downside of having a hot girlfriend that fucked way too good.
You needed to cool off and eat something and remember that you lived a significantly better life with him in it! And then you'd text him something passive aggressive and he'd respond with something magnanimous and you'd be done with it.
He went to bed. He woke up Sunday feeling only mildly concerned.
Monday came.
Nothing.
Gone.
And gone you were. You called his firm's HR department. Requested to take the remaining weeks of your external contract 100% remote. Approved.
Booked a flight and noped the fuck out to Santorini. ‘Cause obviously. If that manchild wasn't able to take you you would treat yourself. You needed to clear your head and wash out the memory of the past year with enough wine to kill off a concerning amount of your brain cells.
Waking up at noon. Answering emails from a whitewashed balcony. Type shit. Turns out dropping two hundred pounds of try-hard finance bro is scientifically proven to clear your skin. So while you were getting a tan and eating your body weight in fresh seafood, Satoru was busy completely losing his mind.
Not that he'd admit that. Obviously.
In his head the sequence of events was very simple. You had a meltdown. You needed space. You'd come back to his arms, tail between your legs, ready to be reasonable. He was prepared to be very gracious about it. But there was no text. Zero. The hell?!
He checked his phone. Checked it again. Opened Instagram for completely unrelated reasons and your story was right there at the front of the queue —
Whitewashed walls. Aegean blue. A very full glass of white wine. Location tag: Oia, Santorini. He stared at that for a long time.
Santorini.
He knew that word. He'd heard that word. Multiple times. With a very specific energy he had, in retrospect, perhaps not adequately responded to. He thought about the Titleist box. He put his phone face down. And the vein in his forehead almost popped.
So you were being petty. Flying to fucking Greece because of one argument. That you caused, by the way. Instead of coming home and apologizing like a good girlfriend. Were you out of your goddamned mind?
He picked his phone back up. Put it down again.
Wait.
...Did he get dumped?
Waaait.
No. Nonsense. Complete and utter nonsense.
Satoru Gojo does not get dumped. If anything he does the dumping. No woman had ever said no to him. You were not supposed to say no. Especially not when he already had the whole thing mapped out — his promotion coming through, you being so relieved and happy that one thing leads to another. You know, happy accident happens… You get pregnant, and then naturally, organically, you become his hot-ass little housewife.
Without the official wife title of course. It is too early to commit like that just yet. The point is. He had a plan. And your little Greece trip was not in it.
He spent the week marinating in it. Stewing. You still had not once texted him. Not once. God gracious, why would you anyways. But that was the bloody problem now, wasn't it.
His pride physically prevented him from picking up the phone first. He was the wronged party here! He was the one owed an apology!
His pride wouldn't let him even try to salvage whatever was left of your relationship. He might have finally understood that you left him. Which — your fucking loss, bitch.
He might have, miiight have, been able to compute getting dumped if he'd done something genuinely unforgivable. Cheating? Whatever. Something with stakes. But you left because you were bored. And over golf clubs.
You left over golf clubs? Unbelievable.
Up until now Satoru had gotten everything he ever wanted. Well. Almost everything. And you breaking up with him was certainly not something he was prepared to file under things that happened to him.
No one would ever find out you broke his heart. Not his colleagues. Not his friends. Not even his own damn mother.
Ever.
But what would he say if anyone asked. Because it wasn't like your relationship had been a secret. He'd made out with you in the break room. Twice. In front of witnesses. He needed a story n' he needed—
The coffee machine died. Mid-brew. One flicker and nothing. He stared at it, jabbed the button three times, unplugged it, counted to ten, plugged it back in.
Nothing.
Shitty brand. He spent fortune on this coffee machine so why the fuck it is not working. Left a mental note to leave a scathing review and went downstairs for coffee.
And that was the same morning Nanami appeared in his doorway asking about you — compliance audit, department timeline, where were you, when were you back. Something like that.
Satoru adjusted his blue light glasses, panicking. What to do. What to do. WHAT TO DO—
Oh.
What if…
He put on the face. The kinda devastatingly sad, grieving-widower face he hadn't planned but found out it came on surprisingly naturally. Then heavy, suffering sigh.
"She was swept out to sea in Greece," he said. Flat. Tragic. Ridiculous. "Riptide. It was awful, Nanami. A freak accident." A pause loaded with dignified grief. "I'm just trying to stay strong for the project delivery."
Nanami blinked. Filed whatever he was filing and left without another word because what the absolute fuck but also your audit was a pain in the ass anyways so.
And Satoru just heaved by his desk because it worked. It actually fucking worked. Because here's the thing about Satoru. He had presence, okay. The kind that made conference rooms go quiet. That made clients trust him with numbers he only half understood at best. That made people nod along to completely insane things he said with total conviction.
So when Satoru was telling Mei Mei from Finance updates about the vicious shark attack he told her a few weeks back. He'd stopped by the lobby vending machine on his way — needed coffee since obviously the machine at home was still dead and the café three blocks away was too subpar for his impeccable taste and Mei Mei had fallen into step beside him, asking about you with this concerned little frown. That she hadn’t seen you in a long time already or whatever.
So he put the coin in. Pressed the button. And while the coil turned and his coffee tipped forward and balanced on the edge—
"She survived," he said, voice dropping into that quiet devastated register that had been working sooo well. "The shark attack. But it was touch and go. She's still recovering. Prolly gon’ leave a nasty scar. But it’s fine, I love her anyway."
Mei Mei's hand flew to her mouth. His coffee didn't drop. He hit the glass. Once. Maintaining full eye contact with Mei Mei.
"The doctors are optimistic," he continued. Hit it again. Nothing. He rolled up his sleeve. Reached through the bottom slot just to try and —
Clunk.
Arm. Stuck.
"She's — she's showing real strength," he said, the grieving widower energy now doing genuinely heroic work against the backdrop of him being literally physically trapped in a vending machine in the lobby.
Mei Mei was nodding. Eyes almost glistening. From his desk across the lobby attendant looked up. Looked at Satoru. At the machine. Back at Satoru. Did not move though. Perhaps if it wasn’t the prick who was too good to even say good morning to him he would call the maintenance guy. But he was too violently underpaid to deal with Satoru right now.
So it took about four minutes. Four full minutes of Satoru delivering tragic updates in a solemn voice while simultaneously working his arm free at an angle that should have required a medical professional.
"Faulty machine," he murmured under his breath when he eventually pried his arm open, Mei Mei nodded sympathetically like this was also somehow your fault.
He added the mudslide the very next week. Told Suguru while they were on lunch break — you'd been evacuated after the shark, caught in it on the way to the recovery facility, now in a full body cast at a Swiss clinic in Zurich, world class team, very optimistic prognosis.
Suguru looked at him over the rim of his mug.
"Riight," he said finally. The voice of a man who just doesn't have the mental capacity to dissect this.
Satoru rode the elevator up feeling pretty good about how that landed actually and then the elevator stopped. Between four and five with a soft mechanical sigh and a complete loss of all momentum.
He pressed the button.
Nothing.
He pressed every button. Door open. Door close. Lobby. Emergency. The emergency one made a noise that went nowhere. Until the pressing turned into smashing and the smashing into kicking because he was pissed and he had a fucking important meeting happening within a few minutes—
An hour later.
Tie getting progressively looser and hair getting almost plucked out of his scalp. Nothing to do but stand there and stare at himself while the slowly mounting suspicion that the universe was trying to communicate something crept up the back of his neck.
He did not entertain it. Absolute bullshit anyways. He was naturally lucky, a slight unlucky streak was naturally bound to happen from time to time to balance out the universe or whatever. He heard it in some podcast you were listening to one day on your way to the office.
First ten minutes: someone's definitely coming. Let him just doomscroll— Oh shit, his phone’s dead. Next twenty: building maintenance failure. He was taking this up formally with management. Last twenty-three: just. Standing there. Staring at his own reflection in the mirrored doors.
He looked fine. Completely fine.
Fine.
Doors finally opened. Fifth floor. Suguru standing right there, coffee in hand, taking in the full sight.
"Faulty elevator," Satoru said.
"Obviously," Suguru answered.
He told Yaga about the lion in month two. Sat across from his boss's desk apologizing for messing up the deadline the day before, before going on with his lies.
Yaga went very still in the specific way Yaga went still when he was deciding whether something required direct intervention.
"A lion," Yaga said.
"She was with her personal nurse on a trip in ZOO to lift her broken spirit," Satoru said. "I’m already filing a lawsuit against the negligence of the ZOO staff and all. My poor darling."
Yaga just picked up his coffee and threw him out.
One day, Satoru was feeling that all his little storytimes so far had gone reasonably well, sat down, opened his laptop, pulled up the Q4 projections and was mid-sentence explaining regional variance to two of his interns when —
Flap. Flap. Flap.
The pigeon flew in like it had his name on its calendar. It made a beeline straight for him. He ducked. Just enough while the pigeon banked hard overhead, clipped the corner of his lamp —
Craash.
— swooped back around, knocked his entire coffee mug clean off the desk on the way past then landed. Right on top of his head. Satoru froze. Both hands hovering mid-air.
The two interns staring at him with the expressions of people who tried their hardest not to die from laughing in front of their stuffy boss.
The pigeon shifted its weight. Satoru's eye twitched.
It stayed up there for what felt like a very long time and was probably eleven seconds. Then it launched off his head — taking a considerable amount of his hair with it — swooped once more around the office like a victory lap and flew back out the window it came in.
He smoothed his hair down in the silence of the room. Looked back at his laptop.
"Any questions on the projections?"
It was Shoko who first made him sweat.
Around month four. Some vendor meeting downtown, the two of them sharing a cab back there, Shoko with her vape stopped in the middle of discussing who's gon’ start their presentation.
"So," she said, not looking up from her phone. "How's she doing.” Not a question. More like. A tap on the glass.
Satoru adjusted his tie. "Still recovering," he said. The grieving widower register coming on automatically by now like a reflex. "The Swiss facility is—"
"Right, the Swiss thing." Shoko scrolled something. "Suguru said mudslide. But Nanami told me riptide." A pause. "Which was it? I’m just confused about the timeline."
Satoru opened his mouth. Closed it. Outside the cab window the traffic was moving slow and gray and completely unhelpful and then —
There. A purple Scion. Boxy. Slightly dented. Puttering along in the next lane like it had been sent specifically.
"She got run over," Satoru said.
Shoko looked up from her phone for the first time.
"...By a car."
"Some crappy purple Scion." He tried to discreetly cover the window. "On top of everything else. It was — it was a very difficult few months."
Shoko looked at Satoru. Then back at her phone.
"Soo," her voice was completely flat. "Riptide. Mudslide… And a car accident?"
"She's very unlucky. Poor thing."
"Apparently."
She took a long drag of her vape, while the cap driver just glared at both of them. Satoru stared straight ahead. The Scion puttered away into traffic and was gone.
The same evening he was in the office parking garage ready to leave. Engine running. He looked down. There was a lip balm. Yours.
The specific one you always had — strawberry something, he'd complained about the smell once and you'd used it more aggressively after that just to annoy him. But he secretly loved it. Rolling back and forth against the console like it had been doing that for months. Because it had been doing that for months.
He put the car in reverse. He was still looking at it. The concrete pillar had been there since the garage was built. Painted yellow. Reflective tape. Objectively very hard to miss.
CRRrrrunch.
The sound that came out of Satoru’s mouth was not a word. Not even a sound. Just — something, concerning.
He got out. Walked around to the rear bumper. The scrape ran clean across the panel of his precious midnight blue M5. The garage was empty. Nobody saw. He blamed the parking garage.
Faulty architecture.
Who the fuck even assigned him this particular parking spot anyways? Back office’s gon’ hear about this.
Got back in. And drove home while dialing his mechanic.
So if we get the full picture straight. Just for the record. You gave him three weeks in the beginning. Three weeks of long earned vacation in Greece and keeping your phone screen up. Just. You know. In case.
You weren't waiting. You were just. Available. If he happened to grow a single functioning brain cell and pick up the phone and say the word sorry like an adult human being.
But instead he texted once in the middle of the night like a petulant child.
I expect you to be home by next week. It’s the annual golf tournament with the other firm. Remember?
You stared at that for approximately four seconds. Then you blocked him. On everything. Instagram. iMessages. WhatsApp. LinkedIn. You went fully, completely, surgically dark.
He sent you one remindful message went to take a piss and then suddenly your profile was just—
He stared at that for a long time.
Blocked.
He put his phone down. Picked it back up. Checked again like the answer was going to change.
Profile unavailable.
You had actually blocked him. On purpose. With intention. Like he was some random unhinged ex and not the man you were supposed to spend the rest of your life with.
The nerve.
The absolute unmitigated nerve.
So there were months of nothing. No way to track where you were or what you were doing or whether you were okay or whether you were thriving or whether you'd thought about him even once. Just silence.
And the silence was so much worse than the stories had been. Because at least the stories gave him something to be furious about. Something to point at and say look at the audacity.
And on top of it all there was that weird aching thing in his chest that had been there since the coffee machine died and kept getting worse and worse.
Heartburn. Stress. Too much coffee. Whatever.
He was fine.
By month five the Swiss facility had apparently also treated you for injuries sustained in a cement mixer incident.
And six months came by, his sanity slowly slipping away while you apparently near died fifty different ridiculous ways…?
So when Suguru waltzed into his office on Monday morning, brows knitted together and looking around like he got lost, Satoru thought the guy had accidentally smoked a rolled cig mixed with weed again.
It was genuinely a good morning for Satoru. He wasn't even thinking about you that much! His precious BMW beast had finally been repaired, so wonderful start to a new week honestly.
"Mate, I know this is going to sound insane, but I just saw your girlfriend walk in?"
"Huh?"
Suguru's expression was hard to read. Somewhere between genuinely concerned and trying very hard not to be the one responsible for what was ‘bout to happen.
"I genuinely thought it was the ketamine but then I saw her talking with Shoko ‘n—"
Satoru didn't even let the poor man finish his thought when he bolted out of his office.
Well. Reasonably. Demurely. Because Senior Project Managers don't run in their own buildings! It's beneath them. He just walked. Very fast. With enormous purpose. Down the corridor toward the glass-walled meeting room where Suguru had pointed—
He stopped dead.
There you were.
Standing by the meeting room table like you'd never left. Laptop open. Coffee in hand. Talking to Shoko who was leaning against the doorframe looking like Christmas had come early.
You looked— Well, he couldn't even finish that thought. You looked incredible. Rested. Glowing with that specific glow he hadn't seen in the last six months of your relationship and had apparently fully recovered somewhere between Santorini and blocking his number. Your hair was different. Something about the way you were standing was different.
You were laughing at something Shoko had just said. Sure, it was a slightly nervous laugh. Uncomfortable. Because Shoko was just in the middle of telling you exactly what kind of shitshow your ex had been spawning about you for the past six months.
Mauled by a lion? Bitten by a shark?
What?
Satoru's blood ran cold. He stood in the corridor with eight different things happening in his chest simultaneously and none of them had names he was prepared to use right now.
His face was going red — from rage or embarrassment? Both probably.
Jaw clenched so hard his teeth hurt. He finally, reluctantly, understood that he had massively fucked up. But also — why the fuck were you here of all places? Did you not have the basic decency to, like, never set foot in his office building again?
Not that you came here on purpose. The auditor who replaced you after your contract expired had done a colossally shitty job and got fired after just five months. Long story short — they contacted your firm, your firm assigned you since you were the chief auditor on the account the year prior, n' thus here you were. Simple as that.
You could feel the uncomfortable heat at the back of your head like someone burning holes through it. So you turned around — only to find Satoru seething in the corridor.
Lol.
You gave him exactly zero emotion. Slowly blinked. Turned back to Shoko. Needless to say, Satoru wanted to scream. Half a year of no contact and you couldn't even have the decency to say hello? Wave? Something?!
You had been planning on popping into his office actually. Say hi, ask how he'd been, the normal thing you do with an ex you parted with on decent terms. But that idea got absolutely scrapped the second Shoko told you that you'd apparently fallen into a cement mixer and got run over by a Scion.
…Did Satoru take up creative writing? When did he have time to come up with shit like this?
But before he could even scrape his dignity off the ugly corporate carpet — not that he lost it — the unhinged bomb he'd been curating for the past half a year went off.
The office was suddenly a minefield. Word met word, and the information about you being here and looking entirely unmauled by any lion spread through the building like the food poisoning last summer from the deli ham in the cafeteria sandwich. You remember that one. Half the company called in sick. Same energy, just slightly less vomiting.
Because here's the thing about lying to an entire company for six months — telling ten different people ten different tragic stories about the same person — eventually the lies start to unravel. And the outcome is going to be very loud, very fast n' very, very public. Especially when the subject is suddenly very much alive, very fine and standing right there.
Mei Mei, who'd almost cried when she heard about the vicious shark attack, was now by the elevator wearing a very different expression entirely. Nanami stood by the printer with the look of a man doing very quiet, very damning math. Even Yaga had apparently emerged from his office — which he never did voluntarily — just to peek through the doorframe, look at you for a long moment n' go back in without a word.
By lunch the sixth floor knew. By three PM the company Teams chat was in complete chaos.
Satoru really tried to be reasonable about it. Trying to ignore the weird stares he was getting from his coworkers and contemplating whether the mass HR email about dealing with pathological liars in the workplace was somehow meant for him specifically. Or rather…. Okay, no. His ego physically prevented him from possessing any normal self-awareness whatsoever. But good try, honestly.
He gave it a full week. Seven entire days of watching you walk past his office n' sit in meetings n' exist in his building like you hadn't just detonated his entire six-month corporate mythology. And looking so criminally good doing it.
Oh how he wanted you to walk into his office, lock the door and just bend you over—
He genuinely thought he was being generous. Giving you space. Figured you were just embarrassed about the whole, you know, having to explain to the bullpen why you weren't actually in a full-body cast in Zurich thing. So he decided to be a good boyfriend. A gooder boyfriend, if you will. Show you exactly what you walked away from.
But first he got you flowers. Because that was the essential romantic gesture, right? A very large bouquet. Tasteful— okay no it was not tasteful, it was enormous. Required its own postal code honestly. But the sentiment was clear n' “we’re not gonna beat around the bush” kinda note.
Glad to see you back. Date tonight? —S
On top of it, the courier got the floor wrong. Because of course Satoru wasn't going to deliver it himself. Even if he was just two floors down from you.
So the bouquet toured the entire building first — about a third of the company read the note — and by the time it navigated through the door of the Finance meeting you were in, you just looked at it. Opened the note. Tsked and handed it to Mei Mei. Went back to work.
RIP.
Satoru stalked his phone for hours waiting for you to send, like, a big fat ass thanks or just the fat ass. He was never against nudes as a form of apology.
Nothing.
Alas. He pivoted. Thus the Show-Off era begun. He didn't corner you — Satoru was stupid but not that stupid, especially with his reputation already bleeding out.
He just. Performed. Suddenly always just. There. Everywhere. Leaning against breakroom doorframes looking violently tailored. Saying something impressively competent loud enough for you to hear. Trying to make very aggressive and inappropriate unblinking eye contact.
Dropping your hyper-specific artisanal coffee on your desk without a note — or the cronut, remember the cronut? You two tried it once and you didn't like it but he did? Anyway, on your desk. Expecting you to swoon.
You on the other hand treated him like office furniture. Flat "thanks" and back to the laptop. Because indifference for a manchild like Satoru was waaay worse than anger. Anger means emotion. Indifference was just a massive middle finger to his stupidly gorgeous face.
Which is exactly when the universe cleared its throat considerably louder. He paced in the breakroom on a call, back and forth until —
Crack.
Splooosh.
Water cooler violently ruptured. Tidal wave right over the $400 suede loafers.
Swept to sea.
Or the time he was walking to his car and a stray tabby launched itself specifically at his ankle and clawed straight for the crown jewels.
Hiss.
…Mauled by a lion?
He brushed it off. Just a weird week. He's still the golden boy. Right?
But what happens when you're spending ninety percent of your brainpower trying to decode someone's blank face and ten percent actually working? What happens to the logistics project? Aka eleven months of his life? His literal golden ticket to the Senior Director promotion he'd been eyeing for two years?
He was too busy drafting "mandatory check-in" emails just to legally force you into a room with him. So the entirety of the project sat fucking untouched. Gathering dust in his Excel sheets while he stood on street corners being a very diligent, very dedicated project manager — which is absolutely what he was doing checking your blocked IG profile from a burner account he did not make specifically for this purpose.
A beat-up purple Scion hit a pothole.
Splaash.
Thick. Brown. Sludgy street water. And right over his suit.
Mudslide?
...Wait. Is that the same Scion for all those months back? Nah. Can't be.
Unless…
And that's when the paranoia set in. Just slightly. Was something trying to tell him something? Or someone?
The thick egomaniacal armor finally cracking. Completely unaware he also lowkey scheduled his own career execution for Wednesday afternoon.
Satoru was up front. Laser pointer in hand. Fourteen slides deep into the Q4 logistics deployment. Actively performing for you. Look at the man you walked away from. He even took his sweet time this morning with his manly skincare routine!
Slide fifteen.
You uncrossed your legs. You put away your pen and leaning back you crossed your arms instead. You were looking at him like a forensic accountant at a crime scene. Because what kind of mental gymnastics had gone into putting this together. It couldn't even be called proper finances. Did he actively try to get himself demoted?
"Satoru." Your voice sounded completely level, eyes squinting at the screen, genuinely trying to locate the missing equity. "The variance data on this slide doesn't match the budget on slide nine. There's a fifteen percent discrepancy. Where is it?"
Satoru's brain halted completely. God, when did his name sound so heavenly on your tongue?
He hadn't prepped it. Of course he hadn't prepped it. He'd spent the last few months creatively lying for sport and throwing himself a one-man pity party.
He tried the smile. The devastating, million-watt thing. "Well, synergistically speaking, the projections are fluid—"
"Synergy doesn't balance a ledger." Cold. Clinical. Get the fuck out with the corpo jargon. "Is the data missing or did you just not prep it?"
The entire room physically recoiled. People had been tiptoeing around you two since your infamous return. Quietly sympathetic. Sending unsolicited links like "life after a narcissistic partner, it's not over" to your Teams inbox.
But you actively going after his work? That was new. You genuinely didn't care about his professional disasters. Back when you were together Satoru wasn't great at numbers but it wasn't this bad. You'd started to genuinely wonder if he'd seriously hit his head during those six months. It would explain the lion, at least.
But right now. Slaaughter time, baby.
His charisma bounced off the walls and died on the carpet. He just stood there. Mouth slightly open. Ready to shout, or cry, or both.
At the head of the table Yaga set his coffee down. And since Yaga had been deeply tired of Satoru lately, he let him stand there completely stripped bare for a few agonizing seconds.
"Gojo," Yaga finally cleared his throat. "Stay after the meeting. Just a quick word."
Usually that meant praise. Inside jokes about the board directors. Golden boy shit he was usually used to.
But oh boy, not today.
Yaga quietly, politely, brutally severed his head off and patted him on the shoulder while doing it.
"You're distracted. I understand, all of this must be hard on you… It is indeed hard on us. But I’ve decided. I'm pulling the project. Finish your open tasks. Geto takes over on Monday."
Eleven months of work.
Whoosh.
Promotion.
Whooshed away too.
And you didn’t even look apologetic? The fuck? Can you be, like, less ungrateful?
He spent the rest of that week finishing the handover. Walking out of the office with zero dignity left to his name. Sending the entire project to his best friend.
Suguru even texted twice. He left both on read. He was technically dead to him now. The project can get orphaned for what all he cared about now. Ungrateful, perfectionist clowns this company, for real.
He sat in his office between uploads like a very angry, very expensive ghost. Too proud to go home. Too humiliated to talk to anyone. The bullpen gossip washing past his glass walls like white noise — drama so good people apparently forgot to complain about politics.
Then he saw you on Friday. Walking toward the subway. Panic spiked. Opportunity arose. And on Friday evening? When he needs comforting? The universe gotta love him with these openings.
He jogged toward you. Wind wrecking his hair. Stepped directly into your path on the pavement.
"Okay." Chest heaving. "I'm offering a truce."
The audacity.
"You don't even have to apologize," he said rapidly. Trying to mask the desperation like it's a business proposition. "You had your fun in the past six months. I get it, independent era or whatever. But this silent treatment is exhausting. So just— tell me what to do n' I'll do it. Let's reopen this."
Drowning man negotiating with the ocean.
You just looked at him.
"You told people I fell out of an airplane, Satoru."
His jaw tightened. What was the point of bringing that up right now. He said some things. Insignificant things. Didn't matter. The wounded ego threw hands anyway. Bared its teeth. Just to gain the upper hand. Always the upper hand—
"That was a coping mechanism!" He raised his voice over the traffic. "And what about you? You walked away from one fight, ghosted me n' then audited me in front of Yaga to get even! Your little stunt cost me my promotion!"
Delusional it was painful.
Okay — you did feel slightly bad. What happened in that meeting room wasn't intentional. You just did your job. The thing about you — you were never lenient as it only bred more problems and more overtime. Due diligence was due diligence.
But whatever residual ache was left in your chest evaporated the second Shoko told you yesterday that you'd apparently been also fried from excessive suntanning while you were away. Every single day you found out a new way you were supposed to die, each one more unhinged and more sad than the last. You were almost starting to believe that underneath all the tantrum, this manchild had actually missed you. Almost. Just as far as his ego and emotional constipation let him.
"I didn't cost you the project, Satoru." Ice cold. "Your shoddy math did. I only did my job. And you apparently didn't do yours."
His face went red. It was doing that a lot lately.
“What the fuck?!”
"For Christ's sake. Take some accountability for once in your life and leave me alone. Have a nice weekend."
You two just shared a deadly glare and you stepped around him to walk down the subway stairs.
He stood frozen on the pavement. Dry-cleaning slip crumpled in his fist. Completely out of things to say — which was genuinely new for him. He always had something. Even if it was something fundamentally deranged, he'd say it just to have the last word. People usually stopped engaging before he did.
His heart hammered. He briefly considered following you and immediately clocked that carrying you over his shoulder would almost certainly involve police.
Flap. Flap. Flap.
Splaat.
Mid-thought, the sudden dive-bomb arrived. Right shoulder. Sniper shot shit.
He looked up — the bird was still hovering in the air like it had done it on purpose and Satoru was almost certain it was the same pigeon that had nested in his ripped-out hair months ago.
"You gotta be kidding me."
He tried to swat it away and only made it worse, smearing it further down his arm in what was, objectively, becoming a piece of abstract modern art. Satoru always did have an eye for aesthetics. Slightly stinky though — not even the ungodly amount of Dior Sauvage he sprays on every single morning couldn’t cover it up.
His left eye twitched. It did that a lot lately too. His sanity, meanwhile, was slowly but steadily dancing itself to death somewhere in an east-side nightclub. Or that's what it felt like anyway. Or like in his head, but it’s the metaphor, duh.
He started quietly side-eyeing water coolers. Flinching at pigeons. Avoiding the curb. For no specific reason. Just. In case. The world was full of dangers and he was an important project manager!
You'd started dodging him like the flu on the subway during flu season and he was too proud to admit it was working. If strength were measured in superiority complex, Satoru would be a super soldier. But Colonel! a problem! ‘cause even super soldiers malfunction eventually.
Suddenly he was looking forward to just laying down n' doomscrolling for the rest of his days. No performative finance bro evenings — no getting shitfaced in pretentious overpriced bars downtown, no spending two hours playing padel shirtless having alpha-offs with his sparring partners. Lowkey just white-knucling the days away until he was back home.
He unlocked his apartment door.
Stepping inside —
Squish.
Freezing, dirty apartment water right over his loafers. So apparently a water pipe burst open during the day and his living room ceiling was just. Weeping.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The woven rug that cost an actual fortune? Ruined. The velvet sofa? A small island in a dark lake. And in the corner, half-submerged in the slop—
The Titleist golf clubs.
Riptiiiiide.
The universe was honestly poetic. But that's just between us, okay?
Satoru just. Looked— Well, it wasn't sadness exactly — this man didn't really know what sadness was — but it looked like the fight had finally, quietly left his face. The ego couldn't even find a baseline to scream from. His knees buckled. He slid right down the doorframe.
Splash.
Sitting in two inches of dirty water, hand pressed hard against his chest because it actually, physically hurt to breathe.
Long story short, he packed a hotel bag. Called the contractor all while trying to convince himself all of this shit was just character development. The insurance company was absolutely delighted to hear from him.
By the next Friday evening he was standing by the corporate lobby windows. Battered. Tired. Ready to get blackout drunk and violently dissociate through the entire weekend. Suit slightly rumpled from the hotel closet. Running his thumb over his cracked phone screen. Oh yes! He dropped it down a flight of stairs on Tuesday, just fell and kept falling, falling and falling…
He was waiting for Shoko. She'd caught him by the elevators earlier, told him he looked like he was about to walk into traffic, and announced she wasn't leaving until he'd had at least five beers. He had nobody else to talk to anyway.
Ding.
Elevator doors opened. Shoko was still upstairs making out with Suguru in his office apparently. You stepped out instead.
Silk slip dress under a tailored blazer. Hair perfect. It was always perfect — why was it never this perfect when you were with him? You wore those ugly messy ponytails constantly back then. He couldn't remember the last time you'd done your hair for him.
Devastating.
The air left his lungs completely. His body just. Moved. One step forward—
Then the revolving doors spun. A man walked in. Impeccably dressed. Easy, unbothered confidence. Something that screamed rich, successful and soon to bag your hot ex, loser.
Wait. Doesn’t Satoru know him? He looked kinda familiar… Interesting.
You saw him. Your face did the thing. That soft, uncomplicated smile. The one Satoru thought he owned. The man shook your hand and guided you out toward an idling black car outside.
Satoru stood paralyzed. The thing in his chest wasn't an ache anymore— It was a full emergency siren. Blaring. He was genuinely dizzy.
YOU HAD THE AUDACITY TO GO ON A DATE. WHILE HIS LIFE WAS FALLING APART. HE DIDN'T EVEN GIVE YOU VERBAL PERMISSION TO MOVE ON.
Hell nah.
Shoko materialized beside him on cue with this stupid, cryptid half-smirk of a woman who knew exactly what just happened, who it happened to, and why. She looked at his pale, frantic, completely shattered face.
Her hand came out. Palm up. Eyes still fixed on the empty street, hand shaking slightly, Satoru reached into his wallet and slapped a hundred into her palm.
He knew she knew. And he needed her knowing to become his knowing too. Shoko always knew everything about everyone and he didn't have the mental capacity, the time, or the emotional stability to extract it any other way this time.
"L'Effervescence," she said quietly. "The new Michelin star place. Reservation was for six.”
Did she mention it's a client dinner? I don't think so…
You literally complained to her about it by the office fruit bowl this morning. Boring, mandatory corporate client review. You openly prayed the food would be worth the overtime at least.
Let him ruin his own life.
Satoru might have literally sprinted out of the office lobby but he didn't just barge into the restaurant. That was too romantic movie even for him.
He stood outside the window first. In the drizzle. Like a creep. Now, that was more on brand for him honestly.
The grand sweeping romantic comeback speech he'd been rehearsing in the Uber felt instantly hollow the second he was actually standing outside it. The kind of hollow where one micro-stutter and he'd look like a full on stalker. It needed polish. But his brain was completely wiped of every grand romance vocabulary word he'd absorbed from three seasons of Love Island.
So he went to the dive bar next door. Just to recalibrate. One drink. Get the confidence back online. Remind himself who he is n' how this ends.
One Long Island Iced Tea.
Because of course. Thirty-two years old, drinking college-freshman blackout juice on a Friday night to work up the nerve to talk to his ex.
Fine.
Two Long Island Iced Teas.
He straightened his jacket. Took a breath and walked into the restaurant. Sensory overload immediately. Michelin-star clinking glasses. Dim lighting. Waiters in literal tuxedos. The speech that sounded perfect in the dive bar bathroom was already running slightly glitchy.
…Was it "I'm not leaving without you" or was it "you're not leaving without me?"
Loading. Loading. load—
He was still scanning the room for you, ignoring the poor maître d' in the most aggressively rude way possible. Then someone waved at him from across the room. He squinted. A familiar face. Where did he know—
Wait. That's the guy from the lobby!
Satoru strode over. Completely confused about why your date was waving him over specifically but going anyway. Because hey. An opening was an opening. If this man wanted to actively embarrass himself, then be his guest.
You were mid-sentence. Explaining the Q1 fiscal strategy over an entreé. You turned around curious who your client was waving toward your table—
Oh.
You have got to be kidding me.
But you decided to give him the rope. Because some tiny, morbidly curious part of you that had been watching him unravel for a month wanted to see it. What would actually come out of him now? Did losing everything finally crack something real open? Was he actually here to drop the act n' be a human being for once? Maybe he will finally do some grand romantic gesture that might make you reconsider?
He reached the table. Chest puffed. Ready for the alpha-male showdown. The client stood up. His hand out.
"Gojo! Long time no see!"
Satoru froze. Three seconds of him narrowing his eyes before it clicked— It was the guy who beat him on the back nine at the retreat last year! The LinkedIn guy who liked every single one of his posts.
"Holy shit— yeah! Dude, how are you—"
Smack.
Full corporate handshake reunion. Two finance bros doing the aggressive shoulder-pat thing directly over your head. Then the client lowered his voice. Did the solemn head tilt.
"Mate, I heard the news. Through the grapevine. About your girl."
Satoru’s spine went completely rigid.
"The desert accident," the client continued, shaking his head. "The quicksand. Just brutal. Is she still in Zurich?"
Satoru did not look at you. He physically couldn’t look at you. He shook his head. His eyes even went glassy. His entire psyche went through some kind of Winx transformation and the widower persona kicked in on autopilot. Give this man a BAFTA fr.
"Yeah," he murmured. "It's. It's a day-by-day process."
You took a slow sip of your wine.
Fascinating.
He was actually doing it. He was doubling down. And right in front of your fucking sea bass.
The client sighed n' patted Satoru's shoulder again. "Well, she's lucky to have you pulling for her. You're the MVP, man."
Then he turned n' gestured across the table at you with the pleasant completely oblivious energy of a man making a polite business introduction.
"Actually— do you two know each other?"
Satoru's brain shorted out. He'd backed himself into a corner. But nothing this project manager couldn't pivot out of. Nothing.
He looked at you. Looked at the client. And looked back at you. The one Long Island Iced Tea— Okay, the two Long Island Iced Teas took the wheel n' were about to lose their driving license.
"This is her," Satoru whispered.
The man blinked, eyebrows furrowed. "Uhh, sorry?"
"My girlfriend." The grieving widower voice dialed to eleven and a half. "She wandered off from the facility," he tapped his temple. Solemn. Tragic. "The trauma from the cement mixer left her in a fugue state. Amnesia. She doesn't remember who I am."
...Are you fucking kidding me? Amnesia?!
A few jaws dropped. Your poor client stared at you with absolute unfiltered horror and pity. And Satoru was suddenly doing two completely different performances at the exact same time.
Yes, he was spinning your client into complete nonsensical oblivion. But he was also staring directly at you with the most undignified, desperate, unblinking eye contact known to man.
Telepathically screaming: Play along. This is my grand gesture. I came here for you. Just roll with it.
"It's been soo hard," Satoru doubled down. His voice actually fucking cracking. "Just watching her live her life. Without me. Working this corporate job like nothing happened."
Then he leaned in placing both hands on the crisp white tablecloth and looked directly into your eyes.
"But I think she knows deep down. Don't you?"
Him n' approximately four nearby nosy diners waiting for a medical miracle.
And in this moment you realized you were giving your shitty ex way too much grace. Tolerating all the shit he was saying about you left and right. Tolerating his unhinged behaviour ever since you came back. Telling yourself he'd eventually clock it — realize, move on, grow up, something. That one day he'd walk into a room and actually see you instead of whatever role he'd written for you in his head.
But here he was. And he wasn't here to apologize to you. He wasn't here to see you. He was still just performing. Still directing his own little movie where he is the tragic hero and you are the prop, the plot device. Now with amnesia too?
He learned absolutely nothing. Not one damn single thing. And whatever was left of your patience evaporated quietly into the champagne beurre blanc.
You set your wine glass down and stood up. Satoru’s eyes widened just a fraction. The spark in them lighting back up. He actually thought it worked. He thought you're about to play along. Fall into his arms. Weep into his lapels.
Oh, Gojo.
SMAACK.
Now ladies and gents, this was the echoing shatter of an ego finally hitting rock bottom.
The sound cut through the entire dining room like a gunshot. The restaurant went completely silent. You could hear a napkin drop. Satoru's head snapped sideways. Hand coming up slowly to his jaw.
You smoothed your blazer and turned to the client who looked like he either thought he was next or had just witnessed the most entertaining work dinner of his entire career.
"I apologize for the interruption," you said completely calmly, it was lowkey scary.
"I need to handle a personnel issue. Please, enjoy the appetizer. We'll resume the fiscal breakdown shortly."
Fiscal breakdown.
…What?
Did the pain actually make him hallucinate or did he hear that right?
Why would you discuss fiscal breakdown on a— Wait. Was this— Is this a work dinner?
You looked back at Satoru.
His eyes found yours. Bewildered. Hurt. Angry. Surprised and everything else. And for the very first time in soo long, the performance was gone. The stupid smirk was gone. The upturned nose wasn't so high up anymore. All of it was replaced by something so raw and panicked it actually made him look his age.
"Outside." Your voice was icier than ice. "Now."
You walked out. Composed. He followed. Not so composed. Obviously.
You two stood outside on the exact spot he'd been peering through the window just forty minutes ago.
Satoru obviously couldn't read a hypothetical room to save his life so he led with the slap. Because of course he did. Safest ground for his ego — you had done something wrong, he could point at it.
"You slapped me! What the hell?! In front of a room full of people!"
You didn’t apologize, because why the fuck would you anyway. You looked at him with the specific ticking patience of a woman who had approximately three minutes to spare before she lost a lucrative business venture.
"You told my client I have amnesia. Right in front of me.”
Full stop.
He pushed back. Jaw tight. "I came here for you. Doesn't that mean something? I've been trying—"
You cut him off.
“You’ve been trying what exactly, Satoru?” Your voice was really clinical. Naming each “romantic” gesture he was trying to sweep you off your feet with. “The ugly, corny bouquet of the specific flowers I don’t even like? The meetings you forced me to attend? Or the coffee on my desk every morning like I owed you gratitude for it? Showing up to my important work dinner with an amnesia pick up line?”
He opened his mouth.
"Those aren't grand gestures, Satoru. It's unhinged stalker behavior, n' you're lucky I haven't reported you."
His defensiveness faltered completely. Because you weren't wrong. He somehow knew you weren't wrong. And the slap must have hit hard because the God Complex hadn't fully rebooted yet. He went quieter. The slick register dropping out into something much more unguarded.
"I didn't know what else to do."
His eyes were on his shoes. It sounded almost real. Almost like something that didn't entirely sound like him. But his pride is a stubborn bitch and it twitched. Couldn't stay quiet for more than five minutes apparently. The framing slipped right back into possession.
"You just left. You didn't give me a chance to—"
"To what?" you said. Damn girl, you really weren’t letting him finish anything he was trying to say, were you? Good job. "Fix it? The same way you fixed the anniversary gift?"
The fucking golf clubs. Landing right there on the wet pavement between you. Alas, you pivoted. Because the point wasn't just the unhinged post-breakup behaviour — the entire thesis was the relationship itself. The real thing. The thing you were now paying weekly therapy bills for.
"I didn't leave over golf clubs, Satoru." A beat. "I left because I was exhausted. Borderline depressed. Because every single thing with you was a performance. Dates. Dinners. Conversations. The entire relationship. I was just another thing you were winning at."
He stared at you. Something in his expression that looked almost apologetic.
"You memorized my lunch order on day five. Yet you still didn't know I wanted to go to Santorini for example."
Knife right between his ribs. Because he deserved it. Because he paid attention only to the things that made him look good. Not the things that mattered to you. And if he did, he never showed it.
Suddenly there was deafening silence. Just the sound of the downtown street going about its business, completely indifferent to the two of you.
"I didn't know how to—" He stopped. Started again. Quieter. Almost to himself. "I just. Didn't want you to leave."
He bit his lips as if stopping himself again, or not knowing how to continue.
“I missed having you.”
Boom.
Wow.
You went perfectly still. Your heart dropped. Because it was close. Genuinely, terrifyingly close. He was right there. But still miles away from the actual point.
"Having me," you repeated. Not cruel. Just true. And it hurt. You genuinely loved him and he loved having you.
"Not me, Satoru. That's the difference,” you didn't even sound offended, you just scoffed.
He opened his mouth but nothing came out. Because you were right. And somewhere underneath the suits n' the lies n' the lip balm still rolling around in his car, he knew you were right. Yet he just didn't have the vocabulary to argue with it or agree with it or do a single useful thing with it.
You stepped to the curb n' raised your hand. A cab pulled up immediately. The universe had excellent comedic timing when it wanted to. Especially in the past few weeks.
"Goodnight, Satoru." You nodded toward the car.
He didn't move. He wanted to reach for you but he knew he couldn't. Just stood there staring at you like you'd pulled the oxygen clean out of his lungs.
There was no time for theatrics and quite frankly you were done with him. For tonight and perhaps for good. Because he just explained and confirmed that he didn't love you for you. Or maybe he did but was just too dense to fully realize it. You walked back into the restaurant because you were an adult and a responsible professional and no ex was hijacking your career.
The cab driver yelled something annoyed because Satoru was still rooted to concrete and peeled away.
A beat-up purple Scion drove past. Hit the massive puddle right at the edge of the curb.
Splash.
Again.
...Was this still the same Scion? He glanced at the license plate. It seemed somehow familiar.
Though he did not flinch nor did examine it further. He just stared at the restaurant door praying for you to walk out or perhaps prayed for you to not walk out. Dripping with dirty oily street water.
Having me. Not me.
The words doing their quiet lethal work in the silence.
You spent the entire weekend bracing for the retaliation. Checking the peephole. Even if you'd moved places months ago and he shouldn't technically know where you lived, you wouldn't be surprised if he somehow found out. Waiting for the frantic texts. The unhinged emails. The mariachi band of narcissism.
But nothing? Huh.
Because while you were sleeping peacefully, Satoru was sitting in a sterile hotel room. The Long Island Iced Teas had long worn off but the headache was still blooming. Staring at the ceiling while the fight played on a loop in his head.
His God Complex tried to reboot. Looked for an excuse. A loophole to still be the winner. But no project management algorithm ran positively. Only always a big fat syntax error.
For the first time in his thirty-two years of existence, he realized he might have actually been the villain. Shocking, right? Revolutionary concept. Ground-breaking stuff.
On Monday morning the universe decided to do one final sweep. Gotta check if the ego was actually dead. He walked into the lobby running on exactly little to none sleep. Swiped his employee badge at the turnstile.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Red light. Denied.
The security guard — a guy Satoru usually completely ignored — pointed a pen at him. "Gonna have to ask you to stand in the visitor line at the back, sir. System glitch."
The old Satoru would have thrown a fit. Threatened someone's job. Called the building manager. This Satoru looked at the red light. Sighed. Walked to the back of the line behind three nervous interns n' a delivery guy.
Uh, is this actually our Satoru? …guys?
Or the time he was signing a logistics form when his ungodly expensive fountain pen just. Exploded.
Sploosh. Or whatever fucking sound fountain pens make when they detonate.
Midnight blue ink. All over his hands. His cuffs. The desk. The form.
He looked at his stained hands like — yeah, okay, that tracks. Walked to the restroom. Washed his hands. Or, like, tried to. The ink stayed for another four days.
Or the afternoon he was bedrotting — which had somehow become his favourite pastime.
What happened to the upcoming Hyrox? The fitness influencer arc?
He was watching something on Netflix when he accidentally waterbombed his laptop. No amount of rice was fixing that one. It was also the brand new MacBook Pro. Well, It WAS the brand new MacBook Pro.
Alas. The karmic debt had been paid and the interest rate was his ego. Which was incredibly convenient timing, because Yaga summoned him immediately after.
Satoru walked into the office expecting a reprimand about the messed-up project again. Fucking whatever. But instead, Satoru literally broke out in a cold sweat when Yaga dropped the guillotine.
Stated the dreadful facts. Straight out of a corpo horror movie for a guy like him. And alongside Yaga? The freaking HR department head.
Oh, fuck.
“Satoru, this is awkward," Yaga started. "Well, it can't be ignored any further, and I was just too lenient towards you if I'm being honest. You know what’s up, man. The entire company knows you lied about her. She told me not to make a big deal out of it, but ‘dis morning I got a call from her employer. Her other client complained about some incident Friday evening involving her ex? I believe you know what I'm talking about. Which means I no longer can ignore this… issue.” Yaga leaned forward.
"You faked the medical history of an external auditor. You are actively creating a hostile work environment. Do your due diligence and clean up this mess by Friday. Otherwise getting fired will be the least of your problems.”
And thus, this was the last payment. Since when are the last ones the biggest ones? So began the Apology Tour. The ultimate ego-shattering Walk of Shame.
Satoru Gojo, the untouchable golden boy, manually dismantling his own myth, his own pride, and his entire persona all in one care package, because HR made him apologize for all the other shit his terrible behavior caused.
The HR case against him was thicc, plump, and fat. His luck might have finally worked in his favor this time, otherwise I think he would have been fired on the spot. Needless to say it was the most humiliating week of his life. And perhaps if he showed up, karma would love him again. And you included.
But nah. We are hitting a timeskip. ‘Cause for an entire month, literally nothing happened.
Because Satoru assumed the classic rom-com rules applied. He figured if he just put his head down, did the work and stopped being a public menace, you'd eventually notice his good behavior. You would soften. You would stroll into his office and say I see you're trying and you two would dramatically kiss in the rain.
He took six flights of stairs to avoid you. He pivoted out of breakrooms. He gave you a wide berth. He waited for you to come to him. You didn't.
Damn you, Ryan Gosling.
He was DEAD to you. Literally.
You felt like a literal deity.
Eight hours of sleep every night. Impeccable posture. Strutting through that office watching him press himself against hallway walls to give you space. Life was once again beautiful when no manchild was trying to be the loudest one in the room. The birds were chirping, the money clinking, skin shining and manchildren crying in corners.
Look at that. You finally trained him.
You were high on your own supply. Thriving. Completely unbothered. Thinking the relationship was finally, mercifully behind both of you. That you'd both silently agreed to act like it never happened. You were free.
While Satoru had the ‘having me, not me’ playing on a loop. In his ears. Behind his eyes. On his skin. Everywhere. Every waking hour since that fight on the curb.
And he might have been truly broken, because after weeks he thought that, aye captain, he might have fucked up beyond repair.
By week four he finally understood that just not being a problem wasn't going to win you back. He had to give up or actually try. Quietly. Without being loud. Without being him.
So he decided to test the waters.
Hey, the whole company already thought he was a jerk. Might as well push his luck. What could he lose? His job? He'd already lost his girl n' his dignity.
So one morning, there was a small, unassuming paper bag sitting on your keyboard. A box of the specific herbal tea you used to hoard in his pantry. Three bags of the exact brand of cheap, artificial sour gummies you strictly ate when examining tax deferrals. And a pastry. From a tiny mom-and-pop bakery on the complete opposite side of town.
It screamed: I noticed the chaotic, real parts of you. But also, hey look, trying not to be pretentious while being performative.
He was standing by the printer. Holding a stack of papers. Watching you. Quietly. Expectantly.
You looked at the bag. Looked at him. Held deadpan, unblinking eye contact across the room.
You picked up the pastry. Moved your hand over your wastebasket. Because Satoru didn't calculate one important variable: you weren't interested in making amends or entertaining his courting tactics, even if they were weirdly different from his usual style, and fuck off, man.
Thud.
Dropped it right in the trash. Satoru physically wilted. His shoulders actually dropped an inch.
You sat down, opened your laptop and started typing. Not a single drop of remorse. Watching him suffer was giving you a massive ego trip. You were acting exactly like the toxic prick you dumped and you were enjoying every single second of it.
Like you two had undergone some deeply questionable personality swap straight out of a terrible early 2000s movie — but with a toxic twist.
Who would have thought being this obnoxious would feel so good. You would nod in understanding if your ego wouldn't prevent you from being compassionate. The irony of it all.
Chef’s kiss.
Or one afternoon when you were walking toward the breakroom to get some water. You heard voices, so you stopped outside the doorframe. Satoru n' Nanami.
"I just... I don't know what to do," Satoru was saying. "My pride couldn't take the hit. She dumped me n' it scrambled my brain so badly I made it all up because I couldn't admit she didn't want me." A heavy sigh. "I'm just a massive jerk, Nanami."
Nanami stirred his coffee. "Yes. You are."
"I know. I just... I don't know how to fix it when she won't even look at me. It hurts, you know? Knowing I hurt her so much."
He was finally saying it. The actual truth. No performance. No audience. Just him and Nanami and a breakroom that smelled like instant noodles.
Most people would melt right there. Or like, people in rom-coms would. Walk in. Forgive him. Epic corporate romantic reunion. Workplace second-chances romance you find in the clearance section in bookstores or whatever.
Not you, though. The devil somehow corrupted the angel on your shoulder, and both of them were currently laughing in this really evil, highly morally questionable manner, making you do the same.
You leaned your shoulder against the doorframe.
Fweee-ooo.
You whistled.
Satoru whipped around. His eyes went wide. His bruised ego practically bleeding all over the breakroom linoleum and staining his cheek faint pink.
…Since he looked so cute blushing? Both the angel and the devil slapped you across each respective cheek. You just enjoyed seeing him this pathetic. Am I right?
So you smirked. Your pride absorbing the tragic energy from him like some cartoonishly evil mushroom parasite.
"Wow," you said, voice dripping with cold amusement. "Didn't know you had that kind of vocabulary installed."
You didn't wait for him to respond. Nanami awkwardly stared at the floor. You just pushed off the doorframe, turned on your heel, n' walked back to your desk. Leaving him completely, utterly leveled.
Now, who was creating a hostile work environment, girl? This isn't like you. Wake up, bruh.
Satoru was at what you would call rock bottom. Sure, the pigeon had declared a ceasefire and the purple Scion had vanished from the streets, but the real terror was coming from inside the house: his own conscience.
That, and the fact that every single one of his subtle, weirdly sweet peace offerings was getting ruthlessly rejected by you.
And okay, quite frankly, your ego was starting to physically suffocate the entire office too. People were suddenly starting to understand exactly why you two even dated in the first place. A match made in absolute, toxic hell. Your pride inflated like Nvidia stock after 2022. And Satoru was starting to get seriously pissed.
Like, what more did he have to fucking do? He had literally gone through ego death three separate times in the past month. He had this weird spiritual awakening. He finally stepped outside his own body, looked at his own actions, and asked, Wait, have I been a massive dick this entire time?
But listen. You can kill a man, but you can never completely extract the narcissism out of his body. He still thought he was in the game. Unless you were actively married with three kids, Gojo believed he had a chance.
Plus, his karmic debt was officially paid off. His apartment finally got fixed, after about three separate calls from his contractor pushing it back. Yaga promised him the lead on another big project very soon. He even got pulled over for mild speeding on Tuesday and didn't even get a ticket!
Except, his "brilliant" mind was completely running out of ideas to charm you. He had tried almost everything he could think of. He genuinely considered bringing the damn golf clubs to the office and performatively throwing them out the sixth-floor window into oncoming traffic right in front of you, just to prove, Hey! I finally get the point, okay?!
But to no avail. Even Shoko wanted to slap you. And Shoko lives for office drama. When you first came back, she literally damned her remote work days to come into the office specifically to savor Satoru’s downfall in high definition. But now? Even she was looking at you like, Okay, wrap it up, Satan.
The corporate lobby was an absolute sea of people. A stampede of tailored suits, briefcases, and weekend plans all surging toward the revolving doors.
Satoru was in the middle of the crowd, his patience and his feelings stretched so thin they were practically translucent. He was at the absolute end of his rope. Frustrated, exhausted, and mentally hyping himself up for a massive Hail Mary.
Okay, he thought, adjusting his pristine white shirt. This weekend. I am going to think of something final. Something massive.
He desperately needed you to just acknowledge him. He had spent a month doing all this quiet, un-Satoru-like good behavior n' you hadn't given him a single crumb. Not a text, not a look, not even a freaking sigh. And as we already established, this man hated silence more than anything else on earth.
The quiet was a literal medieval torture device shit for him. It was genuinely, clinically, destroying him.
Then, he saw you. You were standing right near the turnstiles, trapped in a soul-crushing conversation with some Finance Karen who was loudly complaining about quarter-end spreadsheet formulas.
Satoru's heart completely hijacked his brain. He had to reach you. Right now.
He didn't think. He just started speed-walking—
Crash.
He collided violently with a terrified, overworked marketing intern.
A massive, venti-sized, aggressively green vanilla matcha sugary sweet latte exploded like a neon grenade directly over his chest.
Sploosh.
Thick, sticky, lukewarm green sludge dripped down his crisp white shirt, instantly soaking through the fabric and pooling over his Italian leather shoes.
The universe, apparently, had one last invoice outstanding.
The intern looked like they were ready to drop dead on the spot and write their last will and testament. Satoru just sighed. Literally on a verge of tears, because this was the last fucking straw.
You had stopped talking to Finance Karen. You looked at the green disaster standing in the middle of the lobby, gave him a slow completely unbothered blink, and then you just. Turned on your heel. Started walking away.
Whatever that was, you felt like it would soon involve you, and it somehow didn't match up with the Friday evening plans you'd originally had in mind.
Your mouth twitched. Just slightly. Not quite a smile but in the neighbourhood of one. Because of course it did — you were enjoying being the villain in his story.
That was it. The absolute final breaking point.
Not this weekend. Not another weekend. Not one more day of the silence n' the distance n' watching you walk away like he was something you'd already filed n' moved on from.
No.
He didn't care about his shirt. He didn't care about his shoes. He didn't care about the, like, million people watching. He surged forward, completely ignoring the green sludge, and voluntarily dropped straight onto his knees right in front of you.
Thud.
Right there on the fake corporate marble.
You stopped dead in your tracks. Satoru looked up at you from the floor, his blue eyes entirely feral and desperate. He brought his sticky, matcha-covered hands up together, pressing his palms flat against each other in a literal begging prayer motion.
"Please!" he pleaded, his voice echoing loudly off the high glass ceilings. "Just hear me out. Give me one more chance to explain myself. Just... please. The silence is killing me."
Hail Marying right there, right now.
Your carefully curated, flawlessly maintained bad bitch persona immediately vaporized. Reduced to absolute atoms under the excruciating weight of the very public, very catastrophic secondhand embarrassment.
Your eyes went wide. You looked around the lobby. At the audience that had assembled with the specific silent enthusiasm of people who had been waiting for this exact moment for years. Something moved through your face.
Oh, hell the fuck nah.
For the first time in your sweet life you experienced a fight and flight response simultaneously. Heart rate hitting like 160. Great Zone 2 training if you ask me.
"Satoru, get up," you hissed through your teeth, your face burning a violent shade of crimson.
"Not until you listen to me—"
"Shut up!"
Before he could utter another pathetic, career-ending syllable, you lunged forward, grabbed him firmly by his matcha-soaked silk tie, and yanked him to his feet.
You dragged him across the lobby toward the stairwell that led to the parking garage. He stumbled after you. The tie doing the work of a leash n' him moving with the specific cooperative energy of a man who had absolutely no leverage n' knew it.
Down the stairs. Through the door. Into the garage. You were already opening your mouth — the speech loading, the full clinical precision of a woman who had been saving things up — when you clocked the car. His car. Satoru clocked where you were heading n' unlocked it.
Beep-beep.
You marched him straight to the driver's side, yanked the door open, and literally hauled his sticky body inside, shoving him behind the wheel.
Blinded by absolute red-hot murderous rage, you sprinted around the front of the car. Ripped the passenger door open, climbed inside and violently slammed it shut behind you, ready to completely dismantle whatever was left of his sanity in private.
"You are out of your goddamn fucking mind!" you screamed, pointing a finger directly at his face.
He didn't know if these were his last seconds on earth or if he was just a lucky motherfucker. But hey, a game is a game.
"In the lobby?! In front of the entire fucking firm?! Are you actively trying to ruin our—"
Wait a damn minute.
You blinked. Your voice cut out. You looked at the dashboard. You looked out the heavily tinted passenger window. You take the subway.
Click.
Before your brain could even process the muscle memory mistake you had just made, Satoru — ever the opportunist — engaged the central locking.
‘Cause as I said, a game is a game. And he was willing to finish this Hail Mary with a freaking touchdown. He had literally nothing else to lose now.
He didn't give you a single second to grab the door handle. He slammed his foot down on the gas.
"You can't be fucking serious!" you shrieked. "Did you just kidnap me?! Stop the car right now, Satoru! I swear to god, if you don't stop this car—"
"I prefer extended conversation."
The M5 was already moving by the time your brain caught up.
You were screaming. He was driving. The threats escalating in direct proportion to how completely unbothered he was acting.
"This is illegal, Satoru! You are actively committing a felony!"
"Probably," he said, checking his blind spot and merging aggressively into the fast lane.
"I'm calling the police!" you shrieked, slapping your hands against the dashboard.
"Phone's in your bag in the backseat."
"I will roll down this window and scream for help!"
"You're already screaming."
You were. You hadn't noticed. You lowered the volume approximately four percent. But you realized, with increasing, adrenaline-spiked horror, that he was genuinely not stopping this car.
"You cannot just kidnap me because you felt like it—"
"I didn't feel like it," he said. Eyes on the road. Voice completely level in the infuriating way it got when he'd made a decision and was done negotiating. "I had to."
"You HAD to."
"Yes."
"You HAD to kidnap me. You gotta be kidding me."
And that fucker had the audacity to chuckle. CHUCKLE.
"I will end you—"
"End me? Guess fucking what, I ALREADY ended myself. If you haven't fucking noticed!"
So you pivoted. Because if you couldn't stop the car, you were going to verbally dismantle the driver. The speech that had been compiling in your brain since you returned came out like a machine gun.
"You are a psychopath! All the shit you've done and now kidnapping me?!"
"What else was I supposed to fucking do? You wouldn't listen to me!" he yelled over the engine, knuckles white on the steering wheel.
"You did all the shit, then tried to make amends with the worst gestures known to mankind, and then after I had to physically slap you to wake you the fuck up — you started leaving me quiet little offerings like I was some kind of corporate woodland spirit you were trying to trap!"
All the pent-up, repressed energy he had been holding onto for so long completely exploded.
"You just LEFT!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "You packed a bag n' flew to fucking Santorini! Half your stuff is still in my bathroom! You never told me it was officially over! You just blocked me and disappeared! I didn't know where I stood!"
You laughed. A completely manic, unhinged sound.
"OH, you didn't know where you stood?! You knew exactly where you stood when I was apparently dead in a shark's stomach! Or being mauled by a lion! Or falling into a cement mixer! Or drying up in a desert! You TOLD PEOPLE I WAS DEAD, SATORU!"
Silence. The volume in the car suddenly dropped. Satoru glanced at you. Chest heaving. The green matcha drying into a crust on his collar. Then — because he was Satoru Gojo and he physically couldn't help himself, but mostly because it was actually true:
"So you DO care." Almost a laugh. Like you'd just handed him a golden ticket. "You kept track. Even while you were walking around that office with your tan n' your upturned little nose like you're oh sooo far above me. Like I'm some piece of trash you get to play with just because you were pissed at me."
You opened your mouth to eviscerate him.
"And you enjoyed it," he interrupted, looking dead ahead at the traffic. "Keeping receipts while throwing out every single gift. Every single time. Don't tell me you didn't."
You snapped your mouth shut. The silence was deafening. Because he was right. And you both knew it. But admitting defeat was not in your vocabulary either. The argument immediately spiked right back to a ten. The speedometer was doing something highly concerning.
"SATORU, PULL OVER RIGHT NOW—"
"ADMIT YOU ENJOYED IT—"
"YOU'RE AN ARROGANT PRICK WHO CAN'T ADMIT LOSS!" you screamed at the top of your lungs.
SCREEEECH.
Full brake slam.
The tires howled against the asphalt. The seatbelts violently locked, jerking both of you forward as the car halted right in the middle of the fast lane. The city was suddenly loud outside the stopped car.
Satoru turned his entire body toward you. Breathing hard. Matcha drying dead center on his chest. His blue eyes completely dark n' feral. Forehead vein almost popping.
"But I'm YOUR arrogant prick," he panted, his voice a low gravelly snarl. "And you're just as fucking stubborn n' can't admit when it's enough. Who else would put up with this bitchy behavior anyway?"
“Wha—"
Something rolled in the center console cupholder from the impact.
Clack.
You looked down.
Lip balm. Strawberry. Yours. It was still in his car. The one you remember him secretly loving. ‘Cause it was very sweet and wanted you to kiss him with it every morning before work so he could savour the kiss longer like that.
You looked up at him. He was already looking at you. Breathing hard. Knuckles still white on the wheel. Looking at you like you were the only coordinates his internal compass had ever pointed at and he was absolutely furious about it.
Scared.
Turned on.
Yearning.
And god help you, you missed him so fucking much.
All of it hitting simultaneously.
"You absolute narcissistic motherfucke—"
You grabbed him by the lapels and kissed him.
He kissed you back immediately. Like he'd been ready for exactly this and hadn't been sure it was ever coming. His hands finding your face before you'd even processed that you'd moved.
It was messy. Desperate. It tasted like months of repressed toxic obsession and the strawberry lip balm — because of course you had another one.
Satoru hummed into the kiss, brow furrowing as he licked the sweet taste off your lower lip.
Someone behind you leaned on the horn.
Honk Honk, bitches.
His hands were tangled in your hair, pulling you across the console as you whimpered, clutching the steering wheel so you wouldn't fall over. The back of your head was pleasantly tingling and you got the same butterflies in your belly like the very first time he’d ever kissed you.
HONK. HOOOONK.
He physically peeled himself away. The restraint of a man who absolutely did not want to stop but was operating a vehicle during rush hour traffic and suddenly had some remaining instinct for self-preservation.
He swallowed hard. Pupils completely blown. Blindly reached down to shift the gear and hit the gas. You slumped back into the passenger seat. Slightly dazed. Flushed.
You could feel the remaining lip balm smeared literally down your chin. You stared out the window, desperately trying to recalibrate.
Okay. New plan. You let this happen. You MIGHT give him another chance. You needed a clearer head. Away from him. Away from—
"Okay," you breathed out. "Take me home. My new address is—"
"No."
You blinked. Looked at him.
"...Excuse me?"
"No."
"Satoru."
"No."
"Take. Me. Home."
"No."
You stared at him. He was looking straight at the road. Completely calm. The fury gone. The desperation gone. And just your luck, his long forgotten God Complex had officially rebooted. V2 effectively deployed. And he was absolutely not entertaining alternatives.
"You literally just kissed me," he said. His tone was perfectly, patronizingly reasonable. "HOW can I take you home after that?"
"That was a reflex—that doesn't mean—"
"No."
"No what—"
"Just no," he said again. Preemptively. Shutting it down.
The argument never fully stopped after that. It just evolved. Morphed from screaming about the kidnapping into this weird bickering that was half fight and half foreplay and you weren't entirely sure where one ended and the other began.
You gesturing wildly. Him infuriatingly calm. You getting more frustrated because he was calm. Him occasionally throwing out a smug comment that set you off again. You firing back with something that made his jaw clench and his hands grip the leather steering wheel slightly tighter.
The city scrolled past the tinted windows. The traffic thinned. He turned the wheel and the M5 descended into the underground parking garage of his building.
The security barrier lifted. The city disappeared. Just cold concrete, fluorescent overhead lights and the rumbling sound of the engine echoing off the walls. He pulled into his spot. Put the car in park.
You opened your mouth — the argument still fully loaded, still ready to fire—
He turned and kissed you. And it wasn't rushed this time.
Both of your dignities currently MIA, you somehow stumbled out of the car first. Fully determined to talk this out. Like adults. With important things to discuss. Calmly. Clinically. Without screaming or throwing heavy objects.
Even if your eyes trailed down to his groin approximately every ten seconds. Damn you and your unfairly good dick game. Satoru appeared on your side, his arms snaking around your waist.
You swatted his hands away. "We're talking first."
"Obviously," he said, and immediately his fingers tried to interlace with yours.
Swat.
For fuck’s sake, he tried again. The man was committed.
You walked toward the elevator bank, staying slightly ahead of him. He followed close behind, only because you had explicitly told him to stay approximately four inches back without trying to fuse your atoms together. You pushed through the heavy glass doors into the main building lobby.
“Miss?!”
It was an undignified shriek from the night attendant, who clearly couldn't believe his eyes. "You're— you're walking."
You stopped dead in your tracks. "...Yes?"
"Mr. Gojo said you were in a full-body cast! That you broke every single bone in your body during this freak mountain-climbing accident."
You slowly, methodically turned to look at Satoru. Oh, here we fucking go again. Mountain climbing?
Satoru had suddenly located a highly specific, fascinating speck of dust on the marble floor and was currently examining it with intense, academic interest.
"He said that to you." A beat. "When?"
“Well, five months ago? When I hadn't seen you come home for a long time. I was worried, miss! Mr. Gojo was devastated! I'm glad you made such a miraculous recovery!”
Satoru was still looking at the floor. His ears had achieved a shade of crimson that was genuinely medically concerning. He now certainly knew that his past self had literally just cockblocked his present self. But, yeah, it was fun while it lasted.
You turned back to the attendant and deployed the sweetest, warmest smile you had used in months.
"Don't worry," you promised cheerfully. "I'm fine. But let's pray Mr. Gojo won't end up in a full-body cast himself anytime soon."
The attendant nodded once. In that solemn way where he didn't know exactly what was happening, but was glad Gojo was about to get properly humbled.
You two finally stepped into the elevator. Satoru was so flushed from embarrassment he might have spontaneously combusted. Suddenly, he realized how profoundly stupid it was to walk around lying your face off to a million different people. It has consequences. ‘Cause, duh.
You were looking straight ahead at the closed doors. Arms crossed. The specific posture of a woman exercising a truly heroic amount of restraint. The silence was immediate. Suffocating. Shaped like the longest elevator ride of Satoru’s life.
“Satoru. You told the lobby attendant?”
Satoru stared at the floor numbers ticking up on the digital display above the door. He shrugged. Because what could he possibly say at this very moment anyway? You closed your eyes and pinched the bridge of your nose.
Ding.
Thank fucking god. Satoru was getting war flashbacks even before the actual war happened.
He unlocked the door to his apartment. You stepped in already talking—the conversation fully loaded, about fifty things queued up, starting with the lobby attendant n' working backward through the restaurant n' the amnesia n’ getting run over by a car n’ drowning in a hot tub, n' probably ending somewhere around the golf clubs if you had enough breath left—
But suddenly the world spun. He turned you around and kissed you against the front door.
You completely folded. The very adult arguments evaporated into the Dior Sauvage and the desperate, suffocating way he was pressing into you. You slid your hands up his matcha lattéd chest, tangling your fingers in his tie to pull him closer.
And your blazer miraculously evaporated too. From your shoulders to somewhere near the shoe rack — you weren't entirely sure. You were slightly preoccupied with the fact that his mouth was doing something to your jaw that was making coherent thought structurally unsound.
"I mean it, we need to—" you gasped as he backed you along the wall toward the living room.
"Yes," he agreed, not stopping though.
His hands finding every place they could finally reach again. The rest of the undried matcha comprehensively, democratically redistributed across both of you by this point. Your neck. His chest. Your upper arms where he'd grabbed you. The dry cleaner is gonna have a field day.
“Satoru, I'm serious.”
“Soo serious, baby,” he agreed, against your collarbone.
You slapped his shoulders trying to unsuction him from your tingling skin. But, lord have mercy, how good it felt to have him like this again.
“Let. Me. Go. We gotta talk.”
“Do we now?” he murmured directly against your ear. His voice dropping into that register that should piss you off.
You grabbed his shoulders this time, desperately trying to keep your knees from buckling.
"...Later," you breathed.
"Later," he repeated. Like it was already settled. I mean it already was. You couldn't peel yourself away from him even if he eventually agreed.
He kissed you again, dragging you alongside the wall, both of you trying to locate the damn light switch. You opened your eyes, catching the faint reflection of the moonlight against the walls. You pulled back slightly, blinking.
"Wait. Are these walls a different color?"
Satoru let out a sound that was half-groan, half-whine. "Don't."
"Is this Architectural Bone?" you asked, genuinely distracted. Because why the fuck was the white paint so cool-toned suddenly? You remembered it being a Washed Linen kinda color. Nice warm white. Not ugly ass Architectural Bone.
“No? I don't know? Doesn't fucking matter—"
And even if it DID matter, Satoru swore to god if you didn't just shut up and lay down on his bed he would become a very very angry man. Any fucking wall color can go to hell. White paint is white paint anyway.
So he just shoved you past the opened bedroom door. And shoved you again once he stepped behind the threshold.
Click.
He kicked the door shut behind you. He dropped you to your feet for exactly two seconds. Just long enough for the absolute frantic impatience to take over.
He didn't even bother unbuttoning the rest of his sticky shirt — which at some point your fingers had started unbuttoning on the way here. He ripped it open the rest of the way, shrugging it off his shoulders and tossing it away.
He immediately went for his belt buckle. While he fumbled with the clasp, you grabbed the hem of your dress, and pulled it over your head alongside your bra, so you were standing there in practically nothing.
And that was it. Satoru's brain completely short-circuited.
Boobs. Your boobs. Holy shit.
His pants could go to hell — he had to touch you now. Bro was losing precious seconds every single time his hands weren't on you.
He gripped your hips, walked you backward until the back of your knees hit the mattress, and pushed you down into the sheets. He immediately crawled right over you, caging you in. Half-naked and feeling like an absolute god. He leaned down, a filthy triumphant smirk spreading across his face, and actually, unironically opened his mouth to drop a very diabolical line.
"Daddy's ho—"
He didn't even get to finish the vowel.
Before the cringe could even fully materialize, your muscle memory kicked in. You grabbed his forearm, planted your foot, used his own heavy forward momentum entirely against him, and violently launched him sideways.
Thuud.
Satoru lost his center of gravity, flopped flat onto his back on the mattress, bouncing against the springs. He blinked at the ceiling, completely stunned.
"What the hell?!" he wheezed, the air knocked cleanly out of his lungs.
"Judo," you said calmly. "Tuesday and Thursday nights for the last five months. Great for core strength.”
And apparently also great for shutting up obnoxious finance bros.
You swung your leg over, firmly straddling his hips. Reached sideways — core-strengthening your way over — to grab the tie he'd thrown on the edge of the bed. Now, you had an idea.
You yanked his arms above his head and looped the silk tightly around his wrists, securing them to the spindles of the headboard. Satoru stared up at you. Literally panicking.
"What are you doing?!" he demanded, pulling his arms experimentally. The silk held firm.
And look. Satoru was never against experimenting, roleplaying, or switching the power dynamics. But he just wanted to fuck you senseless and just get the pleasantries over with.
Too frustrated and too horny to entertain games. And even if he very much welcomed having your boobs literally in his face as you fumbled with the knot, he preferably wanted you tied up, if anything. Not himself.
You sat up straight, smoothing your hair.
"I said we are talking first." A beat. "And since you have a problem with telling the truth, you're staying right there until I get it out of you."
Now, fuck him ‘cause you also started rolling your hips against his clothed lap. Slow. Deliberate. You were bare, soft, and warm, tracing your fingernails lightly down his chest.
Absolute. Maddening. Torture. He tried to buck his hips into yours but the tailored pants and your weight restricted his movement. He started to squirm, completely desperate, his tied wrists pulling hard against the headboard.
"Baby, take ‘em off," he whined, his voice thick and strained.
You raised an eyebrow. "Take what off? You seemed to be in such a rush to be a Daddy, I thought you had the logistics handled."
"I can't take it," he groaned, dropping his head back against the mattress. "Take the pants off. I'm begging you. I'll do whatever you want."
He just whined. And whined. And whined. And don't get me wrong — this sight was sinfully satisfying — but it didn't really scratch the itch you had for how you wanted to bury his ego ten feet under.
"Admit it," you whispered, leaning down so your lips hovered just a fraction of an inch over his. "Admit exactly how miserable you were."
"I was actually fine—"
So you ground down harder. Slower. Watching him squirm.
"Now were you?"
Oh, this man wasn't walking out of this bedroom the same. You were about to wreck his worldview and his dick. He kept pulling at the silk tie with zero dignity and approximately zero shame about the lack of it.
"Please. Just take the fucking pants off. Pleease."
You considered the verbal approach for approximately two more seconds.
Yeah. No.
"I still don't think you deserve that, Satoru. Liar liar, pants on fire."
He went red with rage and opened his mouth to argue— ‘Cause tf? Are ya’ll 12? Where the hell did that come from? But you were done arguing. You swiftly shut him up by lunging forward and sitting on his face. You took hold of the headboard. He looked up at you with wide eyes. You smirked.
Miss Girl, you reeeally thought you had the structural upper hand here.
"So." Trying to sound clinical. Professional. Like your central nervous system wasn't currently melting into a puddle. "Are you going to finally admit your entire God Complex is just a cover-up for the fact that you're completely obsessed with me?"
Tsk, tsk, tsk. You might as well have handed Satoru the second golden ticket of this evening because the fucker didn't waste any time. He just dived in. Like a man starving. ‘Cause he fundamentally refused to lose an argument. Even with his mouth full.
He didn't stop. He just—
Hummmmmed.
Right against your clit.
"Mmm, baby... yeah. Whatever you say."
Muffled. Wet. Still dripping with that exact patronizing tone everyone else hated. You included. Well. Sort of.
And the smirk of yours? Gone. Deleted. Instantly transformed into a blissful ‘O’ n' the most angelic-sounding whimper Satoru swore you had ever let out.
Embarrassing. Moving on.
But you were committed to the bit. The independent era was not going down without a fight. Grip tightened. Brain desperately trying to reboot.
"And—" hips involuntarily rolling down on his tongue. "And the... stunt you had been pulling?"
He didn't even pause. Just adjusted his angle. Flicked his tongue exactly where it would cause maximum structural damage. Licking into you like you were a Michelin star soup.
"A brilliant pivot... strategically speaking it worked out in the end."
Eyes rolled back. Spine arched to oblivion.
You tried. You really did. You had a whole PowerPoint of his sins queued up in your head and ready to go.
"Did you... did you actually... ah, fuck—"
English? Deleted. Hotel? Trivago.
He latched on. Sucking with this filthy agonizingly perfect rhythm. You hated how good he was at this. You hated that you'd been missing out on this for eight entire months.
Wait, what?
Beeeep. Frontal lobe flatlined.
The ‘I hate him with all my heart’ persona experiencing catastrophic technical difficulties. Interrogation officially over. Lost completely in the sauce.
Totally oblivious to the fact that he was just. Quietly. Wiggling his wrists. Okay so. You were a genius auditor. But you were not a Boy Scout. You tied a colossally shit knot. Like, a really bad one. In your defense you were horny, desperate and angry — you thought you could fake it till you made it.
But Satoru's brain worked terrifyingly well under pressure. One twist to the left, one twist to the right and he knew he'd be out in no time. He just used his weaponized tongue to distract you while playing a solo escape room with his hands. And winning.
Warm. Large. Wrapping around your bare thighs.
Wait.
Hands? Weren't those tied?
Whooosh. Thrown flat onto your back. You gasped. Trying to catch up on the new zip code.
You looked soo good like this. Satoru's dick literally jumped against the pants — the seam felt like it was trying to split him open. How he wanted to just push himself inside you. But. Why just win the argument when you can obliterate your opponent's sanity first?
He crawled right back down between your legs.
"Satoru—"
Nuh-uh. He just shoved the entirety of his tongue inside you, drinking your wetness out while he abused your clit with his thumb. And holy cunnilingus have mercy — he hit the spot inside while pressing from the outside simultaneously. A hundred Santorinis couldn't compare to the twinkling stars behind your eyes as you came apart completely around his pretty face. RIP to your dignity. Gone too soon.
He licked you off his lips and scrambled at his waist. Practically tearing the fabric from his legs. Suit pants prison: abolished. Free. Finally fucking free.
He crawled up your body. This time without any cringe-ass remark — he'd learned the hard way. Gripped your hips and pushed you gently toward the edge of the mattress. Your head fell backward off the bed.
Blood rushed immediately to your head. Your neck arched, completely exposed n' vulnerable that he couldn't help himself and just suuuck on the spot where you would have to be damned if you could cover it tomorrow morning.
Biting. Claiming the pulse point while you're still trembling.
Asshole.
Satoru pulled back just enough to look at you upside down. His blue eyes pitch black. Gripped your face and forced you to look at him. He wanted the receipts too.
"Aight. You got your confession," he rasped. Hovering right at your entrance, length twitching, smearing the precum all over himself.
"Now you're going to give me mine." A beat. "Admit it. Tell me exactly how miserable you were."
Your pride still standing. Barely. You might have lost the war but you hadn't lost the fight yet.
"I was... thriving. I bought soo many new plants—"
He nudged forward. Just a fraction. To prove a point. You gasped violently, what the fuck, feeling like you were falling headfirst, his laugh somewhere above you, your nails digging into his shoulders to hold on.
"Liar liar, pants on fire," he mocked. "Tell me the truth. Tell me you hated every second of it. Tell me you compared every single guy to me n' hated them for it. How your little vacation was boring as hell without me there?"
You squeezed your eyes shut. Stubbornness evaporating. Pride packing its bags and heading back to Santorini. Without you, because the fuck, bitch?
"I hated them all. They were boring. They didn't..."
"They didn't what, baby?"
"They weren't you." Practically sobbing. Ego officially buried ten feet under the newly installed floorboards. The problem is, it was fucking yours. Now, c’mon. How could you mess up the script—
"And Santorini?"
"Was boring without you too." The words came out like they physically hurt. That’s why they came out so tight, it was embarrassing to admit. "I was miserable. I wanted to kill you n' I wanted you the entire time."
Satoru exhaled. Long and slow. Because he felt the same and hearing it out loud was something else entirely. His ego currently expanding at a rate that defied the laws of physics. Fed. Stroked to absolute perfection.
"Good girl."
And finally. Mercifully. He drove his hips forward. Buried himself in you completely. Because his dick needed stroking too. And boy, was it uncomfortable. Or mind-bending. Actually, you couldn't tell if the dizziness came from currently having all your blood in your head, or if not having Satoru's dick inside of you for so long meant your body forgot how to accommodate his wood. He was violently making room for himself.
"Were you also doing some pelvic yoga? You're so fucking ti—"
Lmao. What.
"Just shut the fuck up already!"
You shouted as you tried your hardest not to get railed clean off the bed.
Look. Gravity is gravity. You try getting fucked while your brain is marinating in blood. Cinematic for exactly ten seconds before it becomes a massive bio-mechanical hazard.
Satoru apparently agreed. Without missing a single agonizing thrust, he reached under your arms and dragged you straight back up to the center of the mattress. Hooked your legs over his shoulders and folded you like a campfire chair. Your boobs getting squished under the weight of your own thighs while Satoru salivated over the entire image.
Fuck, how he missed this.
Leverage? Acquired. Dignity? Still missing. Hotel? Trivago. Again? Yes. ‘Cause I'm a phrase repeater, so what.
It was sweet romantic lovemaking. Just kidding. It immediately became a direct horizontal continuation of the screaming match in his BMW. Just with more bodily fluids, kissing and marking. You were both going to end up covered in bruises and love marks and HR was going to have questions on Monday.
Toxically soulmating even mid-act. Because both of you could fucking multitask and never shut the fuck up.
"You are a manipulative, narcissistic prick." Digging half-moons into his back. You wanted to sound intimidating. You really did.
But Satoru did not take insults lying down. He weaponized his dick game. He slowed down. To this agonizing, deliberate, spiteful grind. Hitting the exact spot that made your soul leave your body.
Your breath hitched mid-insult. Completely n' legally unfair that his personality belonged in a dumpster but his physical capabilities belonged in an art gallery. Your mouth was fighting him but your body was utterly, completely folding. Well, it already was folded, but again it is the metaphor of it all.
"And you made me a laughingstock for weeks!" Entirely unapologetic. Breathless. One arm flying around your throat and squeezing just enough to take the air and the attitude out of you.
"I wouldn't do it if you didn't lie about me!" you managed, completely out of breath, gripping his wrist. Aye, it was not the time to be unnecessarily kinky but Satoru never gets the memo about anything, does he.
He hit the spot again. You let out a sound you'd pay money to delete from his memory. Your eyes going half-lidded, walls starting to flutter around him — n' then the spiteful slow grind just. Snapped.
He was pissed, but he had your best interest in mind, okay. Since you were so busy arguing he had to do the work for both of you. Not because he was also close and let's say the interior walls of the apartment won't soon be the only thing freshly painted white.
He lost his own control. Because you felt too good. Because eight months is a long fucking time.
"I did it because I couldn't take not having you by my side!" Panting. Desperate. "Tell me I'm yours. Say it."
"NO! YOU say it first!"
Satoru literally paused. A microsecond. Just long enough to process the absolute unmitigated audacity.
And girl, I don’t know how to say this… But you were currently folded in half. Getting choked out and railed into the mattress. And you were counter-offering?
And yes, technically both of you knew the respective answer, because otherwise you wouldn't get yourselves into this peculiar situation. But hearing it would give y'all the upper hand. And understand, that was the issue.
He let out this sound. Half-laugh, half-feral growl.
"Stubborn fucking brat," he rasped.
He stopped playing fair. Shifted his grip. Pulled your hips flush against his. And went absolutely, terrifyingly feral.
“You fucking egomaniac.”
Back n' forth. Forth n' back. And every other different direction. Both egos completely unyielding. Treating sex like a hostile corporate takeover.
But eight months dry can last just as long. You broke. He broke. The entire space-time continuum broke. Someone call the referees from the Tour de France because we have a photo finish.
Messy. Devastating. You screaming, nails carving trenches into his back, squeezing around him so hard it triggered him instantly. That deep guttural groan. His teeth buried in the crook of your neck as he emptied into you.
And then?
Well. Normal couples usually cuddle. Whisper sweet nothings. Bask in the afterglow.
Not you two.
You were both gasping for air. Lungs burning. He collapsed heavily on top of you, crushing you into the wrecked sheets as he let go of your legs.
You shoved weakly at his sticky chest. Barely any strength left.
"You came first," you wheezed. Chest heaving. "I felt it. I won."
Satoru lifted his head. Sweat dripping from his nose. Looking absolutely, structurally wrecked, but personally offended.
"No fucking way." Panting. Glaring down at you. "I felt you squeezing the shit out of me. You came first. I won."
"You literally whined."
"I grunted. It's a biological response."
"Satoru, you came before me. Take the L."
"I held out for eight months and twenty minutes." His voice cracking slightly. "You lasted like ten seconds once I got back between your legs. Shut up."
"Narcissist."
"Liar."
You just stared at each other. Sweaty. Bruised. Still physically connected. Arguing about orgasm logistics like it was a quarterly earnings report.
And then. You both just... deflated.
Energy reserves at zero. Ego war paused due to lack of stamina. Stalemate— But both of you swore once the blood redistributed, you'd make the other regret it.
He dropped his heavy head back onto your chest. You let your arms fall onto the mattress.
Silence.
Just the sound of your heartbeats n' heavy breathing echoing in the empty room. The ceiling slowly stopped spinning.
He rolled you both over. You turned your head, chin resting against his sweaty shoulder. Blinking past the remaining stars in your vision. Looking into the corner of the room.
Slumped against the Architectural Bone drywall.
The Titleist golf bag.
But this time it somehow didn't sour your mood. Though this time they weren't the pristine titanium in a pink golf bag laughing back at you. Now they were warped. Water-stained. Rusted? Perhaps. Dull as hell. And absolutely pathetic.
"Satoru." Eyebrows furrowing. "Are those the fucking golf clubs?"
He went completely still.
Dropped his head back against the mattress and sighed. Here you go again, bruh. Arrogance suddenly evaporated.
"The contractor must have shoved them in here," he mumbled. Turning his head.
Huh.
“Contractor? What? What are you talking about? Does it have to do with the wall colors too?”
Satoru groaned again, mashed his face into the wrecked sheets, and thus he explained everything. How with all the lies the universe seemed to actively punish him. And that it was getting so bad until he got the apartment flooded alongside how he apparently made a mortal enemy out of a pigeon.
But he then paused for a brief moment. Expression actually soft. Raw even. "I'm sorry. About the clubs. About… everything actually. I was a dick."
A genuine apology. A real, actual moment of accountability. Did the lights in his head finally switch on? But Satoru Gojo’s accountability has a battery life of exactly five seconds. He lifted his head and looked you dead in the eyes.
"But you're the true villain here," he stated. Entirely serious. "You dumbed me and it messed with me so bad I literally had to invent all of... that to cope. You made me do that. So it's also your fault."
Staring at him you just laughed. Genuine, completely helpless laugh for once. Because this man can actually be funny when he wants to, but also, what the hell, lol. But you know what? What the hell, sure. His lack of chill and inability to cope was actually kinda cute.
You wouldn't want a healthy, normal man anyway.
He just watched you. And that ugly, feral anger completely, finally dissolved. Oh, how stupid he was for not treating you right the first time around. He leaned down. Pressed his forehead against yours. Brushed his nose against your cheek.
"I'm yours, by the way," he mumbled quietly against your jaw. With zero hesitation. Fully cementing his own ego death right into the Architectural Bone drywall. "Just so we're clear. So now YOU say it."
You smiled. Kissed him back. “Obviously.”
Now since the great war of egos was over, he wasn't just having you anymore. He was finally, completely yours. And you were his. But you weren’t saying that out loud just yet. You WILL make this man sweat for it. Just like he deserves.
And maybe, just maybe, this time around, actually giving you the official wife title didn't sound so intimidating to him anymore.
He let out a slow, contented breath, his eyes fluttering shut.
"Hey, Satoru."
"Mm."
"What if I wanna try out the golf thing for real?"
呪術廻戦 after overhearing you playing piano, satoru seems to have fallen hard for you. the only problem? he's not allowed to date. but who's to stop him.
TAGS ⎯⎯ pianist f! reader & soccer player! gojo ┆ 9.7k words . fluff , a bit of angst , unsupportive parents , geto will be ooc (?) college au , brief smut, gojo falls first and hard . fic reupload art by @thatsallitchief
If you were to tell gojo three years ago that he had fallen in love during college, the boy would have laughed in your face.
But it's true, Gojo is in love.
And not with a cheerleader from his games, a sorority he'd hooked up with or a stripper he'd have charmed with his stupid grin.
But with a pianist.
A very gorgeous and talented one who he would sit down next to hours on end, listening to the new song you had learned to play. a beauty he would die for. And most importantly, the girl that he is one minute away from getting down on a knee for.
And it all started with a forgotten notebook.
⟢
"Where the fuck is my notebook." Gojo muttered, searching his backpack twice. Then he looked in his locker, his gym bag, under the bench, even. His eyebrows furrowed until a groan left his lips.
It wasn't like it magically grew a pair of legs, but he still looked behind the vending machine as well. Just to be extra sure.
"This cannot be happening.." The last he needed was losing the one journal he actually used and the one that had his homework in it, especially not after a long night of practice that had his limbs feeling like spaghetti noodles. He just wanted to go home and drool into his pillow, sleeping off into another world.
"Looking for something?" Suguru chimed in, watching as his friend pulled out everything from inside his locker. His soccer uniform dropped onto the floor but Gojo was too exhausted to even care.
He shot a scowl towards the pierced boy. "My notebook man.. I lost it."
Gojo tried to recall where he had last used it. But there was no hope with how fried his brain was. He dropped his body dramatically onto the bench with a whine that sounded like it had come from a child.
"I have Monday's assignment in there."
"For what class?" Suguru slipped on his shirt over his body, closing his locker shut before turning to Satoru. "Biochemistry.." That’s when the memory hit him straight in the face.
He had left the notebook in his class, on the desk he sat in right next to the window.
Gojo immediately stood up, causing his head to feel dizzy, grabbing his bag to place on his broad shoulder. "Gotta go, see ya." He gave his friend a quick harsh pat on his back, rushing towards the door.
How could he be so dumb to leave it behind?
He has been so focused on his upcoming winter game that he was in a rush to get to practice on time.
You’re late three times to practice? You’re out.
The walk to his science class was a blur. Dodging small talk from other teammates and the cold weather practically freezing his balls off.
By the time he reached his biochem room, the hallway was eerily quiet as he slipped into the classroom.
There it was, sitting right there on his desk.
He could almost cry tears of joy.
Gojo let out a breath of relief, retrieving back the journal full of doodles and important notes. But most importantly, a poorly drawn portrait of his professor as a disgruntled frog that would definitely get him in trouble if said professor got his hands on it.
He clutched it close to his chest dramatically.
The door clicked quietly behind him. He was about to head towards his car that was parked in front of the field when a sudden sound floated down the hallway, reaching his ears.
It was music.
Well, a piano.
That's what it was.
The notes were as delicate as the raindrops that were hitting the window.
His head tilted to the side, following where the tunes were coming from in between the crack of the door.
Gojo knew he should have just gone home and attempted to get more than four hours of sleep for once, but the sound had him entranced like a siren call.
And that's when he saw you for the first time.
You looked so focused, eyes locked on the keys under your pretty fingers. You haven’t noticed him yet, peeking through the crack of the door like a creep.
Gojo held himself closer, steadying his body on the door, trying to get a good look at you. Maybe he could make out your face if he leaned in just a bit closer. But he only managed to fall, causing the door to open wide and for you to freeze.
Your fingers hovered over the piano, eyes blown wide completely startled.
"Oh my gosh- I am so sorry!" he exclaimed, pushing himself off the ground, wincing at the feeling of a now forming bruise on his knee. He was tripping over his words, trying to explain why he was even peeking in the first place, but he fell silent when you approached him.
You had to be an angel with the way you were staring up at him. "Are you alright?" your voice was even better. It was so gentle.
'Angels play the piano.. I had no idea' gojo thought.
"Uhhhhh, yeah. yeah, I'm alright." He answered quietly, eyes drawn to your lips. "You play really beautifully"
"Oh, thank you."
"Yup!" With that, he rushed out the door, face blushed to the max and heart beating faster than it does when he's out on the field. 'Holy fuck, who was that beauty?' His hand felt light.
Way too light.
He looked down just to see that he had forgotten his notebook, again.
Gojo would rather dig a hole and die in it than go back and face you after his sudden departure.
Your footsteps clicked on the floor, tilting your head to see gojo standing there, contemplating if he should turn around or not. "Hi again, you forgot this.."
You lifted up his journal.
"R-right, I forgot about that." He let out a nervous chuckle, reaching behind him doing a little grabby motion with his hand, back still turned towards you.
You were confused by his behavior but didn't question it, gently placing the book in his hand.
"Thank you." The flushed boy squeaked out.
You bit back a smile, watching as he tried to discreetly sneak a look at you over his shoulder.
"No problem!" you chirped, turning around to walk back into the music room. He let out a breath he didn't even realize he was holding, body now turned to fully face your figure as you walked away.
"... Wow." he whispered.
⟢
"And then she smiled up at me, like the prettiest smile I have ever seen. I'm not even joking that girl is heaven sent. I regret not running after her because oh my god, Suguru- Suguru are you even listening to me?"
"I’ma keep it a buck, fuck no." Suguru grumbled, scrolling on his phone which was far more interesting than the summarization Gojo has been giving him for the past two hours.
"You're an ass." Gojo grumbled, flopping on his belly on his bed, messing up his navy blue covers. "Let me see if she has instagram.. wait fuck, I dunno her name."
"Wait, you have a crush on a girl whose name you do not know?" The black haired boy stared away from the screen, looking up at his enamored best friend.
"Well like I was saying, she slipped from my fingers last night. I was too shocked from her ethereal face to even process anything"
"Then I don't fucking know what to tell ya, just leave me the hell alone."
Gojo hummed. "Whatever." he swung his feet in the air, twirling around his hair as he thought back to you. His friend gave him a look of disgust because never in his 15 years of being friends with Satoru had he ever seen him in love.
It freaked him out.
⟢
Gojo brought the ice pack to his cheek, mumbling a curse under his breath. The daydreamer was knocked out of his pondering when the soccer ball hit him straight in the cheek bone, smacking him hard enough to bruise.
He received a quick scolding from his coach on how he needed to get his head out of his ass and start playing harder now that the final game was closing in.
One second he was imagining you and your sweet smile and the other he was on the ground. He physically couldn't stop thinking back at you and the events of last night. Gojo threw away the bag with the now melted ice in a nearby trash can, slowly making his way to the music room.
'please be there, please be there, please please please!'
And then..
"Thank you god..." he whispered at the sight of you.
You were walking so peacefully, flipping the pages full of music in your hands, trying to pick which song to practice tonight. A stupid smile grew on Gojo's face. You had on a simple but cute white blouse and a brown skirt, the typical outfit you'd expect a pianist to wear.
You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, too focused to notice the 6 foot boy practically stalking you in the dark. He did a little inner cheer, beaming with happiness after you finally looked up, making eye contact with him.
"Oh, hello." You greeted him sweetly. "You're the guy who face planted yesterday, right?"
He froze, embarrassed.
"Yea.. I'm Satoru." He held the door open for you, watching as you entered before closing the door behind him. He flashed you his dorky but genuine smile but quickly regretted it. 'Why the hell did I do that? What's wrong with me?' Any negative thoughts disappeared the second you giggled, making his brain short-circuit.
"I'm y/n."
He gave himself a pat on the back at achieving your name. "y/n, huh?" He tested it out himself, looking around to prevent himself from ogling you.
"So um, last night, I didn't get to listen to you finish playing that song."
You grabbed the back of your skirt, sitting down on the piano chair, patting the fabric down so it didn't stick up awkwardly.
"The one I was doing before you so rudely interrupted me?" Your focus shifted back onto him, scooting on the piano seat to make room for him.
He was surprised at the offer, but quickly acted on it. The muscular boy happily sat down next to his new crush.
"I can play it again if you'd like. It was love me by Elvis Presley." You positioned your fingers on their assigned keys, glancing at Satoru.
The simple eye contact drove him crazy. Gojo could feel the back of his neck heating up but shook it off as you began to play.
Your fingers glided around the keyboard out of pure memory. It made him hold his breath so he wouldn't miss hearing a second. His eyes weren't set on your hands but on your face, fully focused. It was enough for his heart to run wild. Not like it wasn’t already.
You ended the song with one final push on the keyboard, looking up at him and the stupid smile that was plastered on his face.
"That was good.. really good"
"I know." You grinned. He let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as his tongue darted out to lick his slightly chapped lips.
"Do you play?"
Gojo hummed. "Nah. I’d like to, but I’m too busy with soccer."
"You play soccer?" You asked curiously.
"Yeah, you couldn't tell from my sweat?"
"I thought you just had a bad sweating problem."
Gojo let out a groan. "that's fuckin' embarrassing." He dragged a hand down his face.
a snort escaped you unknowingly, making him turn to look at you again, forcing you to bring your hand up to cover your mouth in embarrassment. "Sorry."
"For what?"
He did not care. like at all.
"Um.. nothing. So, is listening to me play the piano all you came back for?"
The hand that previously rubbed his face now made its way to the back of his neck, nervously rubbing it.
"Sort of, I came back mostly because I wanted to get to know you. I've never seen you before and I just.. I was wondering if you'd like to go out with me sometime." His own words surprised him. That is not at all the reason he showed up.
A faint blush attacked your cheeks. "Really?" Your voice softened even more.
"Yeah, really."
You were hesitant, but eventually nodded. "I'd really like that."
But he was thankful his mouth spoke involuntarily. “Yeah? Great, that’s great..”
⟢
Gojo gently closed the door behind him, letting out a tired sigh. His hands were covering the bottom half of his face, not being able to process the fact that he asked you out, and you said yes.
He began walking to his dorm, ready to tell Suguru what happened. His hands were shaky, opening up his phone to stare at the new contact on his list. Yours. He clicked on the edit button, replacing the number with your name.
“Suguru!” Gojo yelled after entering his room. “Bro bro bro,” he smacked the exposed back of his friend, to which Suguru responded by smacking it away. “I did it, I asked her out and I got her number.”
Suguru grunted. “So?”
Gojo rolled his eyes. “Dude, can you at least pretend to be proud of me? Fuck you so negative for?”
Suguru placed his phone down, shifting to lay against his elbow to face gojo. “Just confused and weirded out that you’re serious about a girl. You’re always sleeping around so yeah, it’s fucking weird that you’re suddenly Mr. Lover Boy.”
Gojo’s eyebrows furrowed. "Oh, I'm sorry if it's so "strange" for you to acknowledge that I can actually feel love."
He felt hurt at the fact that he was seen as incapable of feeling such strong sentiments towards someone. Yes, it was right that he used to stick his dick in every girl that would give him bedroom eyes in the past just for fun, but he's calmed down. And right now, he even more so now that you have entered his life, and he doesn't expect you to leave anytime soon.
"Your parents won't like it if they find out you're getting distracted."
Gojo's parents have this stupid belief that if a woman were to appear in his schedule, it would mess up his future. Soccer has been his top priority since grade school, having games every other month and practices every day for hours. Even when he tried explaining that he no longer enjoyed the sport, he got shamed.
"You have talent, son." His father would remind him.
But Gojo didn't want to kick around a ball.
He never wanted to.
He wanted to push his fingers down the keys of the piano, just like you did. He wanted to learn how to read music and to perform on big stages that didn't consist of roaring crowds cheering when a goal was scored, but a quiet audience that appreciated the art he was creating.
That was a dream that he cherished for years, keeping it a secret from everyone, especially from his un-supportive family. If they found out he would rather play an instrument rather than play a sport? He’d be a huge disappointment.”
"They don't have to know." Gojo shot back.
"They'll find out eventually. Just don't waste your time with her, we both know how batshit crazy your family is."
"I'm fucking aware and I don't need to hear it from you right now."
Suguru was sitting properly now, scowling up at the now agitated boy. He knew he was being an ass, but he was just looking out for gojo. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.
"You clearly do if you're actually considering going out with her."
"I'm not considering, I am going out with her."
It was a back and forth argument that seemed as if it had no end.
"Whatever, you better not come crying to me when they hear about this. You already know what I will say."
I told you so.
Gojo was already making his way to his room, shutting the door loudly. He hated getting reminded of his parents. Even in college when he thought he'd finally get away from them, they still continue to haunt him.
He fell over his bed, taking off his shirt and bringing the covers up to cover his torso. He took deep breaths, scrolling on his phone before opening up your contact again.
His fingers began moving.
Satoru
'Hellooo. Me, you, cafe tomorrow?'
He held his breath, awaiting your response.
You replied shortly after, which he was thankful for.
You
'Hi! Yes sounds yum! what time?'
Skipping practice shouldn't harm him. He hasn’t missed any yet, so it’d be his first strike. If it meant sacrificing it for you, he would do it.
'Does 3 work for you?'
'Mhmmm, I have to be back before 8 tho!'
He chuckled. Did you have a curfew at 20 years old?
'Alright, noted. See you then.'
'Okay goodnight ! <3'
Oh my god.
You sent a heart and you said goodnight.
That clearly meant something right? You are interested in him, you sent a heart. He bit his inner cheek to prevent a stupid giggle from slipping out. He hearted your message, exiting the app.
From outside his door, he could hear Suguru turn on the tv, probably to play some video game of his. Gojo sighed, standing up to go join him despite the previous argument. He was still his best buddy at the end of the day.
"Make room." He murmured, pushing the black haired boy's feet off the couch to make space for him to sit on.
Suguru handed him the second controller without a question, splitting the screen into two. They played in silence until the sun fully set and the moon rose.
⟢
You patted down your blouse, turning to your side to stare at yourself in the mirror. Is this too little for a first date? Or was it too much? No boy has ever asked you out, not because you were unattractive, far from that actually, but because you always kept to yourself.
Many saw you as boring, shy, timid, unapproachable. But Gojo saw past that.
You did a little spin for yourself, showing off your pretty outfit. This should be good.
Gojo on the other hand was panicking as well.
He didn't know if he should just throw on another of his polo shirts or a sweater. He had his clothes spread out on his bed to make it easier for him to choose.
He settled on a brown patterned sweater with his white shirt underneath and his usual black jeans.
After receiving the message that you were ready, he rushed out the door, bringing the car’s engine to life.
Gojo went over potential lines, like the hopeless romantic he had grown to be.
"Looking as gorgeous as ever." No, way too soon to say that. "Nice rack." No no, definitely not that. Shit, should he have gotten you flowers? Wait, he doesn't know which you prefer. He should first figure that out and then get you some. You looked like a tulip girl, or maybe roses?
His nose scrunched up. Did he put on cologne today? Did he stink? what if you thought he smelt bad.
What about his hair? Did it look greasy? He took a double shower today, shaved his entire body, just in case.
All negative thoughts left his head once he reached your house. You were standing out there waiting for him, looking around cutely with your hair blowing around a bit from the winter wind.
He clenched his jaw close, not wanting it to fall open.
Your eyes landed on his car, face brightening. You gave him a little wave, adjusting the strap of your purse on your shoulder as you made your way down the street to him.
Gojo came back to earth, jumping out of his seat to go over to the passengers side, opening the door. "You're so pretty." he complimented, watching you sit down.
"Thank you!" You happily chirped.
He walked over to his side once again, typing out the location of the cafe on the console, previously where your address was written.
You both began with small talk. How your classes were going, why you even chose the university, all of that.
“So, why soccer?” You asked.
“Well, like I said, my parents wanted me to do something impressive, y'know? I’ve been playing since I was like five. It’s the only thing I’m good at.”
“I highly doubt that.”
Your words made his cheeks warm up.
“Why piano?” He forced himself to speak, praying you hadn't noticed the way his hands were gripping the steering wheel.
You hummed in thought. “I don’t know actually. I’ve always liked music and I thought the piano was cool, so I just stuck to it. I tried out guitar before but piano was easier for me.”
Gojo listened intently, almost as if your words were the most important things to ever exist.
“I play for the school from time to time.”
"Is that so? I'll go and support you if you promise to come to my game."
You nodded. "Deal! I'll even wear your jersey."
Fuck. he'd like that. a lot.
"Noted." A breathy chuckle left him.
Your destination wasn't far, but traffic made it seem as if it was. "Think we're here." He looked around, parking the car just as the generated voice set on the map spoke out.
'You have arrived.'
⟢
The date went well, really well.
You even went as far as holding hands as the two of you made your way into the heart of the town center, admiring the Christmas decorations they had set up, laughing at the way they made The Grinch appear.
“Hold on, stand over there let me take a picture!” He pointed over at the cardboard cutout of the character with a silhouette of a person with a hole cut out where the face should be, allowing people to place their head in.
You smiled after posing.
The phone’s camera snapped, taking a couple of pictures.
‘Gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous.’ Gojo grinned, showing you the captures he had taken to you once you made your way back to him.
“Let’s take one together!” You offered.
His heart beat overtook the holiday music playing, beating loud as hell as you got closer to him for the picture. He gulped, shyly wrapping his arm around your shoulder, forcing himself to look at the camera and not you.
But eventually the day came to an end, and with your curfew hour approaching, he drove you home.
"Hey so um, I was wondering if we could do this again soon?" He internally cringed at how desperate he sounded.
"Of course. I mean, obviously."
Satoru bit back a smile, knowing it was no use with the way his face was shifting to a soft pink color.
He pulled up to your now familiar house, watching you gather your things, unbuckling your seatbelt.
He quickly scrambled out of his seat, rushing over to your side to open the door. You chuckled at how hard he tried, but you appreciated it.
"Thank you."
You both stood in front of each other, the silence heavy. He leaned in, wanting to close the small distance in between you two, but the sound of your neighbor's dog barking snapped him back into reality.
He cleared his throat, taking a small step back. "So um, I'll see you."
"Yeah, see you." You took a couple of steps before turning back around. “I had a lot of fun today, Satoru.”
You reached up on your toes, pecking his cheek gently. A gasp broke from Gojo before hearing the soft clack of your heels disappear with every step you took up to your front door, turning around one last time to wave goodbye at him.
Gojo's hand slowly made its way to touch the area where you had kissed him.
There's no doubt.
He was in love.
Gojo made his way into his dorm room, locking it behind him.
He threw his sweater onto a chair, leaving him in his undershirt, making his way to the couch, plopping down on it. His forearm laid over his forehead thinking back to you and how well your date went.
He smiled softly, clearly satisfied.
Suguru heard the door close, indicating his friend had come home. He went out to greet him but the view of him laying on the couch, eyes closed but smile intact, his face shifted. He knew gojo was in too deep.
And he knew that sooner or later, shit would go down.
⟢
"No no.. that one's an eight note." You pointed at the music sheets in front of you.
"It deadass looks like a sixteenth note." He argued.
"No it doesn't!"
"This is way too complicated.." Gojo groaned, resting his head on his hand all while he averted his gaze from the papers to your pretty face.
He admired you, hand already reaching to fix a strand of hair, thumb lingering on your cheek.
"Satoru focus.." You whined, clearly distressed that your date couldn't understand the difference between two notes.
"Can't. You're too pretty."
His lips grazed yours for just a second, and in that second alone he was able to tell that one kiss wasn't going to be enough.
Your hands placed themselves on his shoulders, previously on the piano seat, returning the sweet short pecks he kept initiating.
His hands went behind your back, bringing your body closer to his.
"Quarter note.. treple clef-" He mumbled against your lips.
"Treble clef." You corrected him.
"Whatever."
After four successful dates, Gojo finally got what, or who, he wanted. You. He finally got you.
And he was the happiest bastard on earth.
“Want to go to the mall, baby?” He said against your lips, tugging at your lower lip.
“Mmm, yeah okay!” You chirped before wincing at his biting. “Ouch! Toru!”
He grinned, licking at where he bit. “Sorry. I just love these pretty lips so much.”
“Yeah yeah..” You rolled your eyes, laughing at the sudden tickle attack he declared against your tummy, poking at the sides.
“Let’s get going.”
⟢
The shoes were put on display so any shoppers could get a brief glance at it before deciding if it was worth buying or not. You stared at them for a while. They were a pretty pair of Mary Jane's. Low heeled but had some chunk put into the platform part and they had a strap that wrapped around the ankle. The bow in the middle of it was small but it added so much to the design.
You always asked your mom for a pair whenever you went out with her and your sister. She always dismissed it, saying they were too expensive. But here they are, only $40.99. Your gaze turned to look at the big poster they had plastered on the window. a new month's deal. 'Buy one get one 50% off!'
Gojo approached you holding a bag full of pizza bits and a single large cup of lemonade intended for the both of you to share from Weltzels pretzels. He took the sight of you looking at a pair of shoes so intently, almost like you were debating buying them.
"Do you like those?" He asked, offering you the small warm bag of food before he took a sip of the drink in his hand. You happily accepted the treats before shrugging. "Not sure."
He hummed. "You've been staring at them for a while now."
"They just remind me of a pair I used to want when I was a kid. But they were always "too expensive" so my mom never got them for me. But she was always willing to drop a grand on bags she would never even use." You saw at the corner of your eyes Gojo reaching to grab a piece of the pizza from the bag.
He didn't say anything for a while, just staring at the shoes as well as he chewed on his pizza bit. Then, he turned and walked off into the store, leaving you standing confused. Your eyes followed as he talked to an employee, pointing at the pair of shoes displayed on the window. Specifically, the pair you wanted. The clerk nodded before disappearing behind the door that read 'workers only!'
"Um, baby?" You whispered out, following him inside the store to where Gojo was standing, still sipping onto his comically large drink.
"Uh hey what are you doing?" You asked once you reached him. He glanced back at you, reaching to grab another piece from inside the bag. "Checking if they have those shoes in your size."
You mumbled his name awkwardly as you shifted the now empty bag in your hands because that biggie ate them all. He took a bite from the treat before feeding it to you. "Shh, I'm working."
The worker returned with a box in his hand. "Size seven?" Gojo nodded, taking the box in his hands, gesturing for you to sit down on the seats provided by the store. "Hey you don't have to.."
"I know," he interrupted. "I want to."
He got down on one knee, placing the cup he was previously sipping on next to you. His hands moved to open up the shoe box, carefully taking out the pair of black mary janes. "Give me your foot" he patted his knee. "Here."
"I can put them on myself.."
"I want to, love." He said sternly, forcing your foot to rest on his knee. "I'm going to stain your pants-" you mumbled embarrassed. He squeezed your calf before slipping off the shoes you were wearing right now, grabbing the shoe, carefully putting it on your right foot. "Not too loose or tight?"
You shook your head. "No.. they're.. they're perfect." He hummed, his skilled fingers adjusted the strap on your ankle handling you like you were the most valuable thing to him. He looked up at you, his expression softened the second your eyes met. "Just like you." Your eyes widened the second he said that, blush overtaking your face.
You tried saying something but nothing came out. Not like you could with the way your throat was drying up. I mean, your boyfriend of what, a month (?) was offering to buy you these expensive shoes out of nowhere. You reached for the cup of lemonade next to you as he worked on your left foot, only to realize he already finished the drink as well.
Is this the type of greed they talk about in the bible?
"Stand up." he ordered in which you complied. You looked down at the fresh pair on your feet, walking around a bit to test them out.
"You like 'em?" he asked again. You turned to him, walking to be right next to him. "Yeah, I like them. A lot"
He hummed in acknowledgment. "Well, go and look for another pair. They have the bogo discount anyway, so might as well take advantage of it." He stood up, brushing his jeans from the small stain you left behind.
"No.. no that's too much! This is more than enough! Besides, you shouldn't be spending so much on me, you already paid for dinner today-"
"Baby, seriously. I don't care if I drop a grand on you, you can make it up to me by allowing me to kiss you numb. Go get another pair." He looked around the store before his eyes landed on a pair of converse. "Get some converse, your black ones are all beat up."
"I like them that way." You argued as you took off the shiny shoes before replacing them with said beat up converse. "Well I don't. makes you look like a sad homeless lady. I want my girl to have pretty clothes to match her pretty face."
You sighed, feeling your heart warm up.
"I'm not throwing these converse away. They hold too many memories."
His hand reached for yours. "Yeah no, we can burn them ceremonially later." He brought your hand up to his face, kissing your knuckles one by one with his pink tinted lips.
He was so entranced by your face, he failed to notice the pair of eyes staring you both down.
⟢
“Hey baby!” You coo’ed into the phone, hearing your boyfriend's tired grunts from the other side.
“Morning my pretty girl.” He yawned, dragging a hand over his face.
“It’s four toru, did you just wake up?”
Gojo carefully sat up, watching his bedsheets pool down at his lap, exposing his bare chest. His nipples hardened at the cold air, and he didn’t have to be fully awake to know that he was hard.
Rock hard.
Your voice wasn’t helping out at all.
“Just calling to ask if you’d like to come watch me perform later?”
Your question snapped him from his horny ass thoughts. “What? Baby, you’re having a show later? Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
Usually, he knew when you had piano practices and performances.
“I just.. didn’t know if you wanted to sit down for two hours.”
Gojo sighed, not liking the way you even considered thinking he could be bored from watching you do what you love.
“If it meant watching my girl play, I’d gladly sit down for more than a couple hours. I can sit for decades.”
“Toru..”
“I’ll be there. When did you say it was again?” He rubbed at his eyes, feeling his crusties fall down.
“Today at seven.”
He froze for a split second, remembering he had practice. It had completely slipped from his mind.
“Seven..” He repeated softly to himself. Practice was at five, and it lasted two hours and a half.
He had gotten in trouble from ditching last time so he could take you out. ‘Three strikes, you’re out.’ But it would only be his second. He could handle another scolding from his coach. His voice was already echoing through his mind.
The pause rushed to fill it. “It’s okay if you can’t. I know I’m asking last minute, it was just-”
“I’ll be there,” he cut in.
“Are you sure-”
“Positive. I'm positive sweetheart.” His voice was firmer now.
“Wait, don’t you have practice today?” You faintly remembered him telling you a couple days back how his schedule had changed from practice going from every even day to every odd day.
“Yeah, but you really think I need it? I’m as ready as ever”
“Toru..”
“Seriously baby, I’ll be there for you.” His eyes shifted back down to his raging boner. “..Can you come over before you go over to set up your piano though?”
“Oh, yeah, is something wrong?”
“... Just need you.”
Gojo wasn’t a virgin, far from that actually. but with the way his body was warming up and heart beating a thousand miles an hour, he could be mistaken as one.
He waited patiently for you to arrive at his dorm.
Fuck.
Would your panties be pink? Or would they be black.
Or better yet, blue?
“Yo.” Geto knocked at Gojo’s door, despite it already being cracked open. “I’m heading out now to go to practice. You coming?”
“Uh, yeah. I just need to do something quick then I’ll make my way over.”
“Don’t miss again. The coach will be on your ass like last time.” He chuckled, waving bye at the white haired boy.
Gojo bit the inside of his cheek, laying back on his arms, deep in his thoughts as always. You were worth it.
That’s not a question.
⟢
“Oh my god, fuck. Yes baby, fuck!” Gojo closed his eyes, panting like a damn dog on a sunny day.
The way your puffy folds were stretched over him only encouraged him to go faster and harder, hitting your cervix at a perfect angle.
“Pretty fucking pussy, you’re so goddamn pretty, look at you.”
Your performance dress was sitting on the ground while your panties were ripped in the middle, right at your entrance.
“Toru!”
You whimpered, hiding your face in his pillow. "Don't hide yourself from me, baby. wanna see ya.”
The headboard was hitting against the wall with a thud and Gojo could only pray that the other students staying at the dorms couldn’t hear them.
He buried himself deeper into your cunt, bottoming out.
“You’re too big…” you squealed, gripping onto the now wet bedsheets.
“I know. And you’re too tight.”
His hand shifted to grope your ass, fondling the plush meat, hips not stopping or slowing.
Your breathless pleas were like music to his ears.
“My pretty girlfriend.. mmm aren’t you so pretty?” he praised. The veins in his arms were more evident now. One was appearing on his forehead in concentration, trying to figure out the best way to make you cum.
You were a virgin after all.
Profanities spilled from both your lips, feeling yourself clench harder around him. A ring of pre was forming just at the base of his cock, like a damn tattoo.
“Babe! T-think I’m close!”
He grunted lowly. “Don’t cum just yet.” The squelches have now turned sloppier, and louder, and hotter.
His white bangs were sticking to his forehead no thanks to the thin layer of sweat that had formed.
“Not done with you yet.”
His hands placed themselves both on your hips, thick fingertips rubbing you lovingly before flipping you over without slipping out.
He wasted no time smacking at your cunt, watching your wetness fly into the air with each spank.
“Satoru…!” You felt lightheaded in the best way possible. Your drool dripped down your chin, watching him thrust in and out. The hair that trailed down his belly button to join his pubes just made you tighten onto his aching cock even more.
How could your boyfriend be this beautiful?
Gojo hesitated, pulling you closer to his hips, latching a hand lightly to your neck.
“Is this okay?”
You nodded feeling him squeeze it.
The sounds of your breathy moans, messy cunt along with the smack of his balls that hit your ass with every thrust had you both in a trance.
So much so that you didn’t seem to notice the door shutting and the sudden appearance of Geto who was frozen in his place, looking absolutely mortified.
“What the fuck.”
His voice broke through your needy whines. “Satoru!” This time his voice sounded harsher, angrier.
Gojo’s movements came to a halt, keeping his grip on your waist. His body covered you, blocking you from his friends' view. But he knew for a fact that Geto already had in mind who was in the bed with him.
You quickly brought the sheets to your chest in an attempt to cover yourself.
“... Ever heard of knocking?” Gojo mumbled.
“The door was fucking open. I could see you from the kitchen.” Geto did not advance from his spot on the doorframe. “Don’t tell me you actually got with her.”
Gojo hasn't told him about the two of you yet. Or anyone really.
You never questioned it, thinking he’d want to take it slow before he introduced you to his friends let alone family. You had just started dating a couple weeks back. But the way his friend said it ‘don’t tell me you actually got with her.’ left a bad taste in your mouth.
What did he mean by that?
“Geto, seriously get out of the room.”
“Your parents are going to kill you Satoru,” He was more animated now, hands waving in the air angrily. His own thoughts didn’t let him process the way Gojo used his last name on him. “Aren’t you supposed to be at practice right now? What the hell are you doing man-”
“I said get out!” You’ve never heard Gojo’s voice beam like that.
Ever.
It got across though. Geto slammed the door shut, storming off.
Gojo sighed, staring at the wall before averting his gaze down to you, smiling softly. “Guess the moment is over, huh?”
Your fingers twitched on his shoulders, feeling tears prick at the corners of your eyes. “Why’d he say that?”
His eyebrows furrowed, face shifting to one of concern at your shaky voice.
“Hey hey, baby, it’s okay shh..”
His softening cock slipped out of you with a small pop, arms circling around you to bring you into a hug.
“My family.. Is an ass. A big fucking ass. They’re strict with me, especially my love life. They think they know what’s best for me but fuck, no they dont. I know what’s right for me and that’s you, love. It’s you.”
His lips grazed at your cheek, pecking lightly.
“It’s been you since I laid eyes on you.”
⟢
His words looped over and over in your head as you mentally prepared yourself for your upcoming performance.
From behind the curtain, you peeked out to see him sitting in his designated seat, head tilted down at his digital camera, adjusting the settings, waiting for you to come out so he could preserve the moment forever.
Your teeth sank into the inside of your cheek, now becoming a new habit of yours, pacing back into the backstage area.
If you've practiced the song multiple times, you shouldn’t be nervous.
Right?
Wrong.
Because the problem wasn’t the notes or the tempo, it was that you’d chosen this song with him in mind.
“Want to watch La La Land?” Satoru mumbled earlier that month, scratching the back of his neck while the other lazily clicked away at the remote control.
“Sure!” You tossed the blanket over your bodies, snuggling close to his warm bare chest. “How are you not cold?” You pressed your cheek against him.
“Hm?” His eyes landed on you after pressing ‘play’. “I am cold. I just want to show off my amazing muscles to my amazing girl.”
“Weirdo.”
Neither of you have watched the film before. but somehow ended up falling in love with it. You with the music, and him with the storyline.
“I hope we never end up like them.” His voice was a whisper, silently wrapping his arms tight around you.
“Toru-”
“Never, ever leaving you, baby. Fuck soccer and you know what, fuck piano too. Don’t leave me.”
You heard your name be called out, indicating you were next.
You quickly patted down your skirt with trembling hands, stepping in front of the mirror to make sure your hair, makeup, posture, everything was perfect.
The stage manager gave you a nod and you finally stepped out.
His eyes landed on you immediately, smiling lovingly up at you. You could feel your chest tighten as you sat at the piano, fingers already hovering over the keys.
From the distance, you could hear the sound of something clicking, his camera.
You inhaled before pushing down your fingers, allowing the melody to unfold. You’d discreetly look over at him, seeing how he stared at you so preciously.
By the final note, your hands had stopped shaking.
The room erupted in applause, the loudest coming from Satoru. You bowed, eyes never leaving him even when you stepped offstage, rushing towards him.
“Satoru!”
He didn’t let another word come out of you, automatically cupping your cheeks, pressing his lips against yours.
“Such a cruel girl.” He pecked again. “You picked that song on purpose didn’t ya?”
You giggled. “Maybe.”
His thumb rubbed under your eye gently.
“You did amazing, sweetheart.”
⟢
Satoru has come to notice that the only way you were able to practice piano was using the school’s.
And with Christmas approaching, he figured it’d only be appropriate if he got you one of your own.
His hands covered your eyes, leading you carefully to the living room where your present was.
“Alright, 3..2..1.”
His hands fell allowing you to see. you blinked, eyes adjusting to the bright lights on the tree.
Your jaw dropped.
In front of you was none other than a console piano. It wasn’t like the one in the music room where you practiced in and the only place you knew that had the instrument available for use, but regardless it was beautiful.
And completely yours.
“You like it?” He asked, rubbing your back. You nodded excitedly. “Of course I do! Thank you!” Your face was as bright as the Christmas lights, beaming at the new piano that sat in your living room.
“I'm glad..” he whispered, letting go of you so you could look at it closer.
You squealed, slightly jumping up and down at it. he groaned at the recoil of your ass which was visible under your plaid skirt.
“It's so gorgeous!” your fingers pushed down on the keys.
“Just like you.”
“So cheesy” You said before bursting into laughter as his hands found your stomach, tickling you. You braced yourself on the piano's surface. That's when you felt it.
His very prominent boner that was straining his pants.
Gojo noticed that you noticed.
A smirk appeared on that stupid face of his. “How about we check how sturdy this sucker is.” He placed a hand on your gift.
Gojo’s hips snapped forward with a ruthless pace, each thrust making you hit against the brand new instrument and begin to rattle with all his strength.
His breath was coming out in short pants, chest pressed up against your back, pinning you harder against the surface of the piano. You whispered out his name like a prayer, every sound you made reached his ears and that only seemed to push him even further.
“So goddamn beautiful.” He praised.
At some point, words became too difficult for you to say, resulting in you answering with only moans and whimpers. gojo’s fingers were digging into your hips, leaving crescent like marks on them. He kept pounding into you harshly, tip already brushing against a sweet spot inside you.
“Right there!” You begged along with a loud mewl.
Your skirt was bunched up in his hands, almost tearing the fabric apart as he felt himself grow closer.
“Here?” he began going deeper, watching you fall apart. The bounce of your ass was not helping, especially with the way it slapped against his thighs. His lower lip was in between his teeth, letting out grunts of his own spill.
You were both thankful your parents weren’t home. He wouldn’t want to ruin the image they had of him this quickly. Of the perfect guy for their daughter already fucking her numb over her christmas present.
“Think m’cummin!” You sobbed out, reaching behind you to grab his waist for support. He coo’ed softly, hand leaving your skirt to hold your hand in his. “Me too baby, let’s finish together alright? I'm cumming inside you. no way am i able to pull out this tight fuckin pussy.”
You nodded.
“Please fill me up!” Gojo grinned once he heard that. “If ya say so darling.”
Your legs gave up on you at the feeling of his warm seed filling you to the brim. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, mouth open with sounds still coming out as your orgasm hit you as well.
“Good girl baby.” His arms were wrapped around your waist, pecking your temple lovingly. “Stay with me..”
You both stayed in that position, dick still twitching inside you before softening, forcing him to slip out with a loud squelch that made you cringe.
“M’guessing you loved your gift?” He reached down for your panties, sliding them back on you but not before watching his semen ooze out of your cunt along with yours. He fought the urge to stick his tongue in you to clean the mess up, but he could tell you were already overstimulated, so he decided to eat you out some other time.
And by that I mean in a few hours.
“Yeah.. thank you.. so much..” You whimpered at the sting on your ass after he slapped it. Gojo quickly zipped his pants back up, pushing his hair back with a pant.
“Of course my love. you better play me every song you know on it.”
“Will do..” you smiled weakly up at him.
“I'm gonna go get ya water, cmon sit down on the couch sweetheart.”
You did as he said, carefully sitting down. The feeling of his cum sticking to your panties just made you clench your thighs.
Why did he have to be so sexy?
You stared back at your piano, admiring it. You were already thinking of all the songs you would play from sunrise to sunset.
Gojo walked back to the living room holding a glass of water, handing it over.
“My final game is coming up.. So I have lots of practice to do. Hope the piano keeps you occupied while I’m away.” His arm wrapped over your shoulder, bringing you closer.
“Mmmm that’s right.”
“Wanna head over to a restaurant, baby?” He never hesitated in asking you, and he urged you to never be afraid in asking him for whatever you desired.
“I’d really love that.”
“Good good, let’s get going then.” He stood up, offering his hand to you.
“Uh, no way am I going out to eat like this.”
His eyebrow twitched in confusion. “Like what?”
You motioned downstairs, lifting your skirt to show off the wet mess.
Gojo laughed, smacking your thigh lightly. “No no, you gotta head out like that.”
“Absolutely not!”
⟢
The dinner consisted of nothing but him staring at you.
“Babe, eat.” You urged.
“Can’t, the view is too nice.”
After eating out, you both settled in heading over to his place.
His laugh quieted down as he pulled into the parking lot, seeing two familiar snow colored haired people. He could feel his heart sink and blood boil.
“Stay here darling.” He ordered you, squeezing your thigh. You mumbled a soft ‘ok’, attempting to look behind you out the window to see what was going on.
He got out of the vehicle, walking around to where the people he wanted to see the least were standing. His mother was biting her nails anxiously like a mad woman. His father had his arms crossed over his chest, a serious look displayed on his face.
Then there was Suguru. looking as guilty as ever.
And it didn’t take a genius to figure out what was going on.
“Is that the girl?” His mother asked. She had never expected her son to be going out with a girl instead of sticking to his schedule. How dare he? “Is that your little girlfriend?” Her voice rose up.
“What did we say about relationships?” his father reminded him.
But all gojo could think about was the fact that they found out because of the tan boy standing not far away.
“Are you fucking kidding me.” He stared at the one person he thought he could trust. His hands shot out to grab Suguru's shirt collar.
“You told them?!” He was practically screaming in his face. But Suguru kept looking unbothered, as if he didn’t practically ruin Gojo’s life right now.
“Son, calm down.” Gojo's father said sternly.
“No, no how the hell am I supposed to calm down. You all keep getting in the way of my life. My life!” He was at the point of crying tears out of frustration.
“She is just a girl, Satoru.” His mother said. “She woo’ed you with a few tunes so what, it’s not going to bring money into the family, is it? You need to find yourself a good woman. But right now, your focus is on your career. Not a girlfriend, and especially not her.”
“You are no longer the one to decide what you think is best for me. I love her, mom. I don't care what you think, just know that I am not listening to anything you say.”
That shut his mom up real quick, shooting him a death glare, one that would have 6 year old Gojo in tears by now. But he kept his head high.
“Satoru, you have to understand that we want what’s best for you.”
“No,” He interrupted, turning to look at his father now. “You want what’s best for you.”
He then turned his head towards Suguru, whose eyes were set on his shoes, knowing he completely lost his best friend's trust. It's not like he had a choice either but to tell the truth. His and Gojo's family were close, and he knew that if he were to lie to Gojos parents when they asked him why the coach had informed them that their son was on the verge of being kicked from the team, the families would have even more conflicts.
Gojo wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, but instead he walked right past the new stranger.
“Can you hear me out for a second.” Geto caught up to him, ignoring the putrid sobs coming from Mrs. Gojo. “Satoru.” he called out.
“Look man, did you really expect me to lie when they came to the dorm, worried sick that you missed two practices? What was I supposed to say?”
“Tell them I was sick, that an emergency came up, I don’t know but you could’ve come up with a shitty excuse.”
“Just for them to find out I didn't tell the truth and have our families fight over me being a liar?!”
Gojo was breathing heavily, eyebrows furrowed and jaw set tight. but his face fell as soon as he remembered you were still in the car.
He shook his head. “They can stay the fuck out of my life. And so can you.”
Geto froze at that. “You don’t mean that.”
“Trust me, I mean every bit.” The air around them felt heavy. “You chose them over me.”
“Gojo, the families-“
“You're just a damn puppet. Same as I was, but I learned to stop playing the role. Do you think they actually see you as their son? They see you as an accomplishment.”
He rushed down the stairs, approaching his car where you were still in, head hung low nervously as you played with the skin around your fingernails, clearly worried. His parents were standing outside the building, shooting dirty looks towards your way.
“I'm driving you home.” Gojo said after entering the car, closing the door shut and clicking his seatbelt on. “Mind if I stay with you for a bit, baby?”
His eyes met yours.
“… Did they want us to break up?” You asked quietly, scared to hear his response.
He immediately grabbed your hand in his to reassure you. “You know I would never ever do that. You're everything to me no matter what they think or say, I'm not letting things end between us. Got it?”
You hesitated, not wanting his parents to hate their only son because he chose you over them. “But what if they’re right? What if you can do better?”
You heard.
Of course you heard. Not like they were being quiet.
His hold tightened. “Don't you start with that.” That's the last thing he said as he drove to yours, address no longer needed on the ups no thanks to the amount of times he’s been over.
You worried over what his family would think of him now.
Would they hate him because of you?
⟢
The bed felt surprisingly cold.
Your boyfriend's back was turned towards you and even though his back muscles were on full display, you couldn’t ogle without having something eating you up from the inside.
“Toru.. baby can we talk about earlier?”
“Love, if you’re going to tell me that they’re right I swear to god-”
“No,” You sighed, placing a hand on his shoulder, rubbing it down to the small of his back. “I just.. I feel like we shouldn’t wait until morning to discuss it.”
Begrudgingly, Satoru turned around, meeting eyes with you. “I will never ever break up with you because my family thinks they know what is best for me. I cut them off on the spot. They’ve got no say in what I do with my life nor with the woman I love. I told you once and I’ll tell you again. I love you, okay?”
Your heart warmed and you felt your worriness ease. “I love you too.”
“I’ve been wanting to get rid of them for a long ass time anyways.” He yawned, throwing an arm around your waist. “Just finally got a good excuse to do so.”
Your lips met in a small but sweet peck.
“Now let’s go to sleep.. Big game tomorrow.”
⟢
Suguru seems to not have caught on to the fact that his former best friend no longer wanted to be a part of his life anymore.
“Satoru, seriously let’s talk.” He begged like a desperate ex.
The white haired boy only rolled his eyes in response, walking past him to reach his locker. “I don’t need you messing with my head before the game. Told you to stay the fuck away from me and I meant it.”
He quickly tugged off his shirt and replaced it with his white and teal jersey before slamming his locker shut and turning to walk out. Suguru’s hand placed itself on Satoru’s chest only to get pushed off almost immediately.
Satoru walked out, hearing the sound of the crowd cheering. He looked around until he spotted you sitting not too far from the front.
He smiled stupidly at himself knowing he was right where he wanted to be.
⟢
You stared at him like he grew three heads.
“Uhh yeah babe, I think I remember our whole love story. I was there.”
“Okay well yes but I’m retelling it because.. Because..” Satrou groaned, looking off to the side where two waitresses were standing, nodding at them.
Before you could look towards the direction he was staring at, a familiar song started playing.
Love me.
The same one you played for him all those years ago.
“Oh, hey-”
“Shhh..” He brought a finger up to your lips before standing up. Satoru reached into his pocket pulling out a small black box. “Baby.. light of my life.”
Your eyes watered, already knowing where this was going.
He got down on one knee.
“Will you make me the happiest man alive and marry me?”
Eight months have passed since your breakup with Satoru. So why was he still thinking about you?
Before you even suggested the breakup, he’d been thinking about it too. After a year together, university had pulled you too far apart. There was no more time for dates, movie nights, or mornings spent eating breakfast together.
You told yourselves it was for the best — that love wasn’t enough if you didn’t have the time to enjoy it. You were adults; you were going to move on.
Or so he thought, until he saw you walking a little too close to another guy.
He was making you laugh, and Satoru noticed you lean in slightly, playfully punching him in the arm.
Satoru frowned. It’s fine. You’re not together anymore. It was for the best.
But then the idiot guy put his arm around your shoulders — too comfortable, too familiar, too intimate to be friendly.
Satoru clicked his tongue and looked away. He wasn’t jealous. He refused to be jealous.
You were free to date whoever you wanted. You’d agreed to break up. You were adults. Mature. Rational.
So why did it still feel like you were his, even when you weren’t? Why did his heart feel like it had just been sucker-punched?
He glanced again — because he was just that masochistic. The guy said something else, and you laughed again. Louder. The exact sound Satoru had spent months trying to forget.
Oh, come on. That’s not even a good joke. You used to laugh WAY harder at mine.
The guy leaned in like he was going to whisper something in your ear — your ear, the one Satoru used to nip at just to hear that pretty sound— No. Nope. He does not need to think about that right now.
Then the guy’s arm slid from your shoulder to your waist, too natural. Too practiced.
How long had this been going on? Did you tell him? Did you even think about him at all? Did he have the right to ask any of that? No. Of course not.
He could leave. He should leave. That would be normal. Healthy. Responsible.
But his feet didn’t move. In fact, he somehow found himself drifting closer.
He was simply being… civil. Right? You didn’t end on bad terms. You could have a nice chat.
Satoru adjusted his sunglasses, forced a smirk, and strolled forward with a confidence he definitely did not feel. Whatever. No one had to know.
You were mid-laugh when you finally noticed him approaching. Your smile dimmed just slightly — surprise flickering in your eyes— and he hated how fast he caught it. Eight months apart and he could still read you like a damn book.
“Hey, you” he said, voice smooth as ever, hands shoved casually in his pockets.
The guy — whose stupid hand was still comfortably resting on your waist — blinked, clearly confused by the tall white-haired intruder
“Uh, hey” you said, fighting for a neutral tone.
His gaze flicked down to the guy’s arm again, then back to your face.
“You must be her friend?” the guy said, stepping forward with his free hand raised.
“Ex,” Satoru corrected instantly, painfully calm. “I’m her ex.”
You closed your eyes like you wished the earth would swallow you.
Satoru continued, all sweet politeness dipped in poison. “But hey, don’t worry. I’m super chill about it.”
You shot him a look that screamed stop it, which he gracefully ignored.
The guy quickly removed his hand from your waist. Satoru felt a warm, petty satisfaction bloom in his chest.
“Oh,” the guy mumbled, realization dawning. “I’m gonna go grab us something to drink. You two… catch up.”
He gave you a look that silently asked, Is this okay?
You gave him a tiny nod.
The second he was out of earshot, you glared at Satoru. “What the hell was that?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Me? Being civil. I thought I could have a nice chat with my ex-girlfriend that I haven’t seen in a while.”
You narrowed your eyes, and he could practically hear your unspoken question: Why are you doing this?
Because I saw someone else touching you like I used to, and I realized I’m not over you at all.
But he had too much respect for himself, for you, for what you had to say that. So instead he asked,
“So, is he your boyfriend?”
Your jaw tightened. “Satoru.”
“What?” He smiled lightly, deceptively harmless. “It’s a simple question.”
“It’s none of your business.”
For someone who towered over everyone, he suddenly felt very, very small.
Then you sighed, looking at him with a sad, familiar expression “Satoru… don’t misunderstand me. I’m glad to see you. I’m always…” You paused, searching for either the right word or the right boundary. “…happy to know you’re doing well.”
“I’m not doing well.” Shit. Why couldn’t he shut up?
You shook your head. “This isn’t fair. It’s been eight months. We both agreed on this. You even told me you were thinking about it before I put it on the table.”
He flinched — barely, but you caught it. He shook his head, forcing a breath out and sliding a hand through his hair
“You’re right,” he said. “I just saw you and thought — hey, go say hi. I didn’t plan on…”
He gestured vaguely toward where the guy had gone off to. “…whatever that was.”
You crossed your arms. “You were jealous.”
Satoru swallowed “Jealous?” he echoed with a soft scoff. “No. I’m Satoru Gojo. I don’t get jealous.”
You held his gaze. Quiet. Patient. Unmoved.
Before either of you could say anything else, before the tension could turn into something more dangerous or more honest, the guy returned with two drinks, looking cautiously between you.
“Everything okay here?”
You stepped back from Satoru, and he watched the space open between you like it physically hurt him.
“Yeah,” you said, offering a small, polite smile. “Everything’s fine.”
Satoru pressed his lips together “I’ll get going,” he said, voice almost too casual. “It was nice seeing you.”
He turned before either of you had to pretend any harder. And you hated that something inside you was hoping he’d turn back around with some stupid joke, something to break the tension the way he always used to.
But he didn’t.
He kept walking, slipping between bodies and fading into the crowd. And maybe that’s why it stung — because you’d already lived this goodbye before.
It was ridiculous. Eight months, and nothing about the way he affected you had changed.
“So that was Satoru Gojo,” Kentaro said, pulling you back to reality.
You blinked. “Mmh.”
His eyes softened. “You good?”
You nodded. “Yeah. Sorry. That must’ve been weird for you.”
“I get it,” Kentaro said with a shrug.
You didn’t realize you’d been holding your breath until you let it out.
Kentaro wasn’t dramatic. That was part of why things with him were easy. He’d shown up one night at a party, at a moment when your heart felt too heavy and too empty. It had started as a distraction — one you hadn’t been looking for — and instead of fading, it had softened into an easy friendship. No expectations. No pressure. Just two people keeping each other company while figuring their own shit out.
You knew he wasn’t Satoru — and you never once fooled yourself into thinking anyone could fill that space; but you hadn’t been trying to replace him. You were just trying to breathe without your chest hurting. And from what you’d heard, Satoru had been doing the same. That’s how real relationships end sometimes — not cleanly, not neatly, just two people trying to survive the absence of the other. That’s the messy truth about real breakups.
“You’re not over him at all, you know that, right?” Kentaro said.
Your lips tightened. “Is it that obvious?”
He smiled, not mocking — just kind.
“I just… didn’t expect to see him today,” you admitted.
“I know,” he said. “And he definitely didn’t expect to see me either.”
You let out a weak laugh. “He was just jealous. Men things, I guess.”
“Mmh.” Kentaro raised a brow. “I’ve been in love once too. Trust me, that was not only jealousy. That boy was yearning.”
You stared down at your drink, fingers tightening around the cup.
“Yearning,” you echoed, like the word didn’t quite fit. “I don’t think he—”
“He was yearning,” Kentaro insisted, calm but certain. “I’m a guy. I know the face. If the world hadn’t gone silent for a second when he saw you, he deserves an award for acting.”
Your stomach flipped painfully.
“We ended things for a reason,” you said quietly. “Things weren’t working anymore.” You closed your eyes. “Shit Ken, I’m sorry. I’m such a downer.”
“Hey,” Kentaro said gently. “We’re friends, aren’t we? You don’t owe me anything.” He nudged your shoulder lightly. “But… maybe you owe yourself a bit of honesty.”
You looked up at him.
“You still love him.”
The words didn’t stab, they just settled. Heavy. Familiar. Painfully true.
You exhaled, shaky. “I—”
“You just don’t know what to do with it” Kentaro finished
Silence stretched between you.
“And for what it’s worth,” he said, “I think he’s going to try.”
Your heart skipped. “Try what?”
Kentaro tilted his head.
“To win you back.”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.
And as the two of you walked away, you couldn’t tell if the hollow ache in your chest was the ghost of an old relationship… or the quiet realization that you never stopped waiting for Satoru to come back.
“When are you going to stop being miserable, Satoru?” Suguru called from the kitchen, the sound of a blender whirring behind him while he made himself a protein shake or some other gym-rat abomination.
Gojo slumped deeper into the couch, long legs sprawled out, and a caramel macchiato with extra caramel, extra cream, extra everything, clutched in his hand. At least his brain was getting the glucose it needed to make up for today’s humiliation.
“I’m not miserable” he muttered, even though he very much sounded like it
“Satoru, you came home with the emotional stability of a wet paper bag”
“Suguru, you’re being a little careless talking like that to a man who just saw his ex with a guy. A very touchy guy”
“It’s not like you took a vow of celibacy the day you broke up” Suguru shot back, closing the fridge with his hip as he walked over.
Satoru scoffed. “No. You don’t get it” His voice dropped “That asshole was clinging to her like a parasite. She was laughing. Leaning into him like—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. “She looked comfortable” he paused “and happy”
Suguru sat down beside him, shake in hand, a sigh leaving him through his nose. “You’re allowed to feel like shit, but..”
“She made a decision,” Satoru cut him. “I seconded that stupid decision.”
“Then make a new one,” Suguru said, calm but firm. “Because pretending you’re fine stopped working months ago.”
“I’m not a homebreaker. If she’s happy with her stupid new boyfriend, there’s nothing I can do. I shouldn’t even be—” he waved a hand helplessly “—thinking about it. She deserves to be happy.”
Suguru arched an eyebrow. “Boyfriend?”
Satoru rolled his eyes. “I asked. And she said — quote — ‘it’s none of your business.’”
“Which you translated as: yes, he’s my boyfriend.”
“Exactly.”
“I think you need to figure out if that’s actually true” Suguru said. “We both know her. I don’t think she’d jump straight into a new relationship.”
Satoru let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “You didn’t see them.”
“That’s exactly why I’m saying it.” Suguru took a sip of his shake, never taking his eyes off him. “You saw what you wanted to see.”
“I swear to god I did not imagine his hand glued to her.”
“You’re spiraling,” Suguru said simply. “You’re like this when it’s about her. You aren’t thinking straight”
Satoru dropped his head back against the couch, a long breath leaving him in one heavy exhale.
“Satoru,” Suguru said quietly, setting his shake down. “you two didn’t break up because you stopped loving each other. That’s why it hurts like this.”
He didn’t respond — he only frowned slightly, his gaze drifting toward the window.
“Before you assume she moved on… consider she might just be trying to cope.” He nudged Satoru’s arm lightly. “Same as you.”
He closed his eyes, letting himself feel the truth pulsing under his ribs: He never really stopped being yours.
Not even in other beds, the ones he looked for the shape of you, the ones he never stayed the night in. Not even in moments meant to distract him. Not even when he pretended he’d moved on.
He was always yours.
You were standing between his legs, your hips brushing his knees where he sat on the tall bar stool by the kitchen counter
“Whose pretty boy is this?” you teased, holding a strawberry just out of his reach.
Satoru leaned forward, hair falling messily over his forehead, eyes bright with that stupid softness he only ever had for you.
“Mmh,” he mumbled, mouth full once you finally let him take it from your fingers, “Yours.”
You laughed “Cute”
He licked a smear of juice from his lip “Only cute?” he complained, looking down at you with that boyish pout that contradicted the heat in his eyes. “I’m being extremely handsome right now”
You rolled your eyes, but lifted another strawberry anyway. He leaned forward, nipped it from your fingers, and this time he didn’t let your hand go. He caught your wrist gently, pressed a slow kiss to the inside, then another higher, his lips warm and deliberate against your skin.
Your hand found his hair, carding through the soft white strands. He leaned into your touch instantly, like your fingers were gravity.
His fingers slid to the back of your thigh, caressing the skin softly. You felt the warmth of his palm, the lazy circles he traced there—mindless, possessive.
“Satoru…” you warned, though it came out a little breathless. “We have classes in thirty minutes.”
He dipped his head, lips ghosting over the side of your neck.
“Mmh,” he murmured, his nose brushing your skin, painfully slow. “We don’t need that much time.”
Your breath hitched.
He smiled against your skin and bit your earlobe—soft, teasing—as his hand tightened on your thigh.
You whimpered. “Satoru,” you said again, but this time it sounded like a plea.
He pulled back only slightly, eyes half-lidded, pupils blown wide. His fingers trailed up your waist, slow enough to make your skin prickle.
“Tell me I’m only cute again,” he murmured, voice a low rumble.
You couldn’t even roll your eyes properly. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love it.”
You cupped his jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth, and he looked at you like you were something sacred he didn’t know how to deserve.
“There’s a party next weekend. You should come.”
Satoru blinked, his friend’s voice pulling him out of his daydream. A nice daydream, actually. He could still feel it — your fingers in his hair, your voice saying his name. Eight months, and nothing had replaced that.
Yeah. He needed alcohol.
“Where?”
“At Rin’s.”
He turned to his friend, frowning. “Rin, as in the friend of the person who’s the reason for my entire existential crisis?”
Suguru rolled his eyes. “Yes.”
Satoru scoffed. “Do you hate me, Suguru?”
His friend laughed “Sometimes”
He let his head fall back against the couch, the caramel macchiato long forgotten on the coffee table.
“Is she going to be there?” he finally asked, as if the answer wasn’t obvious.
Suguru raised a brow. “What do you think?”
He let out a humorless sound “Then clearly I should stay here”
“You’re acting like a coward. This is dramatic. Even for you”
Satoru clicked his tongue “Fantastic. I’m being bullied in my own home.”
“What are you exactly scared of?”
Satoru exhaled through his nose. “I just… I don’t want to show up and— I don’t know. Complicate shit.”
Suguru crossed his arms. “It’s already complicated when eight months have passed and neither of you has clearly moved on.”
Satoru’s jaw tightened. “We broke up for a reason.” That’s what he’d been telling himself every day since that night.
“Exactly,” Suguru said while standing, hands loose at his sides. “You two didn’t have time. You both saw it slipping, and instead of dragging it out and letting it die slowly, you made the smart, painful decision to stop. Even if you don’t want to admit it, that was the right call.”
Satoru let out a humorless laugh. “Right. That doesn’t feel like the right word when it leaves me staring at her like an abandoned puppy.”
Suguru shrugged. “Sure, it hurts. But that doesn’t mean it’s over. That doesn’t mean you can’t… go back to being what you were. Do it the right way this time.”
Satoru dug his hands into the couch cushions. “And what if she’s moved on?”
Suguru raised an eyebrow, voice calm but sharp. “Perspective, genius. Do you really think she’s in love with someone else already? No. I’m sure she’s not. She’s probably just as confused, just as ridiculous as you are, and laughing with someone else doesn’t mean she’s in love with them. That conclusion? Stupid.”
Satoru stared at him, blinking. “Stupid?”
“Yeah, stupid,” Suguru said, mock severity in his tone. “You both are so stupid it’s giving me a headache. So stop being miserable and deal with your feelings like a big boy. You’re better than this.”
Satoru let out a long exhale. He wanted to argue, to insist, but… deep down, he knew Suguru was right.
“Think about it,” Suguru said, smirking. He started walking toward the door. “See you later”
Satoru watched him leave, the sound of the door clicking shut behind Suguru echoing in the apartment. Alone, he let the weight of his own thoughts settle over him.
Eight months. Eight months of trying to convince himself that you had done the right thing, that stepping away before it all collapsed was smart, necessary even. And it had been. He knew that. Every rational thought told him so.
But it had been enough time apart. He needed you. And if you needed him just a little, well… he was going to cling to that possibility.
He let himself feel it—anxiety, longing, frustration, and something sharper beneath it all: anticipation.
Fuck it. Fuck that stupid parasite boy. Fuck civil. Fuck smart, adult, mature, rational.
He was going.
Tonight could actually be fun, you repeated it again while fixing your hair in the mirror. And God, you needed it. After a week of your brain torturing you with Satoru’s face, replaying a thousand memories you really didn’t ask for, a party—alcohol and your friends—felt like the only reasonable cure.
Even better, it was just Rin’s place: small, full of familiar faces. Nothing out of the ordinary. And definitely nothing that involved him.
Your ex-boyfriend would never show up here. Not at Rin’s. And that was fine—safer, even.
You didn’t worry about the possibility of bumping into him. Why would you? He wouldn’t come.
So you didn’t think about him while getting ready.
You slipped on your boots and checked your phone one last time before grabbing your jacket and stepping outside into the cool night.
By the time you reached Rin’s house, you could already hear voices echoing down the hallway. You knocked once and let yourself in. The living room was dim, lit by fairy lights. People waved at you, someone handed you a drink before you could even take off your jacket.
You let the noise drown out the week you’d had. You let your shoulders drop.
You didn’t think of him. Not until your brain decided to betray you in the one quiet moment you found—leaning back against the kitchen counter, your gaze drifting toward nothing.
It hit you then.
The last time a night like this didn’t feel fragile was before everything cracked.
The rain that night felt heavier inside your apartment than outside.
Satoru stood in the middle of your room, hoodie half-zipped, shoulders curled inward, hair a mess.
You both looked exhausted.
His classes, your internship. His tutoring job, your lab hours. Schedules that didn’t align. Everything was pulling you in different directions.
“We can’t keep doing this,” you said quietly, sitting at the edge of the big bed you bought just so the two of you could fall asleep comfortably together. Your fingers twisted the sheets. “We need to stop before we ruin this. Before we ruin us.”
Your voice barely rose above a whisper, but it landed with the weight of a confession neither of you wanted to make.
He closed his eyes like hearing it spoken aloud physically hurt him.
“I know,” he murmured, almost soundless. The admission felt defeated. He’d been thinking about it for a while. It didn’t make the ache in his chest any less sharp. “I just… didn’t want to be the one to say it. Didn’t want to accept it.”
You didn’t mean to sob. It slipped out before you could swallow it, and the sound tore something open inside him. He swayed on his feet, chest tightening. He crossed the room in three steps and sank to his knees in front of you.
When he cupped your face, his hands were warm but trembling. His blue eyes—usually bright, teasing, full of summer sky—looked dim. Clouded. Like he was shoving every tear back where it came from because he didn’t want to make this harder for you.
You saw him do it. You saw the exact second he forced the pain inward, because that’s just who he was.
Your forehead touched his for a second, his breath shaking against your mouth. His fingers slid to your jaw, tracing you like he was memorizing every angle.
Your lips brushed once and his cologne, his shampoo, the faint caramel-sweet scent of his favorite coffee—all of it wrapped around you one last time.
When you pulled back, his hands lingered a second longer, reluctant, like they didn’t understand why they had to let go.
“I love you” he whispered one last time, his voice barely holding together.
Then he stood, turned, and walked out of your apartment. And you stayed there, heart in your hands.
When you finally snapped back to reality, you finished your whole drink in one go. Kentaro and Rin must have noticed your absence, because a moment later they were opening the door. You forced a small smile and lifted your hand in a half–wave
“Hey, why are you hiding over here?” Rin asked.
“I’m not hiding, I just came to get a drink” you said, half-true
“Sure. And I came here to major in economics. Let’s go, it’s better outside.” Kentaro said
You rolled your eyes, set the empty cup aside, and let them guide you back toward the living room. The door swung open, and a wave of laughter and chatter spilled out.
You were halfway down the hallway when Kentaro suddenly stopped.
Rin did too, so abruptly you nearly bumped into her. She lifted an arm in front of you, blocking your path.
“Okay,” she said too cheerfully, “you know what? The kitchen? Great vibes. Incredible vibes. We should definitely go back.”
“…What?” you said, confused
She didn’t answer. Kentaro didn’t either.
They exchanged a look— one of those wordless, loaded, oh-no looks.
You leaned between them and saw him.
He was there, leaning casually against the wall, looking like reality itself bent to accommodate him, like the space around him retreated before his presence. Tall, broad-shouldered, hair falling into his eyes with that infuriating, effortless perfection. A girl was saying something beside him—too close, too eager—but he wasn't listening. His gaze was fixed on you.
Rin whispered under her breath “Shit.”
“Told you,” Kentaro muttered. “That’s the yearning face”
Your pulse jumped so suddenly you felt a pain in your chest. Seeing Satoru Gojo twice in seven days shouldn’t have been allowed — not for your nervous system.
Nothing could’ve prepared you for the way he still occupied a room. Or the way he was looking at you now.
Not startled. Not smug. It was different from the look he gave you a week ago.
It was focused. Like in a room full of people, he’d found the only thing he came for.
You couldn’t take it—not this time. So you were the one to break the stare, your gaze slipping away first.
“We should go,” you said to your friends, and they didn’t argue.
The party kept spinning around you. You tried not to look again. You really did. But your eyes kept drifting across the room like they had a mind of their own. And every single time, Satoru was already watching you.
You grabbed another drink.
Then another.
Then maybe another.
Eventually, the noise got too loud, your thoughts too messy, and your heart too aware of every shift in Satoru’s direction. You slipped away, weaving through the crowd until you found an empty room at the end of the hall.
The door closed softly behind you.
You weren’t sure why you were there — to breathe, maybe. To steady yourself. To stop feeling like he was seeing through you, like he could read your mind.
You heard the door click open behind you.
You turned.
He leaned back against the door, cheeks flushed from alcohol. His eyes met yours and your throat tightened.
He was the first to speak
“I told Suguru I didn’t want to make shit complicated.”
He moved away from the door and stepped closer, slow, deliberate “You’re making that impossible.”
Words were stuck in your throat. Maybe the alcohol, maybe because he was looking handsome as ever, maybe because he was wearing that cologne that drove you crazy
“Are you dating him?” The question sounded ripped out of him.
“Satoru—” You knew he meant Kentaro, once again
“I know I don’t have the right to be jealous. But I am. Answer me and put me out of my misery, please” he begged
“No” you said “I’m not dating him”
His shoulders dropped in a silent exhale — relief he wasn’t able to hide. Then, his voice softened — dangerously, intimately:
“You’re not dating him” he repeated, more to himself than to you.
“Why are you here?” you asked
“Because you were looking at me.”
You blinked, but you didn’t look away. Not even when he stepped closer. Not even when his chest nearly brushed yours
“Do you even know what you’re doing to me?” His voice was low, truth loosening every word.
Your eyes flicked down — just for a second — to his mouth.
“Fuck,” he breathed, eyes dropping to your lips. “don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want me to touch you.”
Your breath caught, sharp. But you didn’t deny it. And he saw that— the hesitation, the alcohol-softened truth, the pull you were both trying to ignore.
You didn’t even have time to think. He was the one who surged forward, his mouth crashing into yours with a kind of pent-up desperation that nearly made your knees buckle.
Your back hit the dresser with a soft thud as his hands gripped your hips. You gasped, and he swallowed the sound greedily.
You tugged at his shirt — the moment your fingers brushed his skin, he groaned, low and dark, pulling your leg up around his waist. His thigh pressed between your legs, and your hips jerked forward on instinct — his breath caught, sharp and obscene.
“Shit— I missed you,” he murmured between kisses “You have no idea—”
His hands slid under your shirt, slow but confident, fingers spreading over your waist like he was memorizing the shape all over again.
His head dropped to your neck, leaving wet, hungry kisses before he caught your earlobe between his teeth—just like he always used to.
You whimpered. He pressed into you, desperate, grinding just enough to make your knees shake.
Then—
Knock, knock, knock.
The sound yanked you out of the moment.
Fuck.
What were you doing?
The realization hit like cold water, your breath stuttering as the room tilted. This wasn’t right.
What were you two even thinking?
You tore yourself out of his grip so fast his breath hitched. You didn’t look at him—just turned, crossed the room in a rush, and pulled the door open before your mind could catch up.
“Woah—” a familiar voice said as your shoulder hit a solid chest.
Suguru blinked down at you, surprise flickering across his face.
He opened his mouth—maybe to ask something—but you were already moving past him, fast, barely offering a rushed “sorry.”
You didn’t look back. You just kept going, down the hall, out into the cold air.
Your pulse was still erratic, your skin still trembling where his hands had been, and your thoughts a mess of what the hell you two were doing.
You flagged the first cab you saw and slid inside, breathless.
—
Satoru was still staring at the doorway where you’d just disappeared. His hands were in his hair, his breath unsteady.
“I fucked up,” he muttered to his friend.
“You just jumped straight into making out without even talking about your damn feelings first, didn’t you?”
Satoru shut his eyes, jaw clenching. “I’m an idiot.”
“Go.”
His eyes opened. “What?”
“Go after her, you dumbass.”
He didn’t waste another second. He bolted.
He reached the entrance, swung the door open— Nothing.
“Shit” he breathed
Of course you were gone. Of course you ran.
He didn’t stop to think.
He hurried out to the street, where his car was still parked, yanked the door open, slid into the driver’s seat, and headed straight for your apartment.
You hadn't been there long when you heard him on the other side of the door. A rough, uneven breath— like he was trying and failing to get himself under control. Then the knock, sharp but shaky, and—
“Please.”
Soft. Unsteady. Broken.
Your hand was already on the doorknob before your mind caught up.
You opened it.
He stood there with a crease carved between his brows, mouth parted, chest rising too fast — like he’d sprinted the whole way and then forgotten how to breathe.
He didn’t step forward. Didn’t try to come in. He just looked at you, and something inside him snapped open, raw and unfiltered.
The words came immediately, spilling out faster than he could think them.
“I can’t— I can’t pretend that didn’t happen,” he said, voice rough, every syllable tumbling out in a rush. “I can’t act like it was some impulse or— or nostalgia or the alcohol, or whatever bullshit people say when they’re trying to downplay something that meant everything.”
You stayed by the door, fingers curling at your sides
“I haven’t been okay. Not for a long time.” A breath, shaking. “Fuck— I don’t think I’ve been okay since that night.”
Your chest tightened, a slow, warm ache blooming beneath your ribs.
“I never moved on,” he said. “I don’t think I ever even tried to. Everyone tells you that’s what you’re supposed to do, right? You go out, you work, you laugh at the right moments, you pretend you’re fine. And it works— until suddenly it doesn’t.”
He shut his eyes, breathed hard through his nose, and when he opened them again, something sharp and wounded flickered there. Satoru didn’t cry, but this was close— painfully close.
“Last week,” he said quietly. “When I saw you with him.”
Your heartbeat stuttered.
“I thought you’d moved on. You looked happy. You were smiling, laughing. And I just—” His voice cracked, barely but unmistakably “I went home and stared at my ceiling, trying to convince myself it was fine. That you were allowed to be happy with someone else.” He shook his head, jaw tight.
“And then I talked to Suguru. And something lit up in me. A stubborn, stupid hope that maybe— maybe you felt even a fraction of what I’ve been feeling all this time.”
You stepped closer, drawn in by a pull neither of you could fight.
“And then I kissed you.” He laughed once, thin and humorless. “Like my body decided it didn’t give a damn about common sense or self-respect or the fact that we’re supposed to have boundaries now.”
He swallowed, throat bobbing.
“But what actually wrecked me was that you kissed me back.”
He kept going, voice tripping over itself, desperate to outrun the panic rising inside him.
“Because when you kissed me back, I felt—” His mouth struggled around the word. “I felt like I had you again. Even if it was one fucking second, I believed it.”
You inhaled slowly. Your lungs felt too small. He stood rigid, arms stiff at his sides, as if touching you too soon would burn him.
“And when I saw you run away from me,” he whispered, “I knew I fucked up.”
You parted your lips to speak, but he shook his head sharply.
“Please let me finish.” Not demanding — pleading.
“We broke up because it was the responsible thing to do. Because life was too loud, and neither of us could breathe under it.” he blinked hard, steadying himself. “But I— I can’t be responsible anymore. I can’t pretend that kiss didn’t feel like oxygen after months underwater.”
Your throat tightened, your fingers slowly curling again at your sides.
“I’m not asking for anything,” he said, voice trembling on the edge of breaking. “I just—”
He exhaled shakily, then let everything go in one helpless, frantic burst:
“I needed you to know that I never stopped loving you. Not for a single fucking day.”
The room went utterly still.
“I love you,” he said, voice raw. “I’m so pathetically in love with you.”
His eyes searched your face like he was bracing for an impact he wasn’t sure he’d survive. “I’m sorry.”
Your heart slammed once, painfully hard. The words in your chest were too heavy to force through your throat. Inside you, everything trembled — because every piece of his pain mirrored your own.
The months pretending. The sleepless nights. Waiting for something inside you to quiet that never did.
He loved you.
He still loved you.
And the overwhelming truth thrummed through every part of you.
You drew in a slow, steady breath and stepped closer—small, deliberate steps—until you were standing right in front of him.
Your hands rose to his cheeks, guiding his face down until his eyes were locked on yours. His breath trembled under your thumbs, but you didn’t hesitate.
“Satoru,” you started softly “I didn’t run away because I didn’t want you. I ran because everything came back at once. The feelings, the ache, the weight of what we were .. and what we lost”
You swallowed, but your voice stayed steady.
“I wasn’t okay either. All this time I kept telling myself to move on, to forget. That it was the mature thing to do. But it wasn’t maturity. It was fear.”
Your thumbs brushed the curve of his cheekbones, grounding both of you
“We thought leaving was the right choice back then. And maybe it was.”
A breath.
“But not anymore.”
His breath hitched—sharp, undone.
You leaned your forehead to his, your voice dropping to a whisper.
“I’m scared of losing you again. Terrified. But I’m more scared of pretending I don’t want this.”
You drew in a slow breath, a decision settling in your bones.
“So I’m choosing you. Fully. No excuses.”
His eyes widened— stunned, wrecked, hopeful at all once.
And then you said it, steady and certain:
“I love you.”
His entire body reacted — a violent, shuddering exhale as he leaned into your hands like you’d just given him something he’d been starving for.
Every wall he’d built collapsed in a single, devastating instant.
A soft, broken sound escaped him— relief, disbelief, longing — everything he’d been holding back for months.
“I love you, Satoru” you repeated, firmer, because he needed to hear it—and because you needed to say it.
And then you kissed him—slow, deep, sure—
A kiss that didn’t run away from the fear, but walked straight through it.
He melted into it with a shudder, his hands sliding to your waist and the back of your neck, pulling you in like he’d been waiting months for this exact moment.
You kissed him again, deeper this time, your fingers curling into his hoodie—and he answered with every part of him— like you were something he’d lost and finally, finally gotten back.
You didn’t break the kiss when you dragged him deeper inside, one hand tangled in his hoodie, the other pulling him by the nape. He followed blindly, stumbling a little as you tugged him toward you.
He kicked the door shut with his leg, not breaking the kiss, not even breathing properly. His hands tightened on your waist, then your back, then your hips — like he couldn’t decide which part of you he needed to hold just to believe you were actually real.
“Satoru—” you whispered against his mouth.
He groaned softly and kissed you again, deeper this time, his hand sliding up your spine like he couldn’t get you close enough.
By the time you reached the couch, your pulse was hammering. You pushed him back onto it and he fell with a soft grunt, looking up at you like you were the only thing that had ever made sense.
You pulled your shirt over your head, letting it fall somewhere behind you, leaving you in just your black lace bra as you stepped closer.
He slid his hands to the backs of your thighs and drew you toward him until his nose brushed your lower stomach. He kissed you there, warm and slow.
“You’re perfect,” he murmured against your skin.
You smiled down at him and slipped off your skirt and matching black panties, his hands releasing you only long enough to let you strip.
“Take it off,” you told him, eyes flicking to his shirt.
He obeyed immediately, tugging it over his head, breath unsteady as his gaze returned to you.
Then you started to lower yourself between his knees, but his hand shot forward, cupping your jaw before your knees even touched the floor.
“No,” he said instantly — not harsh, but desperate.
“Not tonight.”
Your brows lifted as you slowly rose, and he took both your hips, turning you around and pulling you back until you were seated between his thighs — your back aligning perfectly with his chest.
“Just like this,” he murmured, his hands sliding to your waist.
You settled into him, breath shaky. His legs spread wider behind you, and you bit your lip when you felt him against your ass, hard and already straining against his pants.
He kissed your shoulder once — slow, warm — then ran his hands down the length of your thighs.
“Open your legs for me,” he whispered against your ear.
Your breath stuttered.
“Let me touch you,” he added, voice cracking, “please”
You parted your legs. Sitting like this, your feet didn’t even touch the floor; you were completely in his hold — and he knew it.
Satoru inhaled sharply and rested his forehead against your shoulder for a moment, like he needed a second to steady himself. You were spread open on his lap, warm and exposed, and he looked a second away from losing his mind.
His fingers slid up your inner thigh, slow and warm, drawing soft circles that made your breath catch in your throat.
“Easy…” he whispered, lips brushing your neck, one arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you flush against him.
His other hand moved higher until his fingers brushed the heat between your legs. The light touch made your hips jerk, a soft gasp slipping out of you before you could stop it.
“Fuck, baby—” Satoru moaned quietly into your skin. “You’re so wet for me.”
The tips of his fingers glided through the slickness easily, your hips reacting before you could hold them still. You felt his breath falter, his chest pressing harder against your back as if the feel of you was too much.
He dragged his fingers through you again, slower this time, spreading the wetness over your skin. Your head fell back onto his shoulder, a shaky inhale rattling out of you each time his touch circled deeper, firmer, slipping over your clit perfectly. He knew you so well it didn’t surprise you—he found the rhythm you needed almost instantly.
Your eyes rolled back and you clutched at his forearm.
“Satoru—” you moaned.
“Hm?” he hummed, kissing your shoulder, then your neck, then the edge of your jaw. “Let me hear you.”
A soft whimper escaped you, and you felt his smile against your neck a split second before he slid two fingers inside you—slow, careful, deliberate.
Your whole body arched.
He held you tighter against his chest, curling his fingers inside you with devastating precision.
“That’s it… just like that,” he murmured, his free hand sliding up to cup and squeeze your breast, his thumb brushing your nipple through the lace in slow circles. “Let me take care of you.”
You were trembling now, unable to keep your breath quiet. He brought his hand to your throat, holding you gently as he licked and softly bit the side of your earlobe, his fingers inside you never losing pace—if anything, they grew more focused, more sure.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered against your ear. “So, so beautiful.”
You grabbed his thigh beside you, nails sinking into the fabric of his pants for something to hold on to.
“Satoru— I’m—”
“I know, baby,” he said, voice low and steady, lips brushing your ear. “Let go for me.”
His thumb pressed against your clit at the exact moment his fingers curled deeper, and your body melted back into him—heat flooding through you, aftershocks trembling through your thighs as a soft cry slipped out of you. He murmured your name into your skin, kissing along your neck as you came undone in his hand.
He kept holding you, grounding you, and when your breathing finally steadied, you slowly pushed yourself up, only to turn and straddle him.
You cupped his face, your thumbs brushing along his cheekbones, and kissed him —slow and deep, a kiss that pulled a low groan from the back of his throat. Then you trailed your lips down his neck, along the line of his jaw, to the hollow beneath his ear.
Your fingers slid into his hair and tugged lightly. His breath stuttered; his eyes fluttered; his hands finally moved, traveling up your sides like he couldn’t stop himself.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. He was flushed, lips swollen, hair deliciously messy. Pupils wide and desperate. Completely undone.
“Lie back,” you whispered.
He obeyed instantly, sinking into the cushions like he was offering himself to you.
“You have no idea,” he murmured, voice hoarse, “how much I missed you”
You smiled, letting your weight settle on his lap, feeling the hard length of him press against your exposed cunt “I think I do.”
A broken sound tore from his throat, something between a gasp and a curse. His hands clamped around your hips, fingers digging in like instinct, like he needed to hold on to something before he lost himself completely.
“Jesus—” he moaned, head falling back against the couch, chest rising in a sharp, trembling inhale.
You shifted just slightly—barely—and his whole body shuddered beneath you. His thumbs stroked your hips as he pressed his forehead to your collarbone, breathing you in like he needed it.
“Tell me what to do,” he murmured, voice low. “I’ll do anything.”
You dragged your hands down his chest, then lower, trailing until your fingers brushed the waistband of his pants and boxers.
A silent instruction.
His fingers moved fast, hooking into the fabric and shoving both his pants and boxer down his thighs, breath hitching when he freed himself. You bit your lip at the sight and reached behind your back, unclasping your bra.
The straps slipped down your shoulders, the lace falling away, and his reaction was immediate.
“You’re—” His voice cracked, eyes drinking in every inch of newly exposed skin “–too perfect for me”
You leaned in slightly, and he caught you by the hips, gentle but firm, desperate to keep you still.
“Don’t move yet,” he whispered, voice fraying. “Give me a second—just a second.”
His hands held you softly, reverently, fighting to hold onto the control he was already losing.
Then, wrecked as he looked, his gaze flicked up.
“Wait—” He reached blindly toward his discarded jeans, searching for his wallet.
But before he could even touch the fabric, your hand closed around his wrist
“We’re good,” you murmured, breath warm against his lips. “I’m on it. And I need you raw, please”
His pupils dilated so fast it looked like the air had been punched out of him.
You kissed him again, your hips rolling just slightly, enough to make his breath catch and his hands clench at your thighs.
He let out a low, desperate sound against your mouth.
“Fuck—” he whispered “You’re gonna kill me.”
“Not planning on it,” you said, lips brushing his jaw.
Your hand slid between your bodies, wrapping around him, and his hips were already twitching into your touch. You lifted your hips just slightly, guiding him to your entrance.
You moaned when his tip brushed against you, and with his fingers digging into your hips, you began to sink down onto him
“Holy—” He cut himself off with a strangled moan, his head snapping back against the couch, eyes squeezing shut “God, you feel— fuck—”
“Satoru…” you murmured against his ear, your breath hot on his skin. “Look at me while I ride you baby.”
His eyes fluttered open—pupils blown wide, half-lidded, worshipping you like you were the only thing keeping him alive.
God, he wanted to keep his eyes closed—just to survive you. But you smiled, and tugged his hair, dragging him like you owned him. And fucking hell… you did.
“Good boy.”
He tried to speak, maybe say something cocky, something clever—but the moment you started bouncing on him, every slap of your skin against his thighs knocked the thoughts clean out of his head, making him stupid for you. His mouth fell open, his chest rising fast as he failed to swallow a moan.
“Tch—fuck…”
You rolled your hips slow and punishing, and everything in his mind burned white.
His grip on your hips tightened, desperate, fighting not to fall apart. You were guiding the pace and he let you—god, he wanted you to. He wanted to give you every bit of control with his body, the same way he’d already handed you his heart.
He whispered I love you into your mouth over and over like it was the only truth he knew.
Your pace quickened, heat coiling low and heavy between you, pulling both your bodies tighter and tighter—
“Satoru,” you gasped, nails sinking into his shoulders.
He cupped your face, kissing you like he was falling apart.
You moved harder, deeper, both of you unraveling, kisses turning messy, hands grabbing whatever they could reach.
You felt him stutter beneath you — his body tensing, breath breaking apart —
“Baby— I’m— fuck—”
You kissed him hard, swallowing the noise that tore from his throat as he came inside you, his arms wrapping around you like he was afraid you might vanish if he let go.
Your own climax followed in a wave, heat crashing through you as you buried your face in his neck, shaking against him while he held you through it.
And then the world softened. He kept you pressed to his chest, kissing your shoulder
“I love you so fucking much,” he breathed, voice wrecked “Please don’t go”
“I won’t” you whispered, “I love you”
—
Satoru brushed his fingers up and down your spine, the soap slipping warm and gentle over your skin as the steam curled around both of you.
The shower was quiet except for the water hitting tile. His touch was slow, careful—nothing like the desperation from minutes ago.
“You okay?” he asked softly, kissing your forehead.
“Yeah,” you whispered, your cheek resting on his collarbone. “Are you?”
He let out a small, breathy laugh.
“I am now.”
You cupped his jaw, your thumb brushing his cheekbone, and gave him a tiny peck.
He blinked once—slow— a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
When you stepped out of the shower, he wrapped a towel around you and dried you off before even bothering with himself.
He stayed in just his boxers, grabbed his hoodie, and held it open.
“Arms up,” he commanded.
You obeyed.
He pulled the hoodie over your shoulders. It swallowed you whole—warm, soft, smelling like him.
“Perfect,” he muttered under his breath, almost annoyed at how much he loved the sight.
You tugged gently at his arm.
“Come to bed?”
He hesitated only because he was staring at you like you’d just handed him the sun.
“Yeah. Yeah—‘course.”
Then he slipped an arm under your legs and another around your back.
“Satoru—” you squeaked, surprised.
“What?” he said, already carrying you toward the bedroom. “You think I’m letting you walk after that?”
You buried your face against his neck to hide your smile, but he noticed anyway.
He set you down on the bed carefully, then climbed in beside you. He lay on his back and opened an arm in silent invitation.
You moved instantly—curling onto his chest, your head rising with each steady breath he took. His hand slid into your hair, thumb brushing your scalp, while his other arm wrapped around your waist, keeping you close.
Your legs tangled loosely with his.
He pressed one last kiss to your hairline, sleepy and soft.
“I love you,” he muttered.
“I love you too, love.”
His hand squeezed your waist—barely there, already drifting into sleep.
And for the first time in months, sleep came easy—for both of you.
You opened your eyes slowly, still half-asleep, and the first thing you felt was Satoru’s large hand resting over your waist. His hoodie was warm around your body, and the faint morning light spilled beautifully across the sheets. A smile tugged at your lips.
At some point during the night you’d ended up as the little spoon — not that you were complaining.
He seemed to be asleep, breath steady and his chin resting on your head, so you didn’t dare move too much. But then, out of the corner of your eye, you noticed your phone on the nightstand.
Rin and Kentaro.
Your eyes flew open. Oh god. You’d run out yesterday and completely forgotten to text anyone.
Trying not to wake the heavy, white-haired menace behind you, you reached carefully for your phone.
Rin: Where are you?
Rin: Are you alive?
Rin: Nevermind, I found you.
Rin: Thank god for Find My app, idiot.
Rin: ARE YOU WITH GOJO, YOU LITTLE SHIT??
Rin: ANSWER ME
Rin: Suguru already told me. Take care, lovebirds. Text me when you wake up hehe.
You rolled your eyes and typed a quick reply before switching chats.
Kentaro: heyyy
Kentaro: you good? did you make it home?
Kentaro: Rin told me ;) take care
You were about to type a response when a warm hand suddenly snatched the phone right out of yours.
You gasped and twisted slightly in his arms.
Satoru didn’t even try to hide that he’d been awake the whole time. His chin slid onto your shoulder, warm and heavy.
“Who,” he muttered, voice thick with sleep, “are you texting this early in the morning?”
He squinted at the screen. “Huh.”
“Satoru—” you reached for your phone.
“Don’t ‘Satoru’ me.”
He kept the phone out of reach, his arm caging you easily. “I wake up holding you, and the first thing I see is that parasite boy on your screen.”
“Parasite boy?” you frowned.
“Yeah. Your clingy friend.”
You rolled your eyes and tugged the device gently from his hand. “You can’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad,” he murmured—though the gravel in his voice suggested otherwise. His fingers slipped under the hem of the hoodie you were wearing—his hoodie—gliding slowly across your bare waist. “But I wake up with you in my arms, and then I see him on your screen.”
His palm flattened on your hip.
“And you were about to answer him,” he added quietly. “Before even saying good morning to me.”
“That’s not—”
He cut you off without raising his voice, lips brushing your neck.
“That does things to a man.”
You turned your head toward him, meeting heavy, possessive, half-lidded blue eyes.
“You’re jealous again,” you whispered.
“Maybe,” he admitted without shame.
“But also…” His gaze swept down your body, slow and deliberate, then back up. “I know exactly how to get over it.”
Your lips parted, but he leaned in first, murmuring against your ear:
“I was a good boy yesterday, wasn’t I?”
His hand slid up your side, over the hoodie, fingertips grazing your ribs.
“Now put the phone down,” he whispered, voice dropping into something dangerous.
His hand clamped around your hip, pulling you fully back against him—and that’s when you felt him. Hard. Thick. Pressed right against your ass.
“And be a good girl for me.”
Heat flooded through you.
The phone slipped from your fingers onto the mattress without resistance.
Satoru smirked—slow, satisfied—and lowered his mouth to your neck.
“Good girl.”
His hand trailed down your thigh, guiding it forward, parting your legs just enough. Then the warmth of him shifted behind you—his hand leaving your waist for just a moment—
—and you felt the soft rustle of fabric as he pushed his boxers down.
A second later, the bare length of him brushed against your backside. Hot. Heavy. Wanting.
“You feel that?” he whispered, reverent. “That’s what only you do to me.”
His fingers hooked the side of your panties and dragged the fabric aside—not off, just enough.
Just access.
You were already embarrassingly wet, and he felt it.
“So needy,” he murmured, one hand returning to your hip, grinding himself slowly into the curve of your ass.
You inhaled sharply, hips shifting on instinct—
And his grip tightened instantly. His hand slid down to your thigh, holding you still.
You tried again.
He didn’t let you move an inch.
“Stay still.”
A command. Soft. Absolute.
“You’re punishing me,” you breathed.
He hummed against your neck. “Not trying to.”
Your gasp slipped out the moment the head of his cock slid between your folds—no penetration, just the thick, deliberate drag of him gliding through your slick. The friction jolted through your entire body.
Satoru exhaled shakily behind you.
He rolled his hips once. Slow. Controlled.
His length fit perfectly between your thighs, dragging right over your clit in devastating pressure.
Your hand shot back to grab at his thigh, nails sinking in.
“Satoru—”
He thrust again—smooth and heavy—grinding the length of his cock along your soaked cunt. Your legs trembled.
“That’s it,” he whispered. “You’re doing so good, baby”
Your hips jerked involuntarily.
He wrapped an arm around your waist, pinning you exactly where he wanted you.
“Be a good girl,” he breathed. “Take it slow. Let me make you come like this.”
You choked on a moan, clutching at his forearm.
His lips brushed your throat, teeth scraping lightly.
Another slow roll of his hips—harder, deeper—and the friction shot straight through your spine.
“Satoru—” you gasped.
He chuckled softly. “I remember my beautiful girl having a filthy mouth when she’s horny. So say what you really want to say, honey”
“Fuck. I need your cock inside me now. Fuck me stupid, cum inside me—give me your fucking babies.”
You felt him twitch violently.
“Shit,” he groaned, voice breaking with the effort of holding back. “I will. I’ll fuck you exactly how you want.” he said, voice deep and sinful against your skin.
Your breath caught.
“But first,” he continued, his lips dragging up your neck, “you’re going to come like this.”
His hand slipped between your legs again, slow and knowing.
“And then I’m going to take you from behind, and you’ll come again.”
His hips pressed forward, deliberate, teasing.
“And after that…” his voice dropped to a growl, “I’ll fuck you while looking at your pretty face, and make you come a third time.”
He rocked into you with devastating rhythm
Your breathing turned uneven, your body tightening around nothing, the ache unbearable.
Your hand clutched his forearm, trembling.
“Come for me,” he whispered against your skin, voice ragged. “Soak me.”
You fell apart.
Your knees tightened, your breath hitched, and pleasure ripped through you in sharp waves. Satoru held you through every tremor, whispering your name, steadying you until your body finally eased.
When your breathing steadied, he was already kissing your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.
“You okay?” he murmured.
You nodded, dizzy and spent.
He shifted behind you— and you felt him again. Still hard. Still throbbing. Still very much not done.
“Good,” he said, turning you gently onto your back.
“Because now,” he whispered, settling between your legs, eyes dark and hungry— “I’m gonna give my girl what she wanted.”
You barely had time to breathe before he tugged his hoodie off your body in one smooth pull. Then his fingers hooked into your panties and dragged them down your thighs and tossed them somewhere in the room.
He flipped you gently onto your hands and knees, pulling your hips up to meet him.
Your breath tangled in your throat as his palms spread you open, thumbs pressing softly into the swell of your hips.
“Look at you,” he murmured, voice thick and already wrecked. “You’re the most beautiful thing my eyes have ever laid on”
His palm slide up your spine in one slow stroke and your stomach tightened. “Arch your back, baby.”
You did—instantly—and the sound that tore from his throat was almost feral
Then he lined himself up and he slid into you, slow at first, then all the way, filling you completely. The pace he set was relentless, devastating.
“You’re gonna ruin me.”
Every thrust dragged fire through your body, the pleasure coiling fast, too fast. You were slipping into that overstimulated, desperate edge again.
He pulled out almost entirely, then slammed back in—deep, heavy, claiming.
A cry tore from your throat. Your arms trembled.
“I can’t— it’s too—”
“You can,” he groaned, thrusting harder. “You’re already close again, aren’t you? My girl is so fucking sensitive this morning.”
You whined, your body shaking.
“You like it like this?” he rasped, fucking you deeper. “Me behind you, holding you open, fucking you until you forget your name?”
You nodded—too frantic to speak.
“Use your words.”
“Yes—” you gasped, voice breaking. “I love it—I love you—”
His hips faltered for a split second. Then he cursed under his breath, the sound raw and disbelieving.
“Say it again.”
“I love you.”
He groaned, head dropping to your shoulder blade as his pace turned messy, desperate.
“Come” he demanded, pressing a hand to your stomach “Give it to me again, please”
Your second orgasm slammed into you, shaking you apart from the inside out.
He held you through it—guiding you down onto the mattress with one hand on your back, the other squeezing your hip—keeping the thrusts deep and steady as you rode the aftershocks.
When your breath finally steadied, he slowed, pulled out of you with a quiet frustrated groan, and guided you onto your back.
He hovered over you, settled between your legs—hair messy, pupils blown wide, chest rising too fast. He looked wrecked. Beautifully, painfully wrecked. He was so hard it almost hurt just to look at him; he was holding back so much to make sure you came again and again.
You cupped his cheek and kissed him softly, your thumb stroking his lower lip.
“You’re so good to me…” you whispered against his mouth. “My sweet boy.”
His breath stuttered, hips jerking forward just from your voice.
You brushed your fingers over his eyelashes, tender and slow.
“You have the most beautiful eyes in the world.”
He let out a soft, broken whimper.
“I love when you look at me when you’re smiling…” you said, kissing him again, biting his lip gently.
“And I love when you look at me when you’re on top of me… when you’re inside me.”
His hand fisted the sheets beside your head. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, guiding him in. He slid into you again in one slow, devastating thrust.
“You f— you f-feel too good,” he choked. “Baby, don’t— you’re gonna make me—”
“You fuck me so well,” you teased, voice warm, sultry. “So deep. So… right.”
“I don’t know how I survived these eight months without you.”
“No one compares to you. No one.”
“I’m so lucky… the most handsome man treats me so well… and ruins me so perfectly”
His eyes squeezed shut, a helpless groan ripping from his chest.
His hands framed your face as he kissed you—deep, messy, claiming—his hips moving with a pace he was barely controlling.
“I missed you,” he whispered into your mouth, voice breaking. “So much—so fucking much—”
You traced his jaw, your voice breathless “You’re perfect”
“D-don’t— say it like that—” he begged, thrust faltering. “Baby, I’m trying to last—”
“Why?” you whispered in his ear, kissing down his throat.
“I want to feel you fall apart for me. I want you to lose it.”
His hips stuttered violently.
“You’re so handsome…”
“So strong…”
“S–stop—” he gasped, the word falling apart in his throat, “I can’t— I’m gonna— I’m—”
You dragged your nails down his back, pulling him deeper, anchoring him to you.
“Come for me,” you whispered, breath hot against his ear. “Come inside me, Satoru.”
His breath hitched—his whole body tightening above you—and then the words spilled out raw, unfiltered, instinctive:
“I wanna marry you.”
Another thrust—deep, desperate, uncontrolled.
“Want you to be the mother of my children.”
His forehead pressed to yours, his voice breaking open completely.
“Wanna call you my wife— f-fuck— wanna wake up to you every morning, wanna fuck you just like this— every day— forever—”
You moaned, your walls clenching hard around him, pulling him in deeper.
“Satoru—”
“Come with me,” he begged, thrusting hard, messy, losing all control.
“Please—baby— come with me— I need it— I need you—”
You did.
Hard.
Your orgasm hit like a shockwave, pulling his right out of him—
He groaned your name, long and guttural, and spilled inside you, hips pressed tight to yours as he came undone completely.
You held him, kissing his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth as he shook through the last waves. He collapsed onto you gently, breath hot against your neck, still inside you, still trembling.
He dropped beside you a moment later, chest heaving, one arm automatically pulling you into him like his body didn’t know how not to.
“…Jesus Christ,” he muttered “I think I saw God.”
You snorted, half-dead. “I think you became God for a minute.”
“That’s right,” he mumbled, eyes closing, “worship me.”
You nudged him weakly with your elbow. “Shut up.”
He smiled — wide, blissed-out, boyish — and kissed your shoulder like he couldn’t help himself.
“Shower?” he murmured.
You groaned dramatically. “If I move right now my legs might fall off.”
“That’s fine,” he said, scooping you up with zero warning, “I’ll carry you.”
“Satoru!” you squealed, grabbing his shoulders as he lifted you bridal-style.
He laughed all the way to the bathroom.
—
By the time you stepped out of the shower, your legs had finally stopped shaking. You threw on an oversized shirt, and ten minutes later you were flipping eggs, humming to yourself, when a pair of big, warm arms wrapped around your waist.
Satoru dropped his chin onto your shoulder like a dramatic koala.
“What are you doing?” you asked, smiling.
“Making sure my breakfast doesn’t run away.”
You snorted. “You ate me alive half an hour ago.”
“And I’m starving again,” he said, squeezing your hips.
You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. He kissed your cheek. Once. Twice. A third time just because he clearly had zero self-control.
“It wasn’t the heat of the moment.” he said suddenly
You blinked. “What?”
He repeated it, firmer this time. “It wasn’t the heat of the moment.”
You turned your head slightly, frowning. “What are you even—”
“I wanna marry you.”
You choked on air so violently he had to grab your elbow before you sent the pan flying.
He laughed, delighted. “Relax. I’m not proposing. I’m not a simple man. I wouldn’t do it in the kitchen”
You narrowed your eyes. “Of course you wouldn’t. You’d probably hire a marching band, a parade, a helicopter, and a drone show spelling ‘MARRY ME’.”
He pointed at you proudly. “Exactly.”
You nudged him with your hip.
“I mean it. I want to call you my wife someday.”
Your chest tightened painfully sweet.
“Okay, husband,” you murmured, “but first we need to graduate.”
He groaned like you’d stabbed him. “Ugh. Why would you bring reality into my love confession?”
“Because it’s true.”
He swayed slightly with you in his arms.
“Well,” he sighed dramatically, kissing your shoulder, “if the rest of life is with you… I guess I’ll survive till graduation.”
You turned in his arms, cupped his cheeks, kissed him slow.
“I love you.”
He smiled — soft, bright, wrecking.
“I love you more.”
And after eight long months, everything felt right.
this was my first ever finished and published Satoru fic!! It’s crazy how after this, I just couldn’t stop writing. Definitely not my best work, but it holds such a special place in my heart 🩷
“You really can’t do anything about it?” You asked hopefully, sitting at the edge of the examination table in the school’s clinic.
Shoko exhaled before glancing at your white haired counterpart, arms folded across his chest as he leaned against the wall.
She turned back to you and shook her head.
“Cases of bonds this strong are so rare, there’s hardly any research on it,” she explained, tired from hours of digging through books and websites.
Ever since the two of you broke up, you and Satoru have been having some unique problems.
Specifically, you haven’t been able to stay away from each other.
Whether it was because you had a stronger soulmate bond than most couples or because you were both jujutsu sorcerers, you had no idea.
You were just getting annoyed of running into him every couple of minutes.
You couldn’t really blame him, even if it was mostly him who ended up finding you. Being naturally drawn to each other was just what came with a soulmate bond this strong.
Besides, you more often than not found yourself subconsciously going to see him before your brain could catch up to your feet.
It didn’t help that he could fucking teleport.
If only he didn’t infuriate you so much.
“I’m sorry. You guys are just gonna have to put up with it.”
The paper on the examination table crinkled under your grip where you were holding on to the edge.
“There’s nothing temporary we can do?” Satoru cut in, and you felt a little bit bad.
Your breakup wasn’t clean or pretty, but it was clear to you that Satoru still cared about you and hated when you were irritated at him.
You appreciated that he tried to respect your boundaries, even when he teleported himself to you against his will.
And if you had to guess, he would agree without hesitation if you said you wanted to get back together. He never seemed to be upset when he’d appear out of thin air, and every so often you wondered if he sometimes did it on purpose.
“The only thing I could think of is to create a binding vow to stop Gojo from teleporting to you,” she mused, pulling out a cigarette to light. God knows she needed one. “But that could create a whole bunch of issues.”
“Especially because he can’t control it,” you thought out loud in consideration.
“Exactly. He could get punished for something he can’t control,” Shoko agreed. “And even if you changed the vow to only intentional teleportation, it could be disastrous in cases of emergency where you might need his help or assistance.”
“Great,” you muttered, your grip on the table relaxing.
Satoru frowned, looking like he wanted to say something, but kept his mouth shut.
“Sorry, guys. I’ll let you know if I find anything that could help.”
“Well, thanks anyways,” you finally stood up and turned to leave.
Satoru, who was already standing by the door, took the hint and left before you did.
“Hey,” Shoko caught your attention before you left, only calling out when she was sure Gojo was gone. “Are you okay? I know the breakup was rough.”
“Yeah,” you turned to her. “It’s just getting irritating, you know?”
She nodded, bringing the cigarette to her lips to take a drag.
“Okay. I just want to let you know that if worse comes to worse, we can do the binding vow. It’s rare, but soulmates can get… obsessive. If he’s hurting you–”
“Nothing like that,” you shook your head and interrupted her. “It’s kind of comical, if anything.”
“Okay,” she seemed relieved, smoke escaping as she exhaled. “That’s good. Just wanted to make sure.”
“I appreciate it,” you smiled gratefully. “Speaking of soulmates, how’s it going with Utahime?”
“Good,” she said dryly. “We’ve got a date on Friday.”
“I hope it goes well!” you clasped your hands together in excitement. “You’ve gotta keep me updated.”
“Sure,” her tone remained dry, but you didn’t miss the tinge of pink dusting her cheeks.
ᓚᘏᗢ
Nothing really changed after that.
The two of you continued to run into each other 24/7. Literally.
You woke up in the middle of the night to find him in your bed on two separate occasions, ones in which you definitely did not invite him.
“Not right now,” he had mumbled, clinging onto you like a teddy bear when you tried to wake him up.
“Satoru,” you hissed, trying to squirm out of his hold. “Wake up. You’re in my bed.”
“Uh huh,” he agreed with his eyes still closed and you almost shoved him off the bed.
“Seriously, wake up!”
“Shhh.”
“Did you just shush me?”
You’d realized there was no way you could get him out of your bed and decided to just let it happen. As much as you hated to admit it, you slept really well that night.
When you woke up, he was already up and in your kitchen, making breakfast for the two of you.
An apology for teleporting in the middle of the night, he had said with a wink.
You ate the pancakes with a scowl.
And soon, you had started to learn to utilize his teleportation problem.
Shopping sprees became a whole lot cheaper when you realized that there was about a 90% chance that he’d appear at some point during your trip.
“Sorry, I just…” you had muttered, digging through your purse to try to find your wallet. Shit, did you really forget it at home?
“If you don’t have your physical card, we also accept electronic pay–”
The poor cashier was cut off with a whoosh when your soulmate suddenly appeared right next to you in the boutique.
“Oh,” you set your purse down and turned to him. “Perfect. Could you help me pay for this? I’ll pay you back.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he shrugged, handing his card over the counter to a stunned teenage girl.
He volunteered to carry your bags, too.
Was it wrong to exploit your pining soulmate? Maybe a little bit.
But he technically offered to pay, so who were you to turn him down?
You think that the soulmate bond was also learning how to send him at the right times. He started appearing whenever you needed help, and you wanted to simultaneously curse and kiss him every time it happened.
There was one specific time it happened, right when you were on the verge of tears trying to get the zipper on the back of a dress you had worn out to a formal event.
“Fuck,” you almost cried, arms twisted behind your back as you tried to figure out how to get out of the stupid dress.
Miraculously, Satoru had materialized in the middle of your bedroom, staring at you blankly as he watched yourself twist yourself into a pretzel.
“Um… do you need help?” He had asked, taking a cautious step closer to you.
You sighed, ego shrinking as you decided that yes, you did in fact need help.
“Yes, please.”
He unzipped you with an infuriating ease, leaving you only frustrated with yourself and annoyed at the bond for no reason other than your wounded pride.
“Thanks,” you said, sliding the dress down your shoulders.
He stood there, staring at you blankly like you hadn’t tried dating. Like the two of you hadn’t had each other in a whole assortment of positions, that, yes, you had to admit you sometimes missed.
“Enjoying the show?”
You snapped him out of his thoughts, eyebrows raised as you pulled out pajamas from your dresser.
You could practically see his eyes widen under his blindfold.
“Sorry!” He apologized, trying to be respectful even though you could see the outline of the tent in his pants. “I didn’t–sorry, I, uh. Yeah. Bye.”
You blinked, and suddenly, he was no longer in your room.
You shook your head to yourself, going to brush your teeth.
And so the two of you kept living in a never ending cycle of unintentional meetings, some awkward, others more natural.
Nothing really changed until the two of you decided to try seeing other people in hopes that it would weaken the bond.
It was Satoru’s idea, to your surprise.
“You think it’ll actually work?” You asked, legs folded on your living room couch as he sat in the armchair across from you.
“I think it’s worth a shot,” he shrugged. “I read something about soulmate bonds growing weaker when soulmates become occupied with other people.”
“Most people can’t teleport,” you pointed out with a teasing grin.
“That’s true,” he admitted, a little flustered as he shifted on the seat. “Our situation is so absurd, though. I think we should at least try.”
“Okay,” you agreed, still taken back by his initiative. “Let’s arrange dates this Saturday. Both of us with different people in restaurants across the city at the same time.”
He nodded in agreement. “Sounds good.”
Of course, it didn’t go as planned.
It did most of the date.
You met up with a kind of stoic, dark haired man who told you about his exciting life as a consultant.
He was charming, you’d give him that. Handsome and easy going, he carried the conversation well and made sure to ask you about yourself.
Unfortunately for you, you couldn’t stop thinking about what might be happening with your soulmate right at that moment.
It wasn’t until your date had gotten you in the front seat of his car, the two of you making out over the center console that your mind was finally off Satoru.
Of course, the soulmate bond decided that was the perfect moment to have him teleport to you.
He landed right in the backseat, eyes wide under the sunglasses when your date screamed.
“What the fuck?!” He pulled back, reasonably alarmed, and gaped at your soulmate.
“Satoru!” You yelled. “What the hell?”
“You know him?” Your date turned to you with wide eyes and furrowed eyebrows.
“He’s my soulmate,” you admitted, glaring at said soulmate.
“I didn’t mean to!” He said defensively, trying to back away in the tiny backseat.
“Nah, fuck this,” your date shook his head. “I ain’t goin’ out with a bitch with a crazy ass soulmate.”
“He’s not crazy!”
“Don’t call her a bitch.”
Your date unlocked the doors. “Out.”
You both quickly fled from the car and stood on the sidewalk as you watched him drive out of the parking lot.
“...sorry.” Satoru awkwardly apologized.
You shrugged. “It is what it is.”
A beat of silence.
“You look nice.”
“Thanks. So do you.”
The two of you started to walk down the sidewalk, not any destination in mind.
“So, how was your date before I crashed it?”
“It was alright,” you said. “He was nice. A little boring, but otherwise pretty chill. What about you?”
He shrugged.
“Also alright. She was nice, but too eager. A little overwhelming.”
“I get it,” you replied.
“Hey, I can teleport you back, so you don’t have to call a cab,” he offered. “An apology for ruining your date.”
“That would be nice. Thanks.”
ᓚᘏᗢ
After Satoru had dropped you off, you got ready for bed like you normally did.
You walked around your apartment with ease. Taking off makeup, getting some water, brushing your teeth, it was just a mindless routine at this point.
As strange as it was, you weren’t upset that Satoru crashed your date. You were relieved, if anything.
And you hated to admit it, but you were glad that the soulmate bond made Satoru ditch his date for you.
You knew you should be irritated. You were just getting so used to being around him all the time that it was just becoming normal.
It wasn’t until you stepped into something solid that you realized you had been lost in thought.
“Oh!” You looked up at Satoru. “Satoru, I–”
“I’m sorry,” he interrupted you, sunglasses off and wearing a shirt and sweatpants. He grabbed you by your waist. “I can’t stay away from you.”
You don’t know what could have happened in two hours, but you hadn’t seen him looking this disheveled in a long time. Eyes wide and hair a mess, he looked like he just rolled out of bed.
“Satoru!” You repeated, startled by his sudden confession. “What are you talking about?”
“I need you so fucking bad,” he swallowed. “Please, let me make it up to you.”
Fuck it. You were so tired of this stupid dance.
You reached up to grab his face and pulled him down, lifting yourself up to meet him halfway.
Your mouths crashed together messily, teeth knocking into each other and breaths growing quicker.
You instantly felt lighter.
He easily leaned into the kiss, towering over you as he walked you backwards until your legs hit the edge of the bed.
You let him push you down, falling backwards into the plush mattress as he fell on top of you.
You savored the weight of him, all muscle pressing into you and holding you down.
You didn’t break the kiss until he started to trail it downwards. He lifted himself up above you, propping himself up with his arms while he started to leave kisses down your neck to your collarbone.
You let him leave marks along your neck. Your hands found his biceps, squeezing as your eyes shut at the feeling of him sucking and biting.
“Please,” he looked up at you in between kisses. “Can I make it up to you?”
With the way he was looking at you, you wanted to make it up to him.
You nodded.
His weight suddenly lifted off of you. You frowned before you realized what he was doing, now kneeling at the foot of your bed.
“What are you–”
“Shhh,” he said, hands going up your thighs to the top of your shorts. “I told you I want to make it up to you.”
Your mouth went dry when he slid his fingers under the waistband and pulled down your shorts all the way. He discarded them somewhere on the floor behind him and reached up to feel you through your panties.
Your head fell back at the first touch.
Fuck, you forgot how much better it was when it was your soulmate.
“You’re so fucking wet,” he muttered, watching the way your panties just kept getting damper and damper.
You bit your lip, suddenly a little embarrassed.
A faint smile appeared when he saw your expression.
“I’ll take care of you, yeah?”
He pulled down the panties all the way, leaving your lower half completely bare.
He leaned forward, lifting your thighs over his shoulders and leaning in.
You couldn’t help but let out a quiet gasp when the first puff of warm breath hit your cunt.
The hands that were buried in the sheets immediately flew to his white locks and you held on for dear life.
“Satoru, I– fuck,” you breathed out when you finally felt his tongue on you.
You threw your head back against the pillow, thighs tightening around his head as he pushed his tongue in deeper.
Maybe it was partly because he was your soulmate, but damn, you forgot how good he was at this.
“Please, Satoru, need–fuck!–need more,” you whined, unable to think about anything besides how much you missed this.
You couldn’t see his entire face, but you were almost positive he was smiling against your cunt.
Regardless, he listened.
His hands gripped onto your hips, nose bumping your clit as he worked his mouth faster, just the way he remembered you liked it.
You gripped harder onto his hair in response, unable to stop the moans from spilling from your mouth.
“Missed you, Satoru,” you couldn’t stop yourself from admitting.
It clearly spurred him on, because you were soon crying out his name as you came on his tongue.
He helped you ride it out as it shook you in waves, he himself moaning against you as he tasted your release.
He gently lifted your legs off his shoulders when he was sure you were done.
He laid next to you, pulling you into his strong arms and shaking his head when you offered to return the favor.
"Next time," he said as you curled into his side. "This is supposed to be my apology."
"You're forgiven."
"...You know, I hated seeing you kiss that douchebag. "
You snorted.
"It was your idea."
"Yeah," he admitted. "Sorry. I guess you're stuck with me."
The first mistake you made was using Reddit to find a roommate. The second was moving in with him anyway. Satoru Gojo is a gorgeous man and a terminally online incel who will explain exactly why a nice guy like him can't get a girlfriend.
When you decide to weaponize your hotness against his incel worldview, you expect to break him and his “alpha male" ideologies. You do not expect to spend a random evening getting your roommate's dick out of a stuck cock ring.
pairing: Gojo Satoru x reader
warnings: 18+ (mdni!!), explicit sexual content, afab!reader, modern AU, roommate AU, nerdjo, incel!gojo, virgin!gojo, oral (m and f receiving), piv, creampie, light degradation, praise kink, cum in hair, cum eating, cum-drunk, pussy-drunk, cock rings, fleshlights, improper use of hair tie, improper use of yogurt (accidentally ??), oil and fluids everywhere, it’s a bit disgusting, light choking, groping, big time copium from reader, secondhand embarrassment you’d die, reddit, incel stuff, crack treated seriously, fluff, smut, slow burn but the burn is just pure cringe
word count: 17k
The first mistake you made was using Reddit to find a roommate. Should’ve been a red flag, really. The second was agreeing to meet the guy in person.
You walked into the coffee shop, scanning the midday crowd for someone who matched the description — twenty-something, remote-employed, appreciates a quiet living environment. You were expecting a tired grad student, maybe. Or some tech guy in a Patagonia fleece. Something like that.
Instead, you found a gorgeous, gorgeous looking man. And you were confident it was him, since there were exactly two men present — him, and some grandpa having his afternoon caffeine fix.
And the guy was, objectively and objectifyingly speaking, probably the prettiest guy you had ever laid your eyes on. Way too tall, way too broad, the messy hair and the cute glasses adding the je ne sais quoi of the hot nerd aesthetic you were simply too weak for. Even hunched over his phone like that, he looked aggressively cute. But, let’s be honest, you weren't exactly against a cheeky roommates-to-lovers situation, if you catch my drift.
You stopped dead in your tracks.
Oh no. Oh YES.
Your heart went thump thump thump! like crazy as you stood there, frozen between the door and the counter. Living with a man who looked like that was a direct threat to your peace. And his too, probably. You couldn't believe you had practically won a jackpot over freaking Reddit. And apparently Reddit was only full of weird people, as if. So you took a breath, adjusted your posture, and walked over.
But then the panic hit. Because someone who looked like that was probably bringing home a different girl every night. And you’d have to listen to the stupid Thump. Thump. Thump. of his bed through the thin drywall. Every single time.
Suck it and see, you never know, girl.
From his side of the table, Satoru had already run the numbers. His eyes tracked your movement the second you started walking over, assessing. You were cute, yes. Approachable hot, not intimidating hot. You didn’t look like the type who’d expect him to pay for everything or make fun of his personality. And most importantly — you had messaged him first on the housing thread.
That meant the dynamic was already set. You were practically already his. Why else would a girl willingly want to live with a man? The power balance was secured. Handled. Handed to him on a silver platter, just like all the podcasts had promised.
You slid into the booth across from him. "Satoru?"
"You're exactly two minutes and forty seconds late," Satoru announced, and you feared that wasn't a joke. He checked his phone screen. "Statistically speaking, women in their twenties are usually ten to fifteen minutes late to initial meetups to assert social dominance. Two minutes is almost negligible. I like the effort."
You stared at him. What the fuck. You hadn't even taken your jacket off yet.
"I got caught at a red light," you said slowly, furrowing your eyebrows and eyeing his hands. Why were they so big?
“Right. Variables.” Satoru nodded, looking way too serious about the whole thing. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “So — I brought the lease agreement. As I mentioned, I have a 780 credit score and I want dishes done within twenty-four hours. To prevent breeding grounds for fruit flies.” He slid the keys across the table along with the papers, completely unprompted. “I assume you don’t have a problem with basic hygiene? You shouldn’t have—” his eyes dragged over you, slow and sleazy, “—judging by your appearance.”
You looked at the keys. Then at his stupidly pretty, already supremely annoying face.
Your brain was trying to throw up big red warning signs, but you really needed the space. It was cheap. Close to work. And you’d have to survive maybe a year or two before you could afford a one-bedroom on your own.
You go, girl.
“I’m clean,” you said, picking up the keys. You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to figure out exactly what brand of lunatic you were about to chain yourself to. “Listen. You’re not going to be weird, are you?”
Satoru tilted his head, genuinely confused. “Define weird.”
You bit your lip.
There went those “quick” two years of your life.
You already knew the answer. You already fucking knew. Time for some hard coping. Maybe this was just a phase. Maybe he’d snap out of it soon. Maybe he’d gone through a breakup and was just being salty. That was probably it.
And to be fair, the first few weeks weren’t actually that weird. You were getting to know each other, learning how to exist in the same space. It was quiet, even. You would’ve paid good money to keep it like that forever.
He mostly worked from his room, only came out for meals, did the dishes, and left you alone. He barely even talked to you, which should’ve been suspicious, but you chose to ignore it. You started to think maybe you’d read him wrong at the café. Maybe the breakup theory was right. Maybe he was just having a weird day.
But spoiler alert — you couldn’t have been more wrong.
Satoru had not gone through a bad breakup. You suspected he had never gone through any breakup at all ever. Once he got comfortable enough to drop the act, or perhaps as some calculated 4D chess move to trap you past the point of getting your deposit back, his true colors started showing.
Satoru didn’t bring girls home. He didn’t do any of the hot-man things you’d expected either. Instead, he spent most of his free time on Reddit, arguing with strangers about the state of modern dating, and why “nice guys” were being chronically overlooked by society.
After about a month, it clicked.
This man was chronically, terminally online. And an incel on top of it all.
The rule of never judging a book by its cover confirmed itself in the most jarring way possible. Would say, you played yourself there girl, but who am I to judge.
It started with the staring. You’d be sitting at the kitchen island in your sleep shirt, eating a bowl of Cheerios, and you’d look up to find him just… watching you. He never looked away when you caught him either. He’d just blink those big, stupidly pretty blue eyes at you, gaze heavy and analytical, like he was trying to calculate your exact molecular structure. Which, in a way, he was. Carefully assessing the harmony of your facial features, exactly like the looksmaxxing subreddit had probably told him to.
You were always the one who had to look away first, your face feeling weirdly hot.
Then came the rants. You’d come home from a brutal shift and collapse onto the couch, and Satoru would emerge from his room like clockwork. He’d drop down next to you, eyes glued to his phone, and start talking like someone had asked.
“It’s basic hypergamy,” he announced one night, to absolutely no one. “Men are biologically disadvantaged in the modern dating sphere because of the top-twenty-percent rule.”
You didn’t even look at him. You just kept staring at the TV and wondered how long you could keep nodding along before it would become suspicious.
And he would just keep going.
Spewing the most vile, stupid shit while you sat there, eyes flicking from the TV to him and back, nodding along because you genuinely did NOT care. Top twenty what percent? Wasn’t he objectively in the top ten at least? What the hell was he even talking about? Every time you didn’t answer, he probably took it as agreement. You just deadass had nothing to say to him.
Not because you lacked the energy to argue — though you kind of did, because talking to this manchild was like talking to a wall, and even that would’ve been more productive — but mostly because you weren’t even listening anymore. You’d learned how to tune him out pretty quickly.
You were tolerating him. That’s what you told yourself. You were tolerating him, and it had nothing to do with the fact that ever since you first laid eyes on him, your brain had decided to revert to its most embarrassing caveman settings.
Like that one evening when you were walking down the hallway toward the kitchen and the bathroom door opened.
Satoru stepped out, dripping wet. White hair plastered to his forehead, water still running down his chest, wearing nothing but a towel slung dangerously low on his hips. You shamelessly followed his happy trail. The way the towel barely clung on his hips.
Your brain stalled at the sight of his pretty body and your mouth went dry. You reminded yourself why you were tolerating him. Then berated yourself for doing exactly what he did — objectifying.
But hey. What's better than an incel asshole? A hot incel asshole. That's what's better. Congratulations to you specifically, really found a rock between a sea of gems.
You thought you had it handled. White-knuckle your way through the lease. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.
And then you walked past his partially open bedroom door and heard him on Discord.
"Yeah, I mean, the living situation is okay," Satoru was saying, sounding so perfectly reasonable. You thought he was going to say something nice. What a good roommate she is, how glad he was to have you there.
"She's clean. And yeah, she's hot, but she's not like super hot hot where it's scary, you know? She's cute hot. Next door hot, pretty hot. Just my type, you know my type, dude. I can definitely work with that."
You froze in the hallway.
Your face did something that could only be described as a visual representation of what the fuck.
Cute hot. I can definitely work with that.
What does that even mean? You knew exactly what it meant, unfortunately. He wasn't just a weird roommate. He was a weird roommate actively running some kind of deranged, incel-fueled long game on you. Casually. Over Discord.
You quietly backed away, went to your room, locked the door, and screamed into your pillow.
It was not like your roommate was describing you like a property investment to someone over Discord while you were standing mere feet away.
You hated this. You hated him. And you hated yourself for having been even remotely apologetic about it, for feeling your heart skip a beat when he said just my type. Curse you and your completely stupid and irrational attraction to someone you should probably be filing a restraining order against! But god, he was so so cute. If he could just shut the fuck up, or get lobotomized, or something. You could take him to Claire's over the weekend?
But to his credit, and you could not fucking believe you were giving him even some credit at all right now, he was sometimes tolerable, heavy on the sometimes. The man never missed a rent payment. He scrubbed the bathtub weekly. He always bought the expensive brand of paper towels, the ones with the little flower pattern you liked.
Good roommate, structurally speaking. Nightmare, every other way.
And the attraction was just a proximity issue. Obviously. Everyone would have this problem. It would go away. His personality was ass. Soon enough you'd look at him and convince yourself his looks were ass too. Start acknowledging his hotness the way you acknowledged anything asexual.
It was totally fine. You were fine. He was just a guy. A guy who happened to look like a Final Fantasy character rendered in 4K, but still just a guy. A nice guy.
And work with that, he definitely did. Because he was fine too! Just not in any way he would ever admit to his Discord buddies.
Because doing it the normal way guys in their sexual prime do was completely fine. He was in his twenties, so naturally, his mind wandered a bit when his head hit the pillow with passing thoughts about the way your sleep shirt rode up your bare thigh. There was absolutely nothing wrong with getting off while thinking about someone! It was just the normal biological need the podcasts yapped about! It was healthy to be sexually active, even if his only active partner was his fist.
And if that happened to escalate into jerking off to a completely innocent Instagram picture and coming all over his phone screen while staring at your pixelated smile? Also completely normal! Everyone dealt with new living arrangements differently; someone screamed into their pillow, someone else was jerking off every time you got said person inexplicably hard! He couldn't be expected to live like a celibate monk when he was just a poor, horny guy trapped in an apartment with a gorgeous roommate who also happened to be exactly his type. He wasn't being a creep! He was just adapting to his environment.
Goddamn.
It wasn't fine. He wasn't fine, you weren't fine either.
But as the weeks dragged on, he started getting worse.
The passive-aggressive creepiness turned into passive-aggressive entitlement. He had decided, completely on his own, that the two of you were basically already together. You could feel it in the way he hovered. In the way he looked at you like he was waiting for something. Like a bill was coming due and he was just giving you time to find your wallet.
It started with the food.
Without any discussion, he started either making food for both of you or straight-up eating what you’d made for yourself. Like that was just the new normal now.
“Satoru, did you eat my food?” you’d ask, staring at the empty space in the fridge where your meal had been. The one you’d been looking forward to all day. And he’d just nod from the couch like it was the most normal, domestic thing in the world — not a direct violation of the rules you’d set when you moved in.
Or there was the night you came home completely drained, fully prepared to eat a sleeve of saltines and a bucket of ice cream for dinner, only to walk into the apartment smelling like garlic and roasted vegetables.
Satoru was actually at the stove, cooking. A rare sight — the man usually survived on takeout and DoorDash. And he’d used your expensive dried tomatoes. The ones you’d been saving for a special occasion. The ones you’d deliberately shoved to the back of the fridge so he wouldn’t find them.
“Men in the kitchen are a rare sight, I know,” he said, not looking at you as he stirred, trying to look like the eighth world wonder. “But I thought — what if I made pasta? It’s the one my mom used to make. Figured I’d make it for myself. Made a lot though, so… you can have some too, I guess.”
He was already plating a portion for you as he spoke, trying and failing to look casual while clearly nervous you wouldn’t like it.
You watched him for a moment and felt something shift in your chest. You immediately labeled it as hunger and moved on.
He didn’t ask if you liked it. He just assumed you would. And he was right, yeah you ate it, but that wasn’t the point. The pasta wasn’t even that good. Way too salty. But it sat warm in your belly, and you didn’t have it in you to tell him the truth.
You thanked him for the meal but didn’t acknowledge the grand gesture you hadn’t agreed to in the first place. You didn’t make conversation and went straight to do the dishes.
When you glanced back, he was watching you with that look again.
You looked away first.
And of course an incel like that would have opinions about your love life too.
You’d been seeing someone — nothing serious, just a guy from Hinge. Two dates in, and you were still on the fence. He didn’t make your heart do that stupid thump thump thump, and his hairline wasn’t all that great either.
You made the mistake of mentioning a possible third date while making coffee, trying to have a normal, boring conversation about your respective lives.
“I think I’m going to see him again on Saturday,” you said, mostly to your mug.
Satoru looked up from his phone. He was always on his phone doing gods know what.
"The architect guy?"
"Nah, I ghosted that one. Different guy."
A pause. He furrowed his eyebrows the way he did when he was assessing something. “How many are there?”
You gave him a warning look.
"I'm just asking."
"And I'm not answering," you said, rolling your eyes.
He put his phone down, which was never a good sign. You turned back to the coffee machine.
“I just think,” he started.
“Don’t,” you muttered, already regretting bringing it up.
"—that you're not being strategic about this."
You turned back around, mentally preparing for what was about to come.
“About dating. Statistically speaking, cycling through too many low-value options in a short period of time actually decreases your own value. If you want to attract a high-value man—”
He didn’t just mean men. He meant himself. Which, bless him, but also fuck him for putting it like that.
You stared at him for a moment, seriously considering yelling and throwing your mug at his stupidly symmetrical face.
“Satoru,” you said. “Did you just tell me I’m getting ran-through?”
He opened his mouth, then immediately closed it. His ears went pink — he had probably clocked his own stupidity, apparently, which was a first.
"No! It's not — that's not what I—" he started, hands coming up like he was surrendering.
"Where did you even hear that phrase?"
"It's a concept from—"
"No." You held up a hand. "No, I don't want to know, actually. You just made me really upset."
You picked up your coffee and looked at him — standing there in his stupid nerdy sleep shirt, with his stupidly cute messy hair, genuinely confused about why this had gone wrong. Like he really thought you’d realize he was right and apologize on your knees for even mentioning other men.
You felt furious. Tired. And something else you weren’t going to name.
You couldn’t believe you’d ever imagined getting railed into oblivion by this man. Instead, you had to talk to him like he was a toddler. You had a feeling you were going to become a cautionary tale. A PSA about what happens when you move in with an incel.
You went on the date that Saturday anyway. It was fine. The guy was fine-ish — less fine after the weird-ass conversation you’d had with Satoru prior. You came home to find him on the couch, waiting. Expecting something. But neither of you said a word. You just went to your room, got into bed, and stared at the ceiling.
You were so fucking tired.
Tired of dates that were just fine. Tired of coming home to this. Tired of the whole thing.
So you cancelled the next one. And the one after that.
Men were mediocre anyway, you told yourself. You needed peace. You needed to stop cycling through low-value options — god, you couldn’t believe that phrase was living rent-free in your head now. You were going to find whatever podcast invented it and send the hosts very ugly, very threatening email.
And maybe the apartment really was full of questionable worldviews, because somewhere between the sexual marketplace value speeches and his creepy behavior, you developed one of your own.
You became morbidly into the idea of breaking his incel resolve. Like you’d accidentally discovered a new kink.
Not even in a romantic way. More like you’d started writing a very questionable mental screenplay about dismantling him piece by piece. Watching the podcast rot leak out of him in real time. Making the incel guy want you so badly he forgot every subreddit he was joined in, until he was pathetic enough to cry at your feet — and you weren’t even the dominant type!
Wasn’t there a term for that? There had to be. You’d read the fanfictions. You’d read the think pieces. And every time you’d wondered why women did this to themselves.
Now you knew exactly why.
It was like disaster tourism. Some people went to Chernobyl for the thrill. Some people chased storms. You were simply built different.
Because when a man looked you in the eye and said shit like, “It’s actually been studied. Women who wear revealing clothing in domestic settings are subconsciously signaling availability to increase their mate value. It’s an evolutionary response to competition,” and meant it — like he hadn’t just dropped full Andrew Tate shit on a random Wednesday night — you weren’t going to let it slide.
You were already stretched thin. And he was on very thin ice.
So you made a plan.
You were going to show him exactly what skimpy clothing did to a man like him. And you weren’t going to think too hard about why this was probably the stupidest idea you’d had in a while.
Because who would voluntarily wear less clothes when they could just put on three more layers to prove a point?
You, apparently.
You dug out the shorts you hadn’t worn since sophomore year. The ones that left half your ass out and the tank top that made your boobs look obscene. All to "prove a point."
Satoru was at the kitchen island when you walked in, like every morning.
You leaned against the counter, grabbed your yogurt from the fridge, and started eating your probiotic-balanced breakfast, like every morning.
He was still on his phone.
You were starting to think the plan had lowkey a flaw — mainly the part where he wasn’t even looking at you — when he stood up and walked over to the sink to put his mug away.
He reached past you.
The mug hit the bottom of the sink with a loud clang as he stood frozen and way too close. Staring at you with his mouth slightly open, ears going pink in real time as the color crept up from his jaw. He was looking at you exactly how you’d hoped he would… and now that it was actually happening, your stomach did a stupid little flip.
You went to put the spoon back in your mouth.
But your hand missed and the spoonful of Activia went down your chin, down your neck, and disappeared between your tits.
Satoru’s eyes followed it the whole way. You felt your nipples tighten under the thin fabric as he stared. Then his gaze dragged back up, slow, before dropping to what you were wearing.
When he finally looked at your face again, his ears weren’t just pink anymore. They were red.
“Uh. Y-you have yogurt. On your—” He gestured vaguely at your chest. “—on your b-boobs.”
You stared at him. He stared back — at your face, at your chest, at your legs, everywhere.
“Yeah,” you said. “I noticed, ‘Toru.”
You grabbed a paper towel and dragged it slowly down your neck, then slipped your other arm under your boobs to lift them higher, making the cleanup easier for you and significantly harder for him. You could tell by the way he was squirming.
He swallowed. A loud, audible gulp in the quiet kitchen. His Adam’s apple bobbed like it was trying to escape.
“Right. G-good — you cleaned it up. I-it was very messy,” he managed to get out, voice a full octave lower and cracking at the end. His eyes were half-lidded, ears still burning red.
Then he fled. He turned so fast he clipped his hip on the doorframe and didn’t even react to the pain before disappearing down the hallway.
You felt victorious. You’d fried his alpha-male-rotted brain. You’d proven your point. You were the apex predator of this apartment!
But then you took a breath and noticed your hands were shaking.
Your nipples were still painfully hard against the thin fabric of your tank top. And there was a warm, insistent ache low in your belly, sending little shockwaves down to your toes.
Wait.
What the fuck.
You looked down at your chest, then at the empty doorway like he might still be there.
Why the hell were you horny?
You were supposed to be the disaster tourist here. You were supposed to be watching the meltdown from a safe distance. Disaster tourists didn’t usually get turned on by the radiation. They didn’t usually want the hazard to come back out of his room, pin them against the counter, and put his stupid big hands on their hips.
You threw the paper towel into the trash harder than necessary. It hit the side and did a pathetic little plop! pathetically to the floor.
You slammed your bedroom door and threw yourself onto the bed, burying your burning face in the pillows.
The plan had worked perfectly.
Even if you had to dig out your vibrator later just to make the weird tingling go away.
It was just a power trip. Just the adrenaline of winning. That’s all it was. Power trips made people horny. It was biology. It was science.
Take that, Satoru!
And oh, he took it.
Across the hallway, Satoru was melting into his mattress. A bruise was already forming where he’d slammed into the doorframe. The image of that yogurt dragging down between your tits was burned into his brain. He was throbbing, and it was fucking pathetic.
He tried jerking off like usual — fist tight, imagining you on your knees — but it wasn’t enough anymore. Hadn’t been for weeks, actually. His hand wasn’t cutting it.
So he reached into the back of his bottom drawer and pulled out the silicone toy he’d bought recently. He was embarrassed, but too worked up to care. At least now he could pretend it was your tight pussy he was fucking into.
It was a new low. He knew it was a new low. But he did it anyway, eyes squeezed shut as he used the fleshlight, imagining you on top of him, under him, beside him — it didn’t matter. Anything was better than coming on his own just from the memory of yogurt dripping down your skin.
But of course, once the post-nut clarity hit, he took the whole thing the completely wrong way.
Because really, what did you think was going to happen?
You thought parading around half-naked in front of a terminally online incel would make him fall to his knees and magically develop self-awareness?
No. Of course not.
He thought you did it on purpose. For him specifically.
And yeah, you did do it on purpose — just not for the reason he thought. You were trying to break his brain. Make a joke out of his worldview! Instead, all you did was make him hard for three days straight and give him a terrifying amount of hope.
It validated every single pseudo-scientific dating theory he’d ever read. In his mind, you weren’t mocking him. You were submitting to his superior frame. You were “signaling availability.”
You hadn’t broken his incel resolve. You’d accidentally reinforced it. Applause.
And now Satoru believed, with full Reddit-backed certainty, that he had won. He’d played the long game. He’d kept his alpha composure. And now the cute roommate in the tiny gym shorts was finally ready to yield.
And worst of all? He started being creepy on purpose.
Before, the hovering and staring had been unconscious. Now he was doing it with intention. It was time to “establish physical dominance” and “break the touch barrier,” according to whatever the fuck forum thread he’d absorbed that week.
He started finding excuses to be near you — reaching past you for things he didn’t need just to brush his chest against your shoulder, leaving you wrapped in his scent. He’d sit too close on the couch, close enough that you could feel the heat coming off him.
And it was working. You hated that it was working.
Every time his hand brushed yours or his fingers grazed your waist, your skin broke out in goosebumps. You could feel yourself reacting to his nervous little attempts to mark his territory, and it was driving you insane.
You were sitting on the couch eating your well deserved Pad Thai straight out of the takeout box while a true-crime documentary played in the background.
Satoru emerged from his room, did his usual hover-routine like some awkward mating dance, and then sat down. Right next to you.
Without taking his eyes off the TV, he reached over and placed his hand on your bare thigh.
It was this weird twitchy movement between caress and a customs agent stamping a passport.
His fingers kept flexing like he was fighting the urge to either pull away or drag them higher. You sat frozen, staring down at his hand, silently daring it to move. Then mentally cursing yourself for even letting it happen in the first place.
A rush of heat flooded your chest and cheeks. It burned under his palm and shot straight down between your legs.
Ovulation. It’s just ovulation.
"Satoru," you said slowly.
He was staring straight ahead at the TV, posture stiff as a board and he was even redder than you.
“What the hell are you doing?”
He flinched, yanking his hand back into his lap and hunching over. “N-nothing.”
He cleared his throat but didn’t move away. His knee stayed pressed against yours. He took a breath, puffing his chest out as he tried to reclaim his “alpha” frame, then glanced at you as you took a shaky bite of noodles.
“So,” he started again, voice slipping into that pseudo-intellectual podcast cadence that always made your eye twitch. “I was reading a thread today. About proximity and domestic investment.”
You didn't look at him, listened to the Ted Bundy facts coming from the documentary narrator. Chewed and brushed him off. "Fascinating."
“It actually is,” he continued, completely unbothered. He leaned back, stretching his arm along the back of the couch and caging you in. “Because it highlights the flaw in modern female psychology. Women always say they want a nice guy. Someone who provides stability. Someone who pays his bills on time, remembers to buy toilet paper, and keeps a clean, optimal living environment.”
He paused, letting the weight of his own perceived perfection hang in the air.
“But,” Satoru said, turning his head to look at you, eyes locking onto yours with that same entitled certainty, “when that exact man is sitting right in front of them, offering unwavering loyalty and a high-value domestic partnership, they stay willfully blind. They friendzone him. Tease him. Cycle through low-tier guys from dating apps instead. It’s biologically counterproductive.”
The only sound in the room was the dramatic music coming from the TV now. You dropped your chopsticks into the takeout box, which suddenly felt too heavy in your lap.
He was so confident in his entitlement it actually made you sick. It was ruining your fucking appetite.
He thought doing the bare minimum — acting like a decent human being with basic hygiene — earned him loyalty points he could cash in for sex. Like some kind of fucked-up grocery store rewards program.
You turned your body toward him fully, voice eerily quiet.
“Let me get this straight,” you said. “You’re sitting here, in our living room, getting mad at me because your nice-guy vending machine is broken?”
Satoru blinked, his brow furrowing like he genuinely didn’t understand what the problem was.
“I’m stating a statistical—”
“Shut up.”
The words came out sharp enough to cut. You weren’t playing anymore. One more podcast quote and you were going to rip the hair out of his stupidly pretty head.
His mouth snapped shut. He looked genuinely startled. You’d never told him to shut up before — not like that. You’d always just nodded, or rolled your eyes, or tuned him out.
“You think this is a transaction,” you said, eyes narrowing. “You think because you scrub the bathtub and pay your half of the rent on time, you’re earning points? You’re keeping score. You did the bare minimum and now you’re waiting for me to drop to my knees in gratitude like you were providing for me?”
“I am a provider,” he argued, chest puffing out even as his voice lost some of its usual arrogance. “I bring high value—”
“You bring decency at best!” you snapped, throwing your hands up. “Doing your own dishes doesn’t make you a high-value alpha male, Satoru. It makes you an adult. But you don’t actually care about being a good roommate. You’re just dressing your entitlement up as niceness and acting like I owe you something because you haven’t been actively terrible to me.”
“That’s not—” He reached up to adjust his glasses, a nervous habit you’d never seen from him before. “I’m just saying that logically, the optimal choice for you—”
“There is no logic!” you snapped, standing up before you did something stupid like strangle him. “You don’t even like me! You just think you’re owed me because I’m convenient and I live here!”
Satoru flinched. All the color drained from his face.
You stood over him, breathing hard, looking down at this gorgeous, six-foot-three idiot who was staring up at you like you’d just rewritten the laws of physics. He looked lost. Stupid. Like he didn’t know what to do with his hands.
“But you acted like—” he started, then caught himself, shoulders squaring like he was trying to hold onto his frame. “You know what, forget it. You’re just proving my point. A guy does everything right, stays consistent, stays present, and the girl just—” he gestured at you with a disbelieving laugh, “—moves the goalposts. We’ve been living together for months. Friends for just as long. I thought if I followed the steps exactly, I’d finally get to— we would— I don’t understand how this is supposed to work, okay?! How is a guy ever supposed to figure it out if the steps are a lie and I haven’t even—”
“Satoru.”
He stopped. Mouth snapped shut. The tips of his ears suddenly burned bright red.
The realization hit you like a bucket of cold water.
Oh my fucking god.
You’d suspected it once or twice, but the thought had always flickered and died. Now it all clicked into place.
He’d never gotten his dick wet.
Your roommate was a six-foot-three virgin who thought turning to men who felt entitled to sex was a reasonable solution to his problems. What an absolute fucking mess. You almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
“You’re an incredibly good-looking guy, Satoru,” you said quietly. Sincerely. “Objectively hot. Get your shit together, touch some grass, and you’ll be fine. You’ll be more than fine. But until you stop treating women like a math test you’re trying to cheat on, nobody is going to want you.”
You shattered his ego completely.
Or maybe, for the first time since puberty, Satoru actually formed a conscious, self-aware thought. Because he kept turning your words over in his head.
Objectively hot.
No one is going to want you.
What?
He tried to find the logical flaws. Tried to insert a counterargument, disprove your “emotional outburst” with cold data. He couldn’t find one. Not for days.
You were avoiding him completely now. Icing him out. Not talking to him. Not even looking at him. It was driving him insane. You used to search for his eyes, even if it was just to roll them. He’d only just realized how genuine your flustered blinking had been, and now he missed it. Embarrassingly so.
One night he walked into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face, carrying a petty mix of rejection, confusion, and constant, unbearable horniness.
Your pink hair tie was sitting on the edge of the sink.
He told himself he was just going to pick it up and put it in your organizer tray.
So he picked it up. It smelled like your stupid, intoxicating strawberry shampoo. He hated it. Hated how the whole bathroom smelled like you after you showered. Hated how your scent followed you everywhere in the apartment, forcing him to breathe you in. The guys on Reddit had warned him about this. Pheromones. Dangerous.
He brought it closer to his face. Just to check. Just in case it wasn’t actually yours.
And what happened next stayed strictly between Satoru, the bathroom mirror, and god.
He clutched the sink, bracing himself against it, breathing ragged and humiliatingly loud. He stared down at the pretty pink elastic wrapped tight around the base of his cock as he fucked his fist like he was trying to punish himself, desperately trying to imagine your hands instead of his own.
It worked too well. It scared him.
He came hard, so so hard the hair tie ended up coated in thick, frothy cum.
He carefully nudged the sticky pink tie back onto the edge of the sink, exactly where he’d found it. Then he washed his hands under scalding water like he was trying to burn the shame off his skin and walked out of the bathroom like a man fleeing a crime scene.
Rejuvenated? No.
Good? Not even close.
He just felt like absolute shit.
Get your shit together.
But how?
He picked up his phone. Put it down. Picked it up again. The fight was still eating him alive. The podcasts told him to take his frustration out on other girls or channel it into dominance and detachment. That’s what the current episode would’ve said.
But he didn’t want that. He didn’t want to sleep with anyone else. He didn’t want to be aggressive. He just… wanted.
And that was the problem.
For the first time in a long time, the alpha-male bullshit was starting to feel a bit too beta now. He was left with his own feelings like a normal person, and it was awful.
If he was truly a high-value male, he shouldn’t care. He should pivot. Download an app. Find some new, compliant girl to validate his stats. But the thought of calculating the facial harmony of a stranger made his stomach turn. He didn’t want a hypothetical female.
He wanted you.
He wanted you rolling your eyes at him. Laughing at him. Getting annoyed at him. Eating his pasta. Walking around in those mind-melting shorts. He wanted you to drop yogurt on yourself again just so he could lick it off your skin, linger on your neck, and kiss you stupid — the way he’d been fantasizing about since it actually happened.
He needed validation. He needed to be right.
His thumbs moved across the screen before he could stop himself. He ignored his usual echo-chamber subreddits and opened r/AmItheAsshole instead.
r/AmItheAsshole
AITA for expecting my roommate (F) to reciprocate my (M) romantic advances after I provided optimal domestic value?
Throwaway. This is gonna sound bad but I need actual advice.
I (M) have been living with my roommate (F) for almost a year now. I’m not gonna lie, I’m objectively good-looking and I’ve been carrying a lot in this apartment. I pay my half on time, I keep shit clean, I do the dishes, I even cook sometimes. I thought I was doing everything right.
A few weeks ago she started walking around in these tiny shorts and tank tops. Like, really small. I took it as her signaling that she was open to something. That’s what all the advice says — if a girl starts dressing like that around you, it’s usually because she’s comfortable and maybe interested. So I decided to initiate kino escalation. Nothing crazy at first, just trying to break the touch barrier a bit.
While we were watching something on the couch I put my hand on her thigh. She freaked out. Got really upset and started yelling at me about how I was treating her like a transaction and that I only did nice things because I felt entitled to her. She even said I was basically calling her ran-through for going on dates.
I tried to explain it calmly. Like, statistically, if a high-value guy is right there doing everything right, why would she keep going on dates with random dudes from apps? It just doesn’t make sense. She told me to touch grass and hasn’t really spoken to me since.
I don’t get it. I’ve been consistent, I’ve been present, I’ve been providing a good living situation. I thought that was supposed to count for something. Instead she acted like I was the asshole for expecting anything in return.
AITA?
He hit post.
He sat in the dark on his bed, heart pounding like it was trying to escape his chest. He just had to wait. The logical thinkers would show up. They’d validate him with proper, objective analysis. They had to.
Ten minutes later, the notifications started rolling in.
He opened them expecting vindication.
Instead, he walked straight into a digital firing squad.
u/GrassToucherGeto · 308 upvotes
YTA. Holy shit. You did a handful of nice things and you think that means she owes you sex? You sound like an actual sociopath. I’m surprised she didn’t run out screaming. She literally told you to get your shit together. What part of that are you not getting?
u/KentoTheNormalGuy · 291 upvotes
You're not alpha, man. Kino escalation? Are you trying to con her, or actually want her to want you? YTA.
u/NobaraJustice24 · 282 upvotes
YTA. She can wear whatever the fuck she wants in her own home, you creepy ass weirdo. I hope she breaks the lease and gets a restraining order.
u/RealityCheckChoso · 156 upvotes
This is the most pathetic thing I’ve read on this site in eleven years. This is straight-up incel fanfiction. Poor girl having to live with someone like you. YTA. Go outside.
u/yuji_8847362 · 124 upvotes
Genuine question, not trying to be an asshole: do you actually like her, or do you just think she owes you because you did some nice things? Those are two very different things, and your post doesn’t seem to understand the difference. YTA, but I hope you figure it out.
u/KingNaoya69 · 231 downvotes
NTA. She’s clearly testing you. The clothes were an invitation. Hold your ground, don’t apologize, and she’ll come around. Women don’t respect men who grovel. If she actually didn’t want you she would’ve moved out already. She’s still there, isn’t she?
Satoru stared at the screen in disbelief.
He’d expected validation. Maybe a few reasonable voices cutting through the noise, acknowledging the statistical validity of his position, maybe even offering some tactical advice.
Instead, he got hit with minus three thousand downvotes, a mod-locked thread, and three DMs telling him to go to therapy.
He thought it would give him clarity. Clear steps. A way to fix this mess.
It didn’t.
It just made him feel… nothing. Except for the creeping realization that he’d said something eerily similar to what u/KingNaoya69 had posted. Recently. Maybe even last week.
He threw his glasses off and stared into the middle distance.
What the fuck was he supposed to do?
He had no idea.
The days that followed were miserable. You were giving him the coldest shoulder imaginable — and honestly, he deserved it. You were weaponizing the silence. Slamming doors. Giving short, pointed answers. Moving through the apartment like he was just another piece of furniture. Looking through him instead of at him.
He kept going back to the comments on his post, rereading them like he could find a loophole somewhere.
Yes, of course he liked you. But how was he supposed to want nothing from you if he liked you? He wanted your affection. He wanted you to want him back. But wasn’t that also expecting something in return? What the hell was he supposed to do?
Still… the Naoya guy had been weirdly right about one thing. You stayed. You hadn’t moved out. You didn’t even seem like you wanted to. If you hated him that much, why were you still here?
On the nth day, he was sitting on the couch when you came out of your room for water. You glanced at him — just for a second. You couldn’t help it. The silent treatment was getting to you too, even if you’d never admit it.
Your eyes were hard to read, but there was something in them. Something expectant. Like you were waiting for him to do something. To fix it. To stop being an idiot so the two of you could move on.
Oh, he thought.
Truly the lightbulb moment of the century.
Oh.
That night he unjoined six subreddits. Unfollowed every podcast except Joe Rogan — because hey, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Or was it unteach a new dog old tricks? Didn’t matter. What mattered was that for the first time since he’d discovered the internet, he was pretty sure he’d been an idiot.
And he was going to stop.
He made a plan. Simple. Walk out of his room, find you, and say sorry. Three steps. He’d been a person for over twenty years. He could do three steps. He had this!
You were in the kitchen. You were standing on the flimsy little step stool you needed to reach the top cabinet shelves, stretching up on your tiptoes for the glass Tupperware that Satoru kept putting up there, even though you had told him multiple times not to put it up there because you literally could not reach it.
"Hey," he said from the doorway, trying not to startle you. "Can we—"
You startled anyway, because what other outcome was ever going to happen here.
The stool wobbled under your socks. You gasped, swore something, grabbed for a shelf edge that wasn't there, and fully expected to eat the kitchen floor tiles before officially murdering your roommate from the afterlife.
But Satoru had surprisingly fast reflexes and caught you.
Well… almost.
He lost his balance as your weight shifted, and the two of you went down in a tangle of limbs and terrible timing. The impact knocked the wind right out of your lungs. You landed sprawled over him, pressed against his chest, his arms secured instinctively around you—
Around your boobs.
You froze. He froze. The entire world seemed to fucking froze.
And as you laid there, from the adrenaline shock of it all probably, his fingers did a little squish!
Huh.
You didn't say anything. You couldn't breathe, let alone speak. You slowly turned your head. His face was right there and so, so close to yours. You panicked and looked into his equally panicked eyes, his poor glasses askew.
He was searching for something in your eyes, his pupils blown so wide they almost swallowed the blue. And then, as his chest was still heaving so heavily, his gaze dropped down to your lips.
You were suddenly very aware— Aware of his warm palms right through the thin fabric of your shirt. Aware of the way your tits swelled into his touch. Aware of how his thighs bracketed your hips, and how perfectly you fit against him.
His breath hitched. And then his fingers flexed. He made a soft, barely-there sound in the back of his throat and squeezed again — slower this time. Kneading right over your hardened nipples.
You parted your lips for a soundless gasp, and he huffed into your collarbone as the trance finally broke.
His arms slowly retreated, lazily dragged down your ribs, fingers grazing the soft of your tummy before finally falling away to rest on the floor, which somehow made it all worse.
"I—" His voice came out rough, barely above a whisper.
You scrambled off him like you had been electrocuted.
You sprinted down the hallway and threw yourself into your room, slamming the door behind you. You backed up until you hit something, you didn’t even care what, and slid down to the floor, knees pulled to your chest.
Your heart was pounding so hard it hurt. Your skin was buzzing. The ghost of his touch was still burning across your chest.
I fucking hate him, you told yourself. He’s a podcast-rotted incel. I hate him.
…Do you?
Because why the fuck had you wanted his hands to stay there? Why had that second squeeze made you want to straddle him right there on the kitchen tiles and fuck him stupid?
You were just touch-starved. That’s all this was. You were projecting onto your terrible roommate because he was being a sleazy little shit.
You grabbed your phone off the nightstand with shaking hands and unlocked it.
Hinge.
Your ol’ friend.
You needed a date. You needed a normal, boring, completely average guy with a decent hairline and zero opinions on hypergamy to save you from whatever the hell had just happened in that kitchen.
You were in your room getting ready for your date, dressed to kill. Short dress, favorite lace panties — because after everything that happened in the kitchen, you were still weirdly, persistently horny. Might as well try to do something about it with someone normal.
Satoru was lingering in the hallway like always, doing his very obvious not-hovering hover.
"Going out?" he asked, clearing his throat, trying to act so aloof and unbothered.
You didn't even look at him properly. "Yeah. I have a date," you said smugly as you pulled your hair up into a ponytail. Hair down meant cute, but hair up meant business. And by business, I mean finally attempting to jump on some normal, average dick.
The second the words left your mouth, a wave of jealousy hit him so hard it nearly knocked the air out of his lungs. But he wasn’t looking at your face. He was staring at the pink hair tie holding your hair up.
He visibly gulped. His dick went from zero to painfully hard so fast he had to cross his legs just to hide it.
You furrowed your eyebrow at the uncharacteristic lack of response, but wasn’t entirely mad about it either.
"See ya," you chirped, completely oblivious to his internal meltdown, and walked out the front door.
The second the door shut, Satoru basically teleported to his room. He threw himself onto his bed, already fumbling with his pants, desperate to take care of the problem so he could think straight again.
But he spent exactly thirty minutes achieving absolutely nothing. What the fuck.
This had never happened before. Satoru was just staring at his ceiling, sweating, furiously gripping his aching dick, and completely unable to finish. Every time he closed his eyes, he imagined you laughing at some beta joke a 100% mediocre guy had made, while his past-tense cum was proudly sitting in your hair. He was literally too jealous to finish.
But jealous or not, he was still agonizingly hard, his dick standing painfully stiff against his stomach, stubbornly refusing to just calm the fuck down. He let out a frustrated groan. Okay. Fine. No hand? No problem! He reached for the silicone fleshlight, but he hadn't washed it in quite a while, and when he picked it up, a funky smell drifted off it.
Okay, NEVER MIND.
Which left him with only one option.
Today’s the day.
He reached into the back of his bottom drawer again and pulled out a silicone cock ring.
He had bought it right after he absolutely demolished your cute little hair tie. Because what does a normal guy do in that situation? Grovel first? Solve the underlying interpersonal issue? Nah. He goes on r/sex to research why a piece of elastic felt so hella good around his dick!
He hadn’t touched it since. Post-nut clarity had done its job last time. But right now, staring down at his aching, neglected cock and feeling rejected, humiliated, and completely alone… it was time.
Fuck it.
He ripped open the packaging and wrestled the thick silicone down his shaft until it sat snug at the base.
Almost immediately, something felt off.
It was tight. Too tight. Not in a good way — just uncomfortable. Constricting. He tried to power through anyway, closing his eyes and stroking like he could force an orgasm out of sheer spite.
Ten minutes passed.
Nothing.
His brain was too far gone, and the pressure was quickly shifting from weird to genuinely concerning.
Fuck this.
He stopped. Tried to take it off. But it didn’t budge.
Satoru blinked. He adjusted his grip and pulled harder. The skin stretched painfully, but the ring stayed exactly where it was.
Oh fuck.
A cold sweat broke out across his forehead.
Oh fuck, oh fuck.
He scrambled off the bed, grabbed his lube, and squeezed way too much directly onto the ring. He tugged and twisted like his life depended on it.
Nothing. Fucking nothing. It just made his hands uselessly slippery.
Okay, oh fuck. Wasn't lube supposed to work?! Okay, new plan. Something else, something more slippery, something more oily—
Panic seizing him, he stumbled to the bathroom, dug under the sink, found your baby oil, and slathered it on.
Still stuck.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Different oil! Not enough slipperiness! Trust the process!
So he waddled out of the bathroom, practically sprinting into the kitchen buck naked. He tore open the pantry, grabbing the vegetable oil.
This has to work.
It did not work.
Ten minutes later, Satoru was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, coated in a slick, highly flammable mixture of lube, Johnson & Johnson baby oil, and Wesson canola oil, panting heavily.
Dick throbbing, but not the fun kind of throbbing anymore. It was turning a terrifying shade of angry red-purple, the silicone death trap literally suffocating his junior.
It was no longer just uncomfortable, nor just alarmingly stuck. At this point, it was a fucking medical emergency.
He was so fucked he might be patient zero of mpreg.
But what the hell was he supposed to do?
Call an ambulance?
Absolutely not.
The thought of a paramedic cutting a sex toy off him with trauma shears while asking for his emergency contact would genuinely kill him on the spot. He would rather die of necrosis.
Call his friends?
Fuck no.
If any of them found out about this, the screenshots would never die. They’d revoke his alpha card permanently and hold it over his head for the rest of his life.
He stared at his contacts.
There was only one person who could help without turning it into blackmail material or posting it online. The one person who lived in this apartment. The one person who was currently out on a date with some random guy. The person he had a massive, pathetic crush on and who would probably rather rip his dick off than help him.
He hit Call.
You stirred your gin and tonic while your date went on about his fantasy football draft like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. It was a perfectly fine date! The kind of fine that made you wonder why you even bothered.
You were nodding along, even though you had stopped listening roughly four minutes ago. Then, your phone vibrated on the table.
Satoru.
You ignored it. No, actually—you declined it. You smiled sweetly at your date, asked a vague question about tight ends so you would seem like you were actually paying attention, and took a sip of your drink.
Your phone buzzed again. And again. And again.
Annoyed, you held up a finger to the poor guy who was currently rating wide receivers, excused yourself, and off to the bathroom, fully prepared to yell.
“What?” you hissed the second you picked up. “I’m on a date, Satoru. If you locked yourself out—”
"Please come home," he gasped. He didn't even say hello. He didn't sound aloof, and he certainly didn't sound alpha. He actually sounded like he was drawing his final breaths on this earth. "You have to come home. Right now."
"What happened? Did something catch fire? Did someone break in? Are you—"
“I can’t tell you,” he whined, voice high and shaky in a way you’d never heard from him before. “I physically can’t say it out loud. Just— please. Please come home.”
You were ninety percent sure this was some pathetic attempt to ruin your night. Some last-ditch manipulation tactic he’d picked up from a podcast or Reddit thread.
But the remaining ten percent made you ditch your date without a second thought and jump into an Uber.
You practically kicked the front door open, your heart hammering. The apartment was completely quiet, and it smelled all wrong.
Like babies and an industrial air fryer?
"Satoru?" you called out, dropping your bag. "Where are you? The apartment better be fucking flooding, or else I swear to God—"
A pained, muffled whimper came from down the hall. His bedroom door was cracked open so you pushed it wide, fully prepared to absolutely tear him a new one for ruining your night.
Satoru was sitting on the edge of his bed, completely naked, perched on a bath towel soaked through with some kind of glistening sludge. He was trembling, sweating, aggressively gripping the mattress. And his dick — very visibly, very aggressively hard — was pointing straight at you.
"Are you fucking kidding me?!"
You exploded the second you saw him, because an impromptu dick is still an impromptu dick! “Some pathetic plan to finally fuck me? You couldn’t even be decent about it — you just called me home so you could sit here with your cock out?!”
You expected some sleazy line. Some smug little smirk. Instead, Satoru looked up at you with wide, tear-filled eyes behind his smudged glasses and let out a broken, wet sob.
"I'm not—" his voice cracked terribly. "I'm stuck."
Huh?
Furrowing your eyebrows, you stopped yelling and your eyes actually dropped down.
And then your stomach dropped with them.
Wait. Oh. He was so, so large.
But that wasn’t the problem. His dick was an angry, swollen red-purple, veins bulging like it had its own heartbeat. And at the base was a thick silicone ring, cutting into him so tightly it looked like it might actually burst.
And all the anger drained out of you in an instant. Suddenly, you felt the harsh reality of the literal medical horror you were now a part of.
"Oh my god. Satoru... what is going on?!"
“Fuck, it hurts— please help me,” he whined, voice cracking as he bounced his leg against the floor like that would somehow fix anything.
You stepped closer, the sheer absurdity of the situation making you drop to your knees between his spread thighs just to get a proper look. It was incredibly stupid and deeply awkward, being this close to his swollen, shiny dick.
“Is that… a cock ring?” you asked, horrified.
Satoru nodded frantically, a tear slipping down his cheek and dripping off his jaw.
"Satoru, you know there is a fucking size chart to these things?! You can’t just buy anything with the size of your dick! Are you fucking stupid?!"
"HOW SHOULD I KNOW?!" he wailed, hands flying up to cover his face in absolute humiliation. "Wait—" He suddenly froze, lowering his hands just enough to look at you. "Did you just say I have a big dick? Wait. Fuck. OUCH. It just fucking hurts! Please, please help me, I've tried everything but it just won't budge! It hurts so much!"
You squinted at the shiny, slick mess coating his thighs and soaking into the bath towel. "Did you try lube?"
"Yes!"
"Baby oil?"
"Yes!"
"Did you... did you use the cooking oil from the kitchen?!"
"YES! FUCK!" he sobbed into his hands again.
"Why did you even put it on?!" you yelled back, genuinely baffled by his astronomical stupidity.
“I was horny, what else?!” he cried and shook his hands. “You left with the cum tie in your hair—”
“THE WHAT?!”
Your hands froze in the air. Your brain forcefully restarted about three times trying to process the sequence of syllables he had just screamed at you.
The cum tie.
You suddenly felt the gentle pull of the pink elastic holding up your ponytail. The one that was your favorite. The one you had idly wondered before why it was suddenly so... crusty.
"You..." you whispered, a cold wave of fresh nausea washing over you. "You did what to my hair tie?"
“I didn’t mean to!” he sobbed, face red and streaked with tears. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and I used it, and then you put it in your hair to go out with the guy and it made me crazy so I put the ring on!”
Your hand twitched toward your ponytail. You were going to rip it out. Burn it. Shave your head. And then murder him. A jury would probably let you off in seconds.
But then you looked down. His dick might actually pop! like a grease-filled water balloon. There was no time.
You took a deep, slightly deranged breath and shoved every horrifying thought into a box for later. You could have a full meltdown about having his reproductive fluids in your hair as an accessory after you made sure his dick didn’t fall off.
You aggressively ignored his stare, locking your eyes entirely on the crisis. "Okay. Okay, I've got this. This is a medical emergency."
Your brain started racing. You couldn't cut it off without risking severing something vital, you certainly weren’t a doctor, and the swelling was so so severe to just pull the ring back over the ridge. You knelt there, suddenly arriving at a horrifying conclusion that you were going to need a serious moment to accept.
Because there was only one way to get it off. And the only way to get it off was to get rid of the erection.
You had to make him cum.
“Okay,” you muttered. Then again. And again. Like repeating it would make it feel less insane. “W-we just need to… get it down.”
You bit your lip, giving yourself the quickest, most productive, and most threatening internal TED Talk in human history. Your hands twitched, but you finally reached out and wrapped them around his oil-slicked shaft.
“AGH— FUCK— NO!” Satoru immediately jerked back like you’d electrocuted him, slamming against the mattress.
"What the hell?! I barely touched it!"
“The skin’s too tight!” he cried out, practically hyperventilating. “It feels like a razor blade— you can’t use your hands, it hurts too much!”
You tried again anyway, slower this time, gripping him carefully. The skin was burning hot, painfully stretched over the trapped blood. You gave one experimental stroke.
“No— no no no, please stop—” His voice broke into a real whimper as fresh tears spilled down his face. He pushed at your shoulders, legs shaking. “Please, I can’t— it hurts so fucking bad—”
You yanked your hands back, heart pounding as your own panic officially set in. "THEN WHAT ELSE?!"
“I DON’T KNOW! I thought you might know!”
"HOW SHOULD I KNOW?!"
A beat of deafening silence fell over the grease-scented bedroom. You looked at him. Then down at the problem between his legs.
Wait—
Your brain scrambled for literally any other fucking solution. Ice? Cutting it completely off? Calling 911 and collectively dying of embarrassment on the spot?
Nothing.
There was nothing else.
God fucking help you. You might as well die from the cringe right here on the floor.
You stared down at his lengthy cock again. It was a pathetic mix of pre-cum against his oil-slicked stomach. Satoru was breathing in short, panicked gasps, tears still tracking down his flushed cheeks, glasses fogged and crooked, looking totally helpless.
“No,” you whispered to the empty space between his thighs, stomach twisting with reluctant acceptance. Coming to terms with your own fate. Girl, it’s your fault. Your fate had been sealed the second you decided to find a roommate on Reddit. “No, no, no.”
“What?” Satoru whimpered through his teeth, barely audible. “What ‘no’?”
If your hands were completely off the table…
A wave of heat flooded your face and dropped straight into your belly. Surely from disgust. Trust.
You shifted forward on your knees, your dress dragging through the oily mess on the floor. The fabric was already ruined and sticking to your skin. You braced one hand on his trembling thigh, leaned in, and took the swollen head of his cock into your mouth.
The taste was vile as hell.
Canola oil, baby oil, lube, and the bitter salt of his pre-cum all hit your tongue at once. You made a muffled, disgusted sound around him as your lips stretched and you sank down. The mixture mixed with your saliva and slid down your throat as he pushed deeper than you expected.
Satoru’s entire body jolted as the mushroomy head hit the back of your mouth.
“Whoa— oh my fucking god—” His voice cracked into a broken, high moan. His stomach flexed like he was trying not to fold in half. Both of his hands flew to your hair, oily fingers catching in your ponytail, clutching without quite pushing or pulling. I mean, you already had cum in your hair anyway. What was a little more oil and lube?
His hips twitched. His thighs trembled under your hand. He clearly had no idea what to do with himself.
You started moving, and it was messy from the first second.
Everything was slippery. Your lips kept sliding, saliva mixing with the grease until it dripped down his shaft in shiny, frothy strings. You had to suck harder just to keep any kind of rhythm, cheeks hollowing, tongue working in messy circles under the head every time you pulled up. The wet sounds filled the room — slick sucking, soft gagging when you took him too deep, his broken little whimpers.
You hated the taste.
You hated how your knees already ached against the hard floor.
You hated that your dress was ruined, soaked through and sticking to your skin.
And you hated the way he was looking down at you — in pain, in complete disbelief that you were actually sucking him off.
ANd what you really hated the most was that you were looking up at him while you mouth was licking him up and your body was already starting to betray you.
Tingly heat was spreading low in your belly. Every throb along his length, every broken moan that slipped out of him, made you wetter. You weren’t supposed to be horny! You should’ve been so so disgusted. But the scent of him, the taste of his pre-cum coating your tongue, made your pussy clench around nothing. Your nipples were hard, rubbing against the inside of your dress. Your cunt felt hot and slick — whether from your own arousal or the oily sludge on the floor, you genuinely couldn’t tell anymore.
You bobbed deeper, taking him until your nose brushed the base and the ring dug into your skin, then pulled back with a wet gasp. A thick and slimy string of saliva and oil connected your lips to his cock before it broke.
Satoru was staring down at you like you’d personally broken his brain.
His chest was heaving. Tears were still leaking from the corners of his eyes — pain, pleasure, or the sheer absurdity of the situation, it didn’t matter. His mouth hung open, glasses sliding down his nose.
Then his eyes dropped to your chest.
His gaze followed the way your dress had slipped lower during all the movement. Your tits were threatening to spill out completely. He made a strangled sound in the back of his throat.
His hands left your hair and reached down. Big, warm palms cupped your breasts through the thin fabric first — almost careful. But then he yanked the neckline down hard, dragging the fabric under your arms, practically rrrrripping it open, until your tits spilled free.
A fresh tear tracked down his cheek as he stared at them like they were something holy.
“Holy fuck— your tits—” he breathed, cupping them fully. His thumbs brushed over your hard nipples before he started kneading with desperate, greedy hands. Squeezing, lifting, rolling the soft flesh between his fingers exactly like he had in the kitchen — except this time there was nothing holding him back, because you certainly wouldn’t make him stop.
The moan you let out around his cock was involuntary and absolutely nobody’s business, alright? Your teeth grazed his sensitive skin and the vibration, combined with the impromptu bite, made his hips jerk violently. He let out a breathless gasp, hands tightening on your boobs almost painfully before he loosened his grip again, thumbs flicking over your nipples in a way that sent sparks straight between your legs.
The lace of your panties was useless now, clinging to your soaked pussy lips.
But the dress had become a real problem, at least that’s what you were telling yourself. It was restricting your movement, getting in the way every time you tried to take him deeper. It was uncomfortable as hell, which was actually true.
You pulled off his cock with a wet pop!, lips shiny and swollen.
Fuck this dress. And probably him too.
You sat back on your heels and yanked it over your head, kicking it away. Now you were kneeling in nothing but your ruined lace panties — the ones you’d specifically worn because you were hoping to get laid tonight.
Well. You weren’t entirely wrong, now were you?
Satoru made a sound like he’d been punched in the gut. His wildest dream had just come true in the most deranged way possible.
You leaned back in and took him into your mouth again, sucking with more purpose now. One hand stayed wrapped around the base near the ring while your other hand stroked his thigh and lower stomach — anywhere to try and soothe him.
His clammy hands were right back on your bare tits, rolling them between his fingers like he was trying to memorize their exact shape. You moaned around him because it felt so fucking good. Unfairly good.
The taste was still awful. The room still reeked of canola oil. Satoru was still quietly crying above you — overwhelmed, terrified, and so turned on he could barely think straight. But the way he was touching you, the way he was falling apart in your mouth…
You were dripping straight through the lace right onto his fucking floor.
One of your hands snaked down your body. You pushed your panties aside and started rubbing desperate circles over your poor clit while you kept sucking him.
What a development.
Righteous ideologies and all. Now you were naked on the floor of your incel roommate’s bedroom, sucking his cock while fingering yourself. Truly the most progressive way to handle this type of man.
Your pussy felt hot and aching. Your fingers slid through your own slick, making your hips twitch and another moan vibrate around his dick.
Satoru’s breathing sounded like a kettle about to boil over. His hands kept slipping on your oily skin, smearing the mess across your chest and shoulders. He was trapped in the most surreal, humiliating, perfect moment of his life — your mouth on him, you naked and touching yourself while the whole room smelled like a deep fryer.
He was half-sobbing, half-moaning.
“You’re— nghh— you’re actually getting off while—” His voice cracked as he looked down at you. You glanced up through your lashes, a little scowl on your flushed face, fingers still working between your legs.
You couldn’t even be embarrassed anymore. The absurdity had burned straight through your shame. You were horny. Stupidly, painfully horny. It was all too much and not enough at the same time.
Filthy sounds filled the room. He was crying. You were crying. Sweat was mixing with the oily mess coating your skin. You could taste your own tears mixed with the mess on his cock as they slid down your face. One of his hands was tangled in your ponytail, greasing it up nice and disgusting.
“You’re so fucking pretty,” he choked out, voice hoarse. “I can’t— ngh— I can’t believe this is real—”
You pulled off just enough to breathe. “Shut up and let me finish this,” you muttered, then sank back down, taking him as deep as the ring would allow.
His other hand relocated to your shoulder.
Then his dick throbbed hard against your tongue. Swelling, twitching and you knew he was about to blow.
You started to pull back, but his hands moved faster. One fisted tighter in your hair, the other gripped your shoulder hard. He held you in place. Rough. Desperate. But he didn’t mean to!
You made a surprised, muffled sound around him as his hips jerked.
“W-wait—fuck—I’m—!” he gasped, betrayed by his own body.
You felt the first big pulse against your tongue.
You manage to wrench your head back at the last second because there was no way in hell you were swallowing a mixture of cum and baby oil — popping off just in time. But it was too late to get completely clear.
Satoru came hard.
The first thick rope hit you across the cheek and lips. The next few painted messy white stripes across your chin, your chest, and down your neck. It kept cooooming in hot, twitchy pulses until he’d almost emptied his aching balls.
And suddenly you were back in the kitchen. Only this time it wasn’t a freaking Activia dripping down your tits.
It was him.
You stumbled backward onto your ass, cum cooling on your skin as he finally let go of you. You wiped the back of your hand across your cheek, smearing it further. He just stared down at you like he’d died and gone to heaven — you, sprawled on his floor, covered in his cum, panties twisted half-off your hips, your blushing cunt smiling up right at him and your panicked eyes unblinking.
Holy fucking nirvana, right there.
You felt disgusting. You felt filthy.
And somehow, you were still throbbing between your legs.
“Fuck— shit, fuck, fuck!” Satoru cursed, trying to stand up too fast. He slipped on the oily towel and nearly ate shit before catching himself on the edge of the bed. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hold you there, I just— it was too much, I panicked—”
He stumbled toward you on shaky legs, one hand reaching out like he was going to help you up, the other still hovering near his softening cock.
“Satoru,” you said, voice low. “Pull it off.”
He froze for half a second, then looked down.
And it was finally, finally softening. The angry red-purple was fading. The skin wasn’t stretched as tight anymore and there was a very small, very dangerous window before he’d be hard again and back in square one.
His eyes lit up with desperate hope. He grabbed the cock ring with both hands and yanked.
The sound that tore out of him was somewhere between a sob and a scream. It was violent, painful, and made you cringe so so badly. The ring caught on the ridge for one horrible second before it finally slipped off with a wet smack and skidded across the floor.
For a moment, Satoru just knelt there, breathing hard through the fading pain. Fresh tears tracked down his flushed face as the relief finally hit him.
Then he looked at you. Really looked. At the mess he’d made across your pretty face and chest. At the absolute state of the room. At everything.
“I’m the worst,” he whispered. “I know I’m the worst. You should kick me out. You should call the cops. I didn’t mean to make it worse. You probably hate me—”
He looked like he was about to start ugly crying for real. His shoulders were shaking as he braced himself for you to slap him.
And look — you wanted to. You wanted to go back in time so you would’ve never answered that fucking Reddit post, never answered his call, never come home tonight. r maybe… go back just a little bit. To when your tongue was sliding over his frenulum and you’d never been so turned on in your life.
Either way, you weren’t sure anymore. Your brain was more scrambled than the eggs you’d had for breakfast.
So instead of slapping him, you surged forward, grabbed his face with both of your hands, smearing his cum and your own arousal all over his jawline and kissed him hard enough to shut him up.
For half a second he stayed completely frozen — stunned that you were kissing him instead of murdering him on the spot. You nudged your tongue against his lips, urging him to kiss you back, because the last thing you needed right now was sucking your incel roommate off and then having him refuse to kiss you afterward. That would’ve been a new low. Truly historic.
But then he let out a shaky breath and kissed you back.
He kissed you desperately, messily, like he was trying to crawl inside your mouth. Saliva, cum, tears, and oil all mixed together as your tongues slid against each other. Teeth clicked. His hands came up to grab your waist, pulling you closer until your chest pressed against his own. He whimpered needily into your mouth and tangled his tongue with yours like he was starving for it.
His glasses got knocked even more crooked.
When you finally pulled back to breathe, you reached down and started yanking your ruined lace panties off. They were twisted around your thighs and sticking to your skin from all the mess.
Satoru, still breathing hard and clearly trying to regain some sense of control, decided this was THE moment, HIS moment to be useful.
“Here— let me help,” he muttered, reaching down with both hands.
The two of you fumbled together in some weird horny trance, his fingers sliding against your thigh as he tried to tug the lace down your leg.
But his hand slid right off your slick skin and he lost his balance completely. With a startled gasp! he pitched forward and crashed down right on top of you, pinning you to the floor.
His full weight pressed you into the cold hardwood. Chest to chest, hips slotted between your thighs. The kisses making him hard again, dick now twitching insistently against your tummy.
Then Satoru lifted his head from the crook of your neck and looked down at you. His hair was a mess, but there was something almost determined in his expression now.
“I’ve got it,” he said. Yeah. He definitely got this. He’d seen the porn. He’d read the r/sex threads. He was a man, the man! He knew exactly what he was supposed to do. Fluent in the dickology! Show you what a high-value male can do. You'll respect it. You’ll want it!
You stared up at him and raised one eyebrow.“…Are you sure?”
He looked faintly offended, but reached between your bodies anyway, grabbed his cock, and lined himself up against your slick folds. The blunt head nudged against your entrance before he pushed in with one unsteady thrust and you were honestly surprised he found your hole on a first try.
The stretch was intense. His cock bullied its way into your tight cunt, the sudden fullness making your back arch slightly off the floor. And it made you think that maybe… just maybe he’s a virgin incel but he somehow actually knows how to fuck?
Satoru made a choked sound above you. He braced his hands on either side of your head and started moving, a little too fast, a little too rough, like he was following some mental checklist of “how alpha males fuck” or something.
His hips snapped forward, rolling against yours. On a few of his clumsy thrusts, the sharp angle of his hipbone dragged right across your swollen clit.
A spark of pleasure shot right through you, made your breath hitch and his dick catch inside of you. Your fingers scratched on his shoulders and for a second you were hopeful, hopeful that perhaps incels were just involuntarily celibate men with a dick game like this.
It died almost instantly. His rhythm fell apart just as the plushy walls of your pussy fully enveloped him fully in the slick warmth. His movement turned erratic as his hips started stuttering.
“I—fuck—I can’t—ngh—!”
So… He lasted exactly forty-five seconds.
With a humiliated groan he slammed into your cervix one last time and came haard, painting your walls in thick, sticky white. His wobbly arms gave out again and he collapsed on top of you not very gracefully, face buried right back into your neck as he rode out the pathetic orgasm. He was breathing hard, the sound mixing with the wet squelching of oil, cum, and sweat between your bodies every time either of you shifted.
You stared sideways at the messy white strands of his hair currently tickling your pulse point, feeling his cum slowly leaking out around his softening cock. The frustration burning hot alongside with the ghost ache right in between legs.
If he had just let you ride him instead. Ugh.
“…Really?” you said flatly.
Satoru, mortified, made a small devastated noise into your neck and laced his fingers with yours like that would somehow make it better.
You hadn’t come from the fingering earlier. You definitely hadn’t come from his forty-five-second marathon.
You shoved at his shoulder.
“Satoru.”
He made a small, satisfied noise.
“Satoru. Did you just cum inside me?”
His eyes flew open. The bliss drained from his face instantly. He slowly nodded, guilty, not knowing if he should be terrified or glad.
You pushed him off you. He rolled onto his back with a wet squelch.
You sat up, cum and oil smeared across your skin, and stared down at him.
“You ruined my date,” you said, voice low. “You were stupid enough to trap your own dick in a death trap and made me come home to deal with it. You came all over me without letting me cum, and then you creampied me in under a minute.”
He opened his mouth, “I was just claiming what’s mine—”ready to say something even more stupid.
You cut him off, because you were not listening to that right now and ever fucking again. “Don’t. I swear to god, if you say one more word of that pseudo-alpha, podcast-bro bullshit right now, I can promise you this will be the first and last time you ever have your dick in any pussy. Ever.”
He froze.
You leaned in, eyes narrowed, pussy suddenly drying up at high speed.
“I’m serious, Satoru. All that ‘high-value male,’ ‘she’ll respect dominance,’ ‘women secretly want to be put in their place’ garbage? It’s not cute. It’s not hot. It’s not working. It makes you sound like a loser. You’re only lucky that I’m stupid enough to actually fucking like you.”
And Satoru deadass had nothing to say, because it didn’t make sense, yet it made all the sense. And in the middle of the gears grinding he blinked up at you because… did you just tell him you like him?
Before he could grab your chin and kiss you stupid again, you pointed between your legs.
“Since you made this mess, you’re going to clean it up. Now.”
The color drained from his face as he stared at you. “Y-you want me to eat out my cum?”
“Did I stutter?”
He was too stunned and properly terrified to argue. He knew that if he didn’t get his shit together right now, this really might be the first and last time he ever saw pussy in real life. So he scrambled down between your thighs without another word.
He’s going to do it for the love of the game. Can’t be that bad, right?
He gulped as he nestled between your soft thighs, eyeing your tight little hole as a little trail of his cum mixed with your frothy slick leaked onto the floor below you. And it was the prettiest sight he had ever seen.
The reluctant pout on his face made it clear he was weighing eating his own cum against the very real possibility of never getting to fuck you again, so you made it easier for him. You grabbed a fistful of his messy white hair and yanked his face straight against your pussy. His nose immediately buried right between your wet folds, tickling the sensitive flesh.
And maybe he was currently terrified of you, or it was the fact that he finally smelled your sex up close — either way, he was now desperate to please you.
The first drag of his tongue through your folds was experimental, almost cautious.
He did it again, licking with too much pressure and in all the wrong places, clearly thinking he was doing something impressive, missing your clit. Again. And again. And again.
For fuck’s sake, you lasted maybe fifteen seconds. You reached down, grabbed his silky hair again, and yanked his head up to adjust him.
He furrowed his brows at you, confused and a little offended, like he was about to argue — until his tongue accidentally flicked right over your clit.
His eyes widened slightly.
He did it again, slower this time. A testing little flick. Eyes wide, as if asking what the hell just happened, feeling the little knob jumping.
You let out a shaky moan, fingers tightening in his hair.
“That’s my clit, Satoru.”
His eyes darkened and he dove back in with completely different energy. Okay, he knew where your cute little clit was. Now onto figuring out how to make you come on his tongue.
He started with the licking, up and down, until he pushed into your leaking hole. He almost immediately tasted his own cum, still warm, thick, and disgustingly bitter against your sweet pussy juices, and he made a guttural sound right against you.
He should have been disgusted, appalled, mortified through his militant incel brain. But why did it taste so wrong, it tasted so so right?
Eating himself right out of you — it was so pathetic, so raw, so hot. And you couldn’t fucking believe you actually made him do it.
Your pussy fluttered and he dove in like a man possessed.
A desperate whine vibrated against your clit as he started licking in earnest. Messy, unrestrained, starving. He was slurping loudly, tongue pushing deep to get more of the mixture, swallowing it down like he couldn’t get enough. Every time he tasted more of himself leaking out of you, another broken moan escaped him.
His hands gripped your thighs hard, holding you open as he buried his face deeper. He was whining and whimpering into your cunt like tasting his own cum inside you had flipped some primal, pathetic switch in his brain neither of you even knew existed.
“Fuck— you taste so good— I taste so good on you—” Every few seconds he would pull back just enough to breathe, drooling, and mutter broken little things against your skin. And you were once again left wondering where all the skill came from.
Then he’d dive right back in, tongue flicking over your clit before dragging down to lap at your hole again, like he was trying to clean you out and make you messy all over again at the same time.
It was deranged.
It was filthy.
And it was fucking working.
Your hand fisted in his hair, gripping tight. He moaned loudly at the rough treatment, the sound muffled against your pussy as his tongue circled your clit, biting then sucking on it, then flattening to drag it through your folds like he was trying to devour you whole.
You were gushing at this point, and not a drop ever spilled on the floor as he slurped you like his favourite boba flavour. His touch spread across your entire body as the orgasm built after getting edged the entire evening to fucking oblivion.
“‘Toru—” you cried, thighs starting to tremble around his head. And he bit down gently on your inner thigh when you tried to close your legs on instinct.
Look, it’s not like you did it on purpose — who the fuck would want to close up shop when business was this good?
He kitten-licked your poor clit, sending sparks right to your lower belly. Your back arched off the floor as his hand snaked up at the right damn time to flick your nipple.
Oh.
“Holy— ngh— fuck, ‘Toru—!” you screamed and came all over his poor face, thighs clamping around his head as you tried to suffocate him with your spasming pussy. You shook like you’d been electrocuted and he kept licking and licking, to the point you weren’t sure if you came again or if it was just one big orgasm. He wanted to taste every damn second of you falling apart because of him, for him.
His face was a mess. Half of it was shiny and wet with your slick, lips prettily swollen. He’d thrown his glasses somewhere on the floor in the middle of it. His pupils were practically heart-shaped, and he looked so wrecked it was beautiful.
He was so cum-drunk he only stared up at you with his mouth open, resting his cheek against your inner thigh, waiting.
And your eyes might’ve been heart-shaped too, because the sight of him made you throb all over again.
“Fuck,” you almost moaned, reaching down to grab his shoulders. “Come here.”
Satoru didn’t need to be told twice. He crawled up your body like he was starving for it — for you. He crashed his lips against yours and the kiss was fucking messy. You could taste yourself on him as he smeared your slick across your chin, tongues sliding sloppily against each other like you were trying to devour one another.
His hands found your waist. He shifted his weight and rolled the two of you until his back was against the bed and you were straddling him in his lap.
You broke the kiss just long enough to look at him. His chest was heaving. And he was looking up at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
Everything was still disgustingly sticky, but the way he looked at you made your heart go thump thump thump in a way it never had before. So you reached down, wrapped your hand around his cock, and sank down onto him in one slow, slick motion.
Satoru’s head tipped back against the bed with a broken groan that made the muscles in his neck jump. His hands immediately gripped your hips hard, fingers digging into your ass like he needed to anchor himself.
“Fuuck—” he slurred, voice so dazed. “Oh my god— you’re so warm— so fucking tight—tighter—”
You started moving, rolling your hips in frantic circles. Every time you sank down, you could feel the tip kissing your cervix, nudging right up against the entrance of your womb as he completely bottomed out.
It didn’t take long before his hands tightened on your ass and he started helping you. He pulled you down onto him faster, guiding your hips with desperate hands while lifting his own to meet you halfway.
“Shit— just like that,” he whimpered, kissing all over your jaw as his tip kissed your poor cervix again and again and again. “Ngh— you’re milking me so good—”
He was completely gone. Eyes glassy, mouth open, babbling whatever came to his mind as you rode him. And every time you clenched around him, another broken sound slipped out of him.
His mouth searched for yours again, licking into the corners of your lips before kissing you deep. You slipped two fingers into his mouth and he immediately sucked on them, tongue rolling around your fingers with a needy moan that made your pussy flutter and squeeze around him even harder. Your swollen clit dragged over his lap and lower stomach with every roll, his happy trail tickling your sensitive folds and sending sparks up your spine.
Satoru whined around your fingers, hips twitching up helplessly.
One of his hands stayed on your hip while the other slid up and wrapped around your neck. His thumb brushed along the side of your throat as he started moving you faster, pulling you down onto his cock with more urgency. The sound of your skin loud.
“I’m so close,” he warned desperately against your lips. “Fuck— I’m gonna cum— you feel too good—”
His hand squeezed, holding you in place as he helped you bounce on him. Every time you sank down, he lifted his hips to meet you, fucking up into you until your jaw rattled. He was panting hard, forehead pressed against yours, completely pussy-drunk.
Satoru came with a broken, drawn-out moan, hips jerking up into you as he spilled deep inside. He held you down against him, grinding up as he pumped his cum into you like he was unconsciously trying to fuck it into your womb. His hand on your neck tightened just enough to pin you down against him while he trembled through it.
Both of you were breathing hard. He held you close and kissed the side of your head as he hugged you.
“D-did you cum?” he mumbled against your skin, still dazed and half out of it.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, deadpan.
“WHAT?”
He blinked up at you, still glassy-eyed and fucked-out. “You squeezed me so hard I thought you did! Okay then— cum then!”
You stared at him for a second, somewhere between offended, frustrated, and fond, before letting out a short laugh.
“You’re actually so fucking stupid.”
You were still softly rolling your hips, using his softening cock like a dildo while you were still determined to cum again. Satoru just watched you, half-intently, half blissed-out, still breathing hard, feeling his cum escaping your pussy and pooling in his lap. After a moment, one of his hands slid down between your bodies. His fingers found your clit easily this time and started rubbing you.
“Fuck— you’re still so wet,” he mumbled, eyes locked on where you were grinding against him. “Keep going… I’ve got you.”
So you kept moving on his semi-hard cock while he fingered you, the combination making your thighs shake. Your breath started hitching and Satoru was watching your face closely now, still drunk but trying to focus.
When your mouth fell open so prettily and your eyes fluttered as he just hit that spot inside you with the angle of his cock, his other hand moved to your hip almost automatically. He gripped you and started moving you himself, guiding you in short, deliberate rolls so his cock and his fingers kept pressing right against that same sensitive spot from both sides.
“There?” he asked, voice low and rough. “Right there?”
You could only nod, a broken whimper slipping out of you as you started tipping forward, head on his sweaty shoulder until your thighs were trembling hard and you felt like a jelly.
You came with a sharp, shaky moan, clenching around his soft cock as the overstimulating orgasm tingled through you. Satoru held you through it, still moving you gently and praising you until you completely slumped forward against his chest.
He hugged you tight, face buried in your neck.
And you stayed slumped against Satoru’s chest for a long minute, both of you just breathing each other in. The adrenaline was finally wearing off, and reality slowly started to creep back in.
The room was in fucking ruin. You were both coated in a sticky mess, the mattress behind you was most likely ruined, and the floor was dangerously slippery. It smelled like greasy sex.
“Well,” you said.
“Yeah,” he answered quietly.
You slowly peeled yourself off his chest, shivering as the cool air hit your slick, overheated skin.
You looked down at him and he still looked completely fucked-out, and you decided you could get used to that look. As you stretched, you felt his cum trailing down your inner thighs. Satoru’s eyes followed it from the front row, his spent dick giving a weak twitch at the sight.
“I’m going to take a shower,” you said softly, breaking the quiet. You paused, a small smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “…Wanna join?”
Satoru’s heart practically stopped. His eyes widened and for a second he looked like he was going to follow you like a lost, oily puppy. But then he glanced around at the absolute state of his bedroom and reality hit him again.
“I’ll, uh…” He cleared his throat. “I’ll clean this up a bit first. You go ahead.”
You pouted but gave him a soft, understanding nod. “Don’t take too long, ‘Toru.”
You grabbed one of his random t-shirts from the floor and padded down the hallway toward the bathroom.
Left alone on the floor, Satoru stared at the opposite wall for a long time. He was deadass completely re-evaluating his entire existence.
He had just experienced the most surreal, life-changing two hours of his life, and the only thing he knew for certain was that he was completely whipped for you. For once, he didn’t care what his old incel education had to say about it.
He reached over to his nightstand, picked up his phone, and wiped a smear of baby oil off the screen before opening Reddit.
r/relationship_advice
I (M) think I’m in love with my roommate (F) and I might have just completely fucked everything up in the most humiliating way possible
Throwaway because if she ever sees this she will murder me.
I’ve been living with this girl for almost a year. She’s my roommate. For the longest time I thought I had everything figured out. I believed that if I just kept doing enough, she’d eventually see me as a potential mate. She didn’t, obviously.
Tonight I did something so fucking stupid I still can’t believe I’m typing this. I got a cock ring stuck on my dick. I panicked and called her while she was on a date and basically begged her to come home. She helped me. She got it off. And then… something else happened. Something I didn’t expect at all. And now she’s in the shower and I feel like I fucked up our friendship beyond repair. My entire worldview feels kinda off.
I think I’m in love with her. I’ve been a terrible roommate. I’ve been a terrible person tbh. I don’t know what we are now. I don’t even know if I have the right to ask. But I think I love her. And I have no idea what the fuck I’m supposed to do.
Please help. And be nice this time.
u/GrassToucherGeto · 183 upvotes
Is this the same guy who posted that viral “AITA for expecting my roommate to fuck me because I did the dishes” thread a few weeks ago?
u/KingNaoya69 · 56 upvotes
You fucked her? Good shit bro. Don’t fuck it up this time.
Satoru looked up when you walked out of the hallway wearing his t-shirt, your hair still damp and smelling like strawberries. Something in his chest went soft at the sight.
He was still sitting on the floor, holding a bottle of kitchen cleaner in one hand and a roll of paper towels in the other. He looked like he had no idea what he was doing.
You sighed and gave him a soft, tired look.
“‘Toru,” you said gently. “You’re not going to be able to clean this mess up right now. Just go wash up.” You paused, biting your lip. “Let’s just sleep in my room tonight, alright?”
He blinked up at you, panicked and hopeful all at once. You tilted your head, giving him the softest smile you’d given him yet. That was all it took. He dropped the cleaner without a second thought and basically sprinted down the hall.
He took the fastest, most aggressive shower of his entire life, scrubbing the residual oil and shame off his skin like he was trying to erase the last few hours.
When he finally crept into your bedroom, the lights were already off and you were in bed. He climbed in beside you and the sheets smelled like you. It was warm. It was safe. It made something in his chest loosen.
You shifted over without opening your eyes, throwing an arm across his chest and tucking your face into the crook of his neck with a soft, contented sigh. You fell asleep almost instantly.
Satoru lay there staring up at the dark ceiling, gently nuzzling the top of your head with his cheek. A quiet, overwhelming sense of peace settled over him.
Carefully, so as not to wake you, he reached for his phone on the nightstand one last time.
He opened Reddit and went back to his post. The comments had already blown up again — some people calling the story fake, others demanding more details about the cock ring, a few calling him a simp.
Satoru smiled to himself.
He typed out one final edit.
Update: nvm, she’s tucked into my side. Take this as a PSA to all the other incels out there. Admins, please flag this as SOLVED.
── Dividers from petalpx and fairytopea and melocor!
◞ in which
after you hear something you probably shouldn’t have and run off in a panic, you decide the only sane way to apologize is with cookies. that’s what a normal person would do, right? except normal doesn’t really exist around satoru anymore, and one wrong turn into his hallway is enough to make you rethink the whole plan.
◞ content + warnings
18+ only. minors do not interact. miscommunication, jealousy and insecurities, and a confession that doesn’t land right.
◞ author’s notes
hi hi, back with a new chapter! if you thought that reader couldn’t be more clumsy with her actions you will get more of that now. anyway enjoy the disaster <3
⌗ links masterlist · ao3
you lie in bed for a long time after you hang up the phone, just staring at the ceiling, replaying the whole morning over and over in your head like it’s stuck on a loop you can’t turn off.
the shower. the sound of the water. the groan of his voice echoing off the tiles. your name on his lips when he came—
you press your hands over your face again. okay. you need to stop thinking about that specific part. you need to think about something else, anything else, literally anything—
i wanted to tell you first.
nope. that’s worse. that’s so much worse.
you groan into your pillow and roll onto your side, curling up like that’ll somehow make the embarrassment smaller. because here’s the thing. here’s the actual problem. it’s not even really about the shower, or the sounds, or any of it. it’s the fact that satoru had the biggest moment of his entire life happen today, the thing he’s been working toward since before you even knew him, and his first thought was to come find you and tell you about it.
and you weren’t there.
you were halfway across campus, power walking like your life depended on it, because you’d seen something you weren’t supposed to see and panicked instead of just… waiting. like a normal person. like a good friend.
but the image keeps flashing behind your eyes no matter how hard you try to outrun it: him in the shower, water streaming down his back, one hand braced against the tile while the other worked his cock. your name on his lips and the way his head had tipped back, eyes squeezed shut. he was thinking about you. getting off to the thought of you.
that’s totally normal for friends, right? you tell yourself for the hundredth time. doesn’t mean anything. guys do that. it’s—biology or whatever.
but the heat between your legs says otherwise.
you shove that thought away. hard.
focus. the actual problem. you ran off on him after the best day of his athletic career, lied to him about why on the phone, and now you’re lying here feeling sorry for yourself when he’s the one who probably felt a little confused and hurt that you weren’t there when he came looking.
you sit up. okay. you need to fix this. you need to actually be a good friend about this instead of a walking anxiety spiral.
what do people do when they feel bad? what do normal people do?
you think about it for a second, and then it hits you. cookies. you should bake him cookies. it’s simple, it’s normal, it doesn’t require you to look him in the eye and explain why you left the athletics building at the speed of light. it’s just a nice, uncomplicated gesture. congratulations on the scouts thing, sorry i disappeared, here are some cookies, no further questions please.
it’s perfect.
you get up, pull your hair back, and head down to the shared kitchen on your floor. your roommate is at the table doing an assigment and glances up as you start pulling out flour and a bowl.
“what’s happening right now,” she asks.
“i’m baking cookies.”
“you don’t bake.”
“i’m baking today.”
she watches you for a second, taking in your slightly frazzled hair and the way you’re measuring flour like you’re terrified of getting it wrong. “who are they for.”
“nobody. just cookies.”
“uh huh.” she goes back to her assignment, clearly not buying it for a second.
you focus on the recipe, on the measuring and the mixing, because it gives your hands something to do and your brain something simple to focus onto besides showers and moans and the way his voice had sounded saying you’re my favorite cheerleader like it was nothing, like it wasn’t the kind of thing that would live in your head rent free for the rest of the week.
the cookies come out slightly uneven, a little golden at the edges, but they smell good, and that’s basically the whole point. you package a handful of them into a little container, the good one you actually own instead of borrow, and you sit there at the kitchen table staring at it for a second.
it’s not a big gesture. it’s cookies. it means congratulations, and i’m sorry, and i actually am proud of you, more than i said on the phone, and also please don’t ask me why i left the building today because i genuinely cannot explain that to you without dying on the spot.
you glance at the clock. it’s not too late to go over. you could just drop them off, say something quick, and leave—
“so are you bringing those somewhere or,” your roomates suddenly says, not looking up form her assignment.
“no.”
“no?”
“no. they’re just for me.” you pull the container a little closer to yourself, like that proves something. “i just wanted cookies. and i’ll eat them myself.”
“you never bake for yourself. you don’t even like doing dishes.”
“i’m trying new things.”
“uh huh.” she taps her pencil against her notebook. “and this sudden expansion of your hobbies happened randomly, today, right after you got back from satoru’s meet.”
“those two things are unrelated.”
“i didn’t say they were related.”
“you implied it.”
“i said one sentence.” she’s smiling now, not even trying to hide it. “you’re the one connecting the dots.”
“there are no dots. there’s no line. there is nothing here to connect.” you stand up, tucking the container against your side. “i’m going to our room.”
“with your personal cookies.”
“with my personal cookies, yes.”
“that you’re definitely not taking anywhere.”
“correct.” you’re already halfway out of the kitchen, walking a little faster than the situation calls for. “goodnight.”
“it’s four in the afternoon.”
“goodnight,” you say again, and disappear down the hallway before she can get another word in.
you get to your shared room and set the container down on your desk and just look at it for a solid minute.
okay. fine. maybe they’re not entirely for personal consumption. maybe there’s a small, very small, almost negligible chance that you’ll end up walking these across campus in the next hour. but that doesn’t mean anything. that’s just being a good friend. that’s just normal, uncomplicated, congratulations-and-also-sorry-i-ran-away cookie delivery, and there is absolutely nothing else going on underneath it.
you change your shirt twice before you leave, which you also decide means nothing.
︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵
the walk to his dorm building takes about ten minutes, and you spend all ten of them going back and forth on whether this is a good idea or possibly the worst idea you’ve had all week, right up there with walking into that locker room in the first place.
by the time you reach his hallway you’ve mostly talked yourself back into it. it’s cookies. it’s a nice, normal thing that nice, normal friends do for each other. you’re not going to overthink it.
you turn the corner into his corridor and stop dead.
satoru’s door is open, and he’s leaning against the frame in a t-shirt and sweatpants, damp hair pushed back like he showered, laughing at something. there’s a girl standing in front of him, close, one hand resting lightly on his arm. she says something and he laughs harder, head tipping back a little, the easy, warm laugh you know so well, the one that used to just be yours to notice.
you don’t recognize her. pretty, obviously, because they always are. she’s got her hair pulled over one shoulder and she’s looking up at him like he’s the only person on the floor, which, to be fair, he probably is right now.
you take one step back before you’ve even decided to.
your heart does something ugly and fast in your chest, dropping somewhere lower than it should for someone who is just here to deliver cookies as a nice, normal friend. you press yourself back against the wall at the corner of the hallway, out of sight, cookie container suddenly feeling very stupid and very heavy in your hands.
okay. this is fine. this is completely fine. he can talk to whoever he wants in his own hallway. you are not owed an explanation. you are not owed anything at all, actually, because nothing has actually been said between you two that would give you any right to feel like this, this hot, sick little knot in your heart.
you, obviously, he’d said. right there in the studio, lips at your ear, voice soft in a way you’d never heard from him before.
and now there’s a girl with her hand on his arm and he’s laughing like he doesn’t have a single other thought in his head.
you tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. people laugh with people. people stand in hallways. it is possible, extremely possible, that this girl is just someone from his floor, or his team, or literally anyone whose existence has nothing to do with you standing here overthinking an entire scenario you haven’t even seen the whole of.
you peek around the corner again.
she’s exactly the type you’d have pictured, if anyone had ever asked you to guess what satoru’s type would be, which nobody ever has, because why would they. easy. confident. the kind of girl who probably walks into a room and doesn’t spend the first four minutes searching for an exit.
you look down at yourself without meaning to, and something in you goes small and insignificant, and then you look back up at them again, watching him laugh at someone who is everything you very specifically are not.
your hands are cold around the plastic.
you look down at the cookies again, still faintly warm through the lid, and suddenly you feel so stupid for having made them at all. what were you even thinking. congratulations on your race, sorry i ran away from you in a panic, here are some cookies i baked while thinking about you the entire time, please ignore how insane that sounds.
you don’t wait around to find out if she goes into his room. you just turn and walk, fast, back the way you came, down the hallway and toward the stairwell.
you’re halfway across the ground floor lobby, blinking hard and telling yourself very firmly that you are not about to cry over cookies, when you nearly walk straight into suguru.
“whoa,” he says, catching your shoulder lightly so you don’t collide with him fully. “hey. you okay?”
“i’m fine,” you say, too fast, the way you always say it when you are extremely not fine.
he looks at you for a second, the calm kind of look he always gives people, like he’s used to being the reasonable one in every room he’s in. his eyes drop to the container in your hands. “what’s that?”
“cookies,” you say, and then, because your brain apparently has no better plan available right now, you just hold the container out to him. “for you. good work. or whatever.”
suguru blinks. “for me?”
“yeah.”
“good work on what.”
“just—” you wave a hand vaguely. “training. being a teammate. all of it. general good work.”
he takes the container slowly, like he’s not entirely sure this is real. “okay,” he says, clearly amused now. “i mean, thank you. this is very nice. very random, but nice.”
“you’re welcome.”
he glances toward the stairwell behind you, then back at you. “you sure you don’t want to bring these up to satoru instead? he’s back on his floor, i think he just finished up with—”
“no,” you say, quick enough that it comes out a little too sharp. “no, it’s fine. they’re for you. specifically you. i wasn’t going up there anyway.”
suguru raises an eyebrow slightly but doesn’t push it, which you’re grateful for, because you do not currently have the emotional bandwidth to explain any part of this to anyone, least of all satoru’s teammate who probably has a much clearer read on the whole situation than you’d like.
“cool,” he says finally, tucking the container against his side. “well. thanks. i’ll enjoy these very much on your behalf of, uh, general good work.”
“great.” you’re already stepping around him toward the door.
“hey, wait.” he shifts the container to one arm. “how’s your semester going, actually? you’re the art major, right? satoru mentioned it a while back.”
“oh. yeah. it’s—fine. busy.” you shift your weight, a little thrown by the sudden interest. “figure drawing unit right now. lots of studio hours.”
“figure drawing. that sounds like it could be interesting. or exhausting. probably both.”
“it’s a lot, yeah.”
“you’re good at it though? drawing?”
“i mean. i try to be.” you laugh a little, awkward, not sure where this is going or why he’s still standing here asking you questions instead of heading back upstairs. “why?”
“just curious.” he shrugs. “you’re always kind of around, you know? training, the meets. never really got to talk to you much. figured i should fix that.”
you blink at him.
this is—new. suguru’s never really talked to you beyond a passing hello at practice, a nod across the bleachers, the occasional five-word exchange when satoru drags you into a conversation with the team. and now he’s standing here in the lobby asking about your major and your drawing and looking at you with an expression that feels a little like interest, actual interest, the kind you don’t really know what to do with because it’s aimed at you.
you feel immediately, deeply off put by it, in a way you can’t totally explain. it’s not that suguru isn’t nice, or that there’s anything wrong with the conversation itself. it’s more that you don’t have a category for this. boys don’t really do this, not with you. you’re the one on the bleachers with a sketchbook. you’re the one people forget is there until they need someone to hold their water bottle. you are, very specifically, not the kind of girl that gets this kind of attention, and you know that about yourself the way you know your own name, so having it happen right now, out of nowhere, in a lobby, over a box of cookies meant for someone else, feels like being handed a script for a scene you’re not in.
“right,” you say, a little stiffly. “well. now you know i draw.”
“now i know you draw.” he’s smiling, and it’s a nice smile, easygoing, nothing pushy about it, which somehow makes it worse because you can’t even find a reason to be annoyed. “maybe you could show me sometime. what you’ve been working on.”
“i don’t really show people my sketchbook.”
“no?”
“no.” your eyes drift towards the door, toward the cold night air and the version of this evening where you’re already halfway home. “it’s mostly just practice stuff. not really interesting.”
“i have a hard time believing someone who bakes like this isn't good at drawing.”
“those are completely unrelated skills.”
he laughs at that, a real laugh, and you feel your face heat up a little despite yourself, which annoys you further because there is absolutely no reason for it, none, this is just a person being friendly and you are reading way too much into a five minute conversation in a dorm lobby.
“i should go,” you say, taking a step back toward the door. “it’s late. i’ve got an early class.”
“sure. yeah.” he nods, container still tucked under his arm. “thanks again for these. i mean it.”
“no problem.”
“see you around, sketchbook girl.”
you make a face at that on your way out the door, mostly to cover the fact that you don’t entirely hate it, and the early evening air hits you the second you step outside, cold enough to clear your head a little, though not quite enough to stop you thinking, the whole walk home, about how strange it is that the first boy to ever really flirt with you did it while holding cookies meant for somebody else.
︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵
a few days later, you’re in your usual spot in the library, sitting at the corner table near the windows, sketchbook open next to your laptop even though you haven’t actually drawn anything in the last twenty minutes. you’ve mostly just been staring at the same paragraph of your art history reading over and over without absorbing a single word of it.
and then the chair across from you scrapes back.
you don’t even need to look up to know who it is. you know the sound of him settling into a seat by now, the specific way he drops his bag on the floor like he can’t wait to throw it somewhere.
“hey,” satoru says. “haven’t seen you in a while.”
you glance up at him, and something in your chest tightens up immediately. “yeah,” you say, a little flat. “been busy.”
“busy,” he repeats.
“yeah. you know. classes. stuff.” you look back down at your laptop, scrolling through nothing in particular. “i’m sure you’ve been busy too, though. big race. probably a lot of people wanted to celebrate with you after.”
“celebrate with me how.”
“i don’t know, satoru. girls. probably girls wanted to celebrate with you. it’s fine, though. genuinely. it’s not my business.”
“what girls.”
“i don’t know! that’s the point!” your voice comes out sharper than you mean it to, a couple heads at nearby tables turning slightly. “i don’t need the details. i don’t want to know about it. it’s fine.”
“you don’t want to know about what? there’s nothing to know—”
“okay, sure.”
“you’re being weird.”
“i’m not weird.”
“you are.” he leans forward, and now he actually looks annoyed, which somehow makes you more annoyed. “what was up with the cookies, by the way? for suguru?”
“what?”
“the cookies. suguru told me you gave him cookies.”
“suguru told you that?”
“yeah, he mentioned it, like two days ago. so what was that about?”
heat crawls up your neck, and for a second you don’t say anything at all, because now you have to decide whether to actually admit any of it, and every single option available to you sounds humiliating out loud.
“nothing,” you say. “i just felt like baking.”
“you don’t bake.”
“i bake sometimes.”
“you’ve genuinely never baked in the three years i’ve known you.”
“well, i started.”
“and the first person you gave them to was suguru? do you like him?”
“what?”
“suguru. do you like him. is that what this is.”
“it’s just cookies—”
“ma’am.” the library lady is suddenly standing at the end of your table, arms crossed, giving you both a look over her glasses that could strip paint. “this is a library.”
“sorry,” you both say at almost the same time, and she gives one more pointed look before turning and walking back toward the front desk.
silence drops between you, both of you sitting there a little red in the face, refusing to look directly at each other. you fix your eyes on your laptop. he leans back in his chair, still watching you, clearly not done with this conversation but dialing the volume down.
“by the way,” satoru says, quieter now, “suguru asked me for your number.”
“oh, really?”
“yeah. should i give it to him?”
you look at him, and for a second you almost say no, the word right there, easy, obvious. but then you think about the girl in the hallway. about how he never seems to be alone for long, how there’s always someone looking at him like they want a piece of him. something sour turns over in your gut. if he gets to have people, you can have people too. even if the thought of suguru doesn’t do anything for you at all, even if the only person you actually want texting you is sitting right across the table.
“sure,” you say. “why not.”
his eyes drop to the table for a second before coming back up to you. “okay,” he says.
he picks his bag up off the floor, slinging it over one shoulder, and stands up from the table without another word. you watch him do it, your chest going tight and the satisfaction you thought you’d feel completely absent, replaced instead with the hollow feeling of having said the exact wrong thing.
“satoru—”
“i’ll tell him,” he says, already turning away, not looking back at you. “see you around.”
and then he’s walking off between the shelves, and you’re left sitting there with your laptop and your sketchbook and the certainty that you’re a real idiot.
︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵
the next drawing session is worse. you’d genuinely thought it couldn’t get worse than last week. apparently it could.
you get there earlier than you need to again, same as last time, trying to shake off some of the nerves before the session actually starts. the studio is mostly empty still, with just a few students already claiming the good easels, and you standing at yours doing absolutely nothing useful with your hands.
you haven’t seen him since the library. since sure, why not and his jaw going tight and him walking off between the shelves without looking back at you once. it’s been four days. you’d told yourself four days was plenty of time for things to go back to normal, whatever normal even means anymore, except you’d spent most of those four days checking your phone for a text that never came and feeling stupid about it every single time.
you think, suddenly and uselessly, of that joke people make about estranged parents—the phone works both ways—usually said about some resentful dad who cut off his kid and then complains nobody calls him. you’d always thought that joke was funny in an obvious way, like, yeah, obviously, pick up the phone yourself, genius. and now here you are, apparently the toxic parent in your own analogy.
this is not helpful, brain. stop that, you think.
you clip a fresh sheet to your board. you uncap a pencil you don’t need yet. you glance at the curtain at the back of the room, even though there’s nothing to see, even though he isn’t even here yet.
your classmates start filtering in around you, the same morning noise as last week, easels scraping, someone’s water bottle rolling off a table. maya sits down two spots over and gives you a knowing look that you try very hard to ignore.
you’re still staring at your blank page, holding your pencil too tightly as you run through everything you have to do in the next two hours, when your phone lights up with a text message.
hey, this is suguru. satoru gave me your number, hope that’s okay
morning btw. hope the studio thing today goes well
satoru mentioned you had another session
you stare at that for a second, saving the contact before you even think about it, typing his name in like it’s a completely normal thing to do. suguru texting you good morning is objectively a nice thing. he’s nice. genuinely, actually nice, in a way that doesn’t come with any confusing subtext attached to it.
hey! yeah that’s okay
thanks, should be fine
you stare at the screen for a second, your thumb hovering above the screen. it feels rude to leave it one-sided, especially when he’s the one who bothered to say good morning at all. so you type before you can think too hard about it.
what are you up to today?
you hit send and immediately regret it a little. why did you ask that. you don’t actually want to know what suguru’s up to today, you don’t want to know what suguru’s up to any day, there is no version of this where his schedule is information you need. but it’s out there now and there’s no unsending a question that friendly.
it’s not that you don’t like him. you do, in the uncomplicated, easy way you’d like everything to be. it’s just that being nice back feels like the only thing you know how to do when someone’s nice to you first, whether you mean anything by it or not, and apparently that reflex doesn’t care whether you actually want to keep the conversation going.
your phone lights up again almost immediately.
training this morning, then i’ve got a lecture i’m definitely going to fall asleep in.
you free after your classes today?
you stare at that for a second.
you read it again, like it’ll say something different the second time. you free after your classes today—that could mean anything, that could be a completely normal, friendly, hey-let’s-grab-coffee-as-two-people-who-know-each-other-now kind of question. except your pulse has other ideas, and you’re pretty sure normal friendly questions aren’t supposed to do that.
you’re still spiraling over how to text him back when the door at the back of the studio opens and professor lee walks in with satoru a half step behind her.
you shove your phone into your bag without answering.
you watch satoru cross the room toward the changing area, and he doesn’t even glance at you. not a nod, not the small eyebrow thing he usually does, nothing.
it shouldn’t hurt. it’s a stupid thing to hurt over, and yet it does anyway.
you should have never asked him to model in the first place. that’s the actual root of it, if you trace it all the way back—professor lee and her carrot on a stick about your portfolio, and you, too weak to say no to any of it, walking up to him after practice and saying i need you like it was nothing, like it wasn’t going to turn your comfortable friendship into whatever this is now.
the session gets underway the way it always does—gesture poses first, professor lee calling out the timing, satoru settling onto the platform looking completely unbothered by the twenty people about to stare at him for the next two hours.
you get your pencil moving on autopilot, shoulders, arms, hands, and then he shifts into the next pose and you are looking directly at his dick and your brain shorts out a little.
i cannot draw this right now, you think. you genuinely cannot. not today. not today, not with your head still this full of him. because all you can think about is how badly you want to kiss that stomach, lower, until your lips brush against the head of his cock. how badly you want to wrap your fingers around it, feel its weight and heat, lean in and lick—
you catch yourself and nearly snap your pencil in half.
jesus christ.
your face burns. you force your eyes back up to the safer territory of his chest, but it’s too late. your pulse is hammering between your legs, and the page in front of you remains embarrassingly blank where his hips should be.
get it together, you tell yourself. you have drawn this exact dick before. twice. you got an A. you are a professional. except last time you drew it there wasn’t a boy named suguru waiting on an answer in your bag, and there wasn’t a boy named satoru three feet away very pointedly looking at the window instead of at you, and you hadn’t yet had the horrifying realization that watching him ignore you for an hour felt worse than anything else that had happened to you all semester, dick included.
you look up to check the pose again. satoru’s eyes are on the middle distance. not on you. not once.
you look back down at your page.
︵︵︵ ๑ ♡ ๑ ︵︵︵
by the time professor lee calls the last pose, your drawing looks like it lost a fight. everything above his waist is fleshed out and detailed, and looks quite good. but everywhere below his waist is just panicked lines, the hips smudged and redrawn so many times the paper’s gone grey with eraser dust.
it looks stupid. like someone’s little sister tried to draw a person after being told what a person is but not shown one. you stare at it for a second and think, that professor lee is going to have questions.
you don’t have it in you to care right now.
the class packs up around you, and you take your time again, unclipping your sheet slower than you need to, watching the curtain out of the corner of your eye.
you’re going to do it. you decide this somewhere between putting your pencils away and hearing the soft sounds of him getting dressed behind the curtain. you’re going to wait for him, and you’re going to say it, plain and simple, before you can talk yourself out of it or make an even bigger mess of things.
i like you.
that’s it. that’s the whole sentence. three words, nothing complicated about it. people say this to each other all the time. normal people, every day, in cafeterias and hallways and libraries, three words and then the world just keeps going.
you can do this.
you rehearse it once in your head while you zip your bag shut. i like you. simple. you’re not going to wait for the perfect moment, because you’ve had four days of perfect moments slip through your fingers already and look where that’s gotten you.
the curtain shifts. satoru steps out, tugging his shirt down, hair ruffled from getting dressed.
you open your mouth.
“suguru text you yet?” satoru says, before a single word makes it out.
“what?”
“suguru. did he text you. he said he was gonna.”
“…yeah. he did, actually.” you blink at him, still half caught in the sentence you were about to say, trying to catch up. “why?”
“there’s that movie. the one that just came out, the space one, i think you mentioned wanting to see it a while back. i wanna go see it this weekend. figured i’d bring a girl, make it a whole thing.”
“okay,” you say slowly, still not following.
“you and suguru should come too.” he says it so lightly, so completely without weight, like he’s suggesting you all grab lunch sometime. “make it a group thing. double date, whatever. you like him, right? seems like a good excuse to hang out.”
the words press down on you all at once, until even drawing a breath feels like work, and for a second you can’t say anything at all.
i like you. that’s the sentence you had ready, three words you’d rehearsed the whole walk over here, and instead he’s standing in front of you planning a double date, pairing you off with suguru like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like he’s doing you a favor.
“a double date,” you repeat.
“yeah. it’ll be fun.” he’s already checking his phone, thumbing through something. “you free saturday?”
you should say no. you should say actually, satoru, i need to tell you something, and finish the sentence you started, the one that’s still sitting right there behind your teeth. you should say anything other than what actually comes out of your mouth, which is:
“yeah,” you hear yourself say, small and a little stunned. “saturday works.”
“cool.” he grins, easy as anything, like he hasn’t just rearranged your entire heart in the same five seconds. “i’ll tell suguru.”
and then he’s turning toward the door, bag over one shoulder, already texting someone—suguru, probably, or the girl he’s bringing—and you’re left standing there next to your ruined drawing with the words i like you dissolving uselessly on your tongue, wondering how you managed to walk into this conversation so sure of yourself and walk out of it with a date.
with the wrong person.
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◞ author’s notes
know, i know. she said yes to the wrong thing again lmao. let her cook (pun intended). thank you for reading, comments and reblogs always appreciated, see you in the next chapter 🥰🥰
Neighbor Satoru who has the cutest cat, Mochi, that you’ve ever seen before in your life. She’s a beautiful chocolate point ragdoll and you always ask for pictures of Mochi, like almost every day. It started randomly. You’re walking down the hall one day and you just so happen to pass by a random apartment. The door is slightly ajar and out comes running Mochi! Thankfully you catch her and that’s how you meet Satoru. Since then you’ve been messaging Satoru for pictures of Mochi.
It starts off innocent at first. Cute pictures of Mochi loafing on the ground or with some cute hat that Satoru had bought online. But after a while Satoru can’t ignore just how cute his neighbor is and he starts to subtly flirt through the pictures. It starts of small, his hand on Mochi’s head or on her belly. From there it escalates to biceps included in the pictures, hidden by the fact that he’s simply carrying Mochi, it’s innocent enough. Maybe a bit too innocent because you don’t notice that he’s flirting with you at all and all your attention remains on the cat. After about a week of this subtle picture flirting Satoru gets frustrated and fed up and decides to be a bit more brash on his next attempt.
It’s another day and Satoru receives your message like clockwork.
Y/N
mochi pleeaaaaseeeuuhhh
Satoru sends the photo. Mochi’s head barely in frame but just behind her head is a crystal clear view of Satoru’s abs. 6 pack more than visible and pulled taut just to emphasize the rock hard muscle.
The photo comes with a text.
Satoru
u ever gona pay attention to the other cutie? ;((
. ˚ ᭡ ꒱ gσנσ ѕαтσяυ × reader
cw ⤷ 𖥻 . ˖ ꒰ mdni ꒱ . office au ：tiny bit reader x geto ：smut ：angst ：swearing ：reader experiences lots of guilt ：making out ：teasing ：dirty talk ：fingering ：cünnilingüs ：edging ：multiple orgasms ：biting ：piv ：unprotected sex ：creàmpiè ：f!reader ：she/her prns used ：petnames ♯ 16.5k
тнιѕ ιѕ α ραят 2 тσ "тωσ ωєєкѕ' ησтι¢є"
ѕυммαяу： ♡ the last time you saw gojo was your last day as his personal assistant, since then things have been tough going. finding a new job is harder than you thought, especially when you refuse to put him down as a reference. through certain circumstances, you end up working for geto and that's when the universe decides you and gojo need to collide again. the guilt you feel is immeasurable and you miss him dearly, seeing him again brings up a lot of complex feelings for you. . .
It’s been a few weeks since you left your last job, since you left Gojo. In that time, you’ve been incredibly busy; applying for jobs and moving. Unfortunately, a lot of your things had to be put in storage because there wasn’t room in your parents’ home for it all, so that’s cut into your savings. Funds were already running low and now they’re almost non-existent. On top of that, the job market has been completely atrocious.
You’re beginning to feel like the places you’re applying for immediately chuck your resume into the bin. The memory of Gojo telling you how bad your application had been always ringing in your head whenever you open the document to edit it. You know for a fact you’ve improved upon the formatting, and you have more actual experience now but the doubt still lingers.
The biggest pitfall for you is that you haven’t put Gojo down as a reference, not wanting them to call him up and rub it in his face that you’ve left his company. You’re not stupid though, you put down Nanami. So far, he’s told you he got one call and it was the one interview you had. It… didn’t go over so well. Living back at home should be more familiar but everything is overwhelming and you ended up late and, yeah, it just didn’t go well.
Luckily, you’re not completely unemployable, only in the field you actually want to be employed in. You managed to get a job at a pretty popular café, it makes your head spin on the particularly busy days but you’re not exactly here for the vibes so you make do. Some customers are horrendously rude, but people tend to be like that wherever you go.
Currently in the last hour of your shift and all you can think about is going home but then again, your parents aren’t exactly delightful company at the moment. They mean well but all they do is question you about what you’re doing and when you’ll get another job and asking about things they don’t need to be asking about.
Sometimes after work, you’ve taken to wandering around. Buying a little treat and sitting in a park to savour it, after the first time you’d realised why Gojo does it so often. Speaking of Gojo, he texts every now and again and you can never bring yourself to reply with any substance. After your one-night stand, things are awkward and you feel guilty.
Off in space and thinking to yourself when you’re brought back to the present. One of the last people you’re expecting to see standing right in front of you. Considering this café is fairly close to his company, you shouldn’t be too shocked to see Geto. He’s looking back at you like he’s just as surprised, that is until his expression falls into the usual pleasant smile he wears.
“Well, hello there,” his voice a deep, delightful contrast to the way you feel.
A small breath in and then you plaster your fake work smile all over your face, “Hi, what can I get for you today?”
“If you’re working here then I’m guessing you really did leave Satoru.”
The way he ignores your clear desire to keep this interaction short annoys you, “Can you please just tell me what you want?”
“What I want?” leaning in a little closer to the counter between the two of you, “I’d like for you to work with me.”
“I’m not interested in this little dance, Geto, just order before you hold up the line.”
“Your customer service skills could use a little work,” he jokes.
There’s a twitching in your eyebrow that’s starting to make itself known, your patience has been significantly cut into lately. You’ve been beaten down too much and him being annoying while you’re working the only job that would accept you, it’s seriously pissing you off.
Geto must notice because he backs off a little, “Triple shot espresso,” finally ordering.
“Size?”
“Biggest you got.” While you’re punching in his order, he asks, “What time you getting off?”
Glancing at the clock behind you before mindlessly answering, “Another half an hour.”
“I’ll wait for you, come to my table when you’re done.” He walks away after that, not really giving you a chance to refute him since he actually was shamelessly holding up the line.
Thirty minutes go by and you’re clocking off. Sure enough, Geto waited for you. Still sat at a table in the back corner of the café, laptop open in front of him and his coffee long gone. Though you’re hesitant, you’re also curious so you sit down across from him. Lounging on the chair a little unapologetically, tired after being on your feet all day.
Getting straight to the point, “What do you want?”
“Hold on,” he replies without looking at you, eyes firmly on his screen.
You watch him type away, clearly caught up in whatever work he’s wrapping up for the day. You’re bored and your curiosity is dwindling but the alternative is going home and you’re not quite ready for that yet.
Speaking again, “You know this café does have a closing time.”
“I’m aware.” Ghost of a smile on Geto’s lips at your snarky comment. “Do you have this much attitude with Satoru?”
“I’m being quite polite with you actually.”
Him bringing up Gojo makes your heart tug, it feels like you’re betraying him just by sitting here.
The soft tap of Geto’s laptop shutting draws your eyes to his, he tilts his head at you, “You alright?”
“I’m glorious,” it’s a little too sarcastic for what you read as genuine concern. “Sorry, I’m fine, just wondering what exactly you want from me?”
“What I’ve wanted from the beginning, I’d like for you to work at my company.”
“I don’t really want to work for you just so you can one up Gojo in whatever feud you’ve got going on.”
“Loyalty is a good trait to have,” he sits back a bit more, adding, “However, I genuinely would like for you to work with me,” hand waving a little, “Satoru’s reaction would merely be an added bonus.”
“For you maybe,” you sigh.
A single brow raising at you, “If you’re so upset, why did you leave?”
“Is it relevant?”
“It might be.”
Your tongue clicks at him, “It’s not.”
“Whatever you say,” he relents, choosing not to push any further. At least, not on that topic, “So, about my job offer?”
Another sigh, “Can I think about it?”
He’s now wearing an expression that reads satisfaction, “Sure, though I expect a solid answer the next time I see you.”
“If that’s all,” moving to get up.
He stops you by saying, “You don’t want to keep me company a bit longer?”
“I’m sure you have actual friends to keep you company, Geto,” you chuckle. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going home. Today has been a long day.”
Home isn’t where you really want to be but you’re tired and you need to be alone to think. You really want to make some substantial savings, enough so you can move out of your parents’ house and you’re not going to do that on a casual wage. Something steady with a contract, full-time hours, that’s what you need. And that’s what Geto’s offering you.
All you feel lately is guilt and it’s starting to make you touchy. This isn’t even your fault in the first place, your circumstances are the result of someone else’s poor decision making and you have no one to talk to about it. It’s pointless thinking about that right now, you need to be thinking about your future and what will benefit you in the long term.
The next time you run into Geto is only a few days later, you have a feeling it’s not an accident on his behalf, but it hardly matters since you don’t have a way to contact him. Again, he waits for you to finish up work. The wait a little longer than last time, you feel bad but he seems fine working in that same corner.
By the time you’re off the clock and across from him, his laptop is already closed and he’s clearly waiting for you to give him your official answer. You’re worrying your lower lip with your teeth; you’ve thought about this over and over for the past few days and you still aren’t sure on your response. You know what you want to say, and what you’re going to say, you just feel conflicted.
Finally opening your mouth to say, “I have one question first.”
He shuffles in his seat, “Sure.”
“Why?” Letting the one word settle before clarifying, “Why do you want to hire me so bad? There are plenty of people more qualified and far less reluctant… You know, people who apply for the job.”
“I can’t tell if you’re modest or dense,” arms crossing over his chest, “did you not notice that Satoru’s dealings were significantly improved by your hiring?”
“I’m not that modest, of course I noticed but he’s terrible with rich assholes and that tends to come with the field,” you point at him, “you don’t have that problem, you’re not exactly kind but people seem to look past it since you’re all pretty faced and polite smiles.”
Gojo has a bad habit of saying how he feels, mocking people in a blatantly obvious way when he’s pushed a little too far. Geto, from what you’ve noticed, isn’t too far from having the same low tolerance but he’ll soften his face and insult you in an underhanded way you might not immediately notice.
“Regardless, you were a valuable asset to his company, and I feel you’d be just as valuable to mine. Your name isn’t unknown you know? You’re heavily attached to him, people recognise you. That’s not worthless.” He looks like he’s growing a little bored trying to convince you of your appeal, swapping directions. “I’ve answered you; I expect you have an answer for me?”
“I’ll work for you,” rubbing at the back of your neck, “but I’m going to be clear that I’m still hesitant, I feel—”
“—Guilty?” he finishes, “Don’t, it’s business. Making it personal never ends well.”
“Big words from a guy who has a personal rivalry with his former best friend.”
“I’d describe it more as friendly competition.”
You scoff a little, “Yeah, I’m sure you would.”
“How about instead of talking about the past, we celebrate your employment?”
Scepticism all over your face, “And why would I do that?”
“To humour me and my good mood.”
“I don’t really like to mix personal and business.”
His eyes squint at you, chin resting in his palm atop the table, “You never got personal with Satoru?”
Flashes of the last time you were with Gojo running through your head makes your skin heat up some. “No, I didn’t.”
“Alright,” he’s grinning, and you can tell he doesn’t quite believe you. Hell, you don’t believe you.
You pull your bag onto your lap and look through it, scavenging through it to retrieve the resume you’d printed off after you’d decided you’d say yes to Geto. It’s a little wrinkled as you hand it over to him.
“That has my contact details on it.”
He takes it from you, looking it over a little judgementally, “Thanks, I’ll be in touch.” And because he can’t help himself, “Have you been applying to jobs with this?”
“Oh my god, come on,” you whinge a little, “it is not that bad!”
A stifled laugh sounds from him, “Touched a nerve there, huh?”
“Shut up,” grumbling isn’t professional, but you don’t care right now, “email me all the information I’ll need, unless you’ve changed your mind after seeing my resume.”
“Hardly,” tucking it away into his laptop case, “you’ll be hearing from me.”
Working for Geto isn’t like what you expected, you aren’t quite sure what you were expecting but it’s not what you got. Maybe in your head you were thinking he’d be more malicious in his actions, or that he’d be trying extra hard to get private information about Gojo’s company out of you but that’s not the case. It’s the same work you did for Gojo, it’s actually a little easier considering Geto doesn’t sneak off or show up late.
On your second week now and while you still have bouts of guilt, you’re beginning to feel better. The pay doing wonders for your attitude, not a huge increase from working with Gojo but compared to the café it is. Unfortunately, a non-insignificant amount of the money you make goes to payments like the storage unit, bills, debt. Moving out is still in the distant future.
A part of you was holding onto hope that maybe if you saved enough, you could move back to the other side of the city and work for Gojo again. That’s starting to look unrealistic now, saving enough will take too long and even though he said he wouldn’t, he will have to hire someone else.
The rhythmic sound of the pen you’re tapping against your wooden desk is a telltale sign of unrest. One that doesn’t elude Geto as he walks past your desk, stopping in front of it and reaching over to gently pull the pen from your hand.
“Some people might find that annoying,” he spins the pen over his fingers fluidly.
Spinning your chair around for emphasis as you reply, “Good thing it’s just me here then.”
“You’re not that far from my office,” his head tilts back towards his door only a few steps away, “I’ve been listening to this noise every day for the past two weeks, do I need to distract you with more work?”
You shrug, “I’m a multitasker.”
“I’ve noticed.” The pen is placed back on your desk.
“Are you on your way somewhere or was I just bothering you?”
“I’m a multitasker too,” he grins, “you first, and then the printer room.”
“Shouldn’t I go?” you fix him with a curious stare, “What’s the point in having a personal assistant if you don’t let them assist you?”
“I thought you might be incredibly busy with your pen.”
“You’re hilarious,” raising to your feet, “I’ll go to the printing room for you.”
You’ve started to walk off when he calls after you, “Don’t get lost.”
The response he gets from you is a quick look back with an unimpressed expression. Since working here, you’ve gotten lost one time. It was embarrassing because you had to email him to come find you, too nervous to stop anyone from working. Now, every time you go off somewhere, he’s bringing it up. Hilarious.
When you’re done with your small trip, you gingerly knock on Geto’s door. Entering once he makes a sound of acknowledgement and striding in to place the papers down in front of him. You need to talk with him about a couple things, so you sit down in one of the chairs across from him, legs crossing.
His gaze flicks up from the papers he’s just received to you, “Can I help you?”
“You have a meeting tomorrow before midday.”
“I remember.”
“Also, there’s a woman who keeps emailing and calling, trying to get ahold of you.” You’re trying not to sound nosey but you’re pretty sure you’re failing, “It’s becoming almost as concerning as it is distracting.”
Face scrunching in distaste, “What does she want?”
“I’m pretty sure she just wants you.”
“Normally she wants something specific.”
“She won’t talk to me.” The woman has gotten increasingly more aggressive in her pursuit of Geto. When you’d initially picked up the phone to talk with her, she seemed incredibly offput by the sound of your voice. “Who is she?”
“A valuable client,” answering simply, then adding, “eccentric and a tad obsessive but valuable.”
“Right, okay.” You nod at him, you’re not quite sure how you feel about that but what you do know is that it’s becoming inconvenient. “Well, can you deal with her then? She’s distracting and also getting to be a little rude.” You’re sugarcoating it, she’s getting nasty.
“Yeah, I’ll handle it.” His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose like he’s getting a headache just thinking about talking to her.
“Is her business worth it?”
“Unfortunately.”
You leave him alone after that, too tempted to ask more questions and not wanting to upset him over it. It’s none of your business, you don’t need to know about him and his interpersonal relationships.
By the time that you’re supposed to be going home, you find yourself moving slower. Not ready yet, so you stay at your desk. Going through emails and drafting responses for tomorrow. It’ll make things go a bit quicker in the morning at least, so that’s a bonus.
It’s not until Geto leaves his office that you realise he’d been staying later too. Stopping by your desk as he slips his coat on, “Why haven’t you left yet?”
Hesitating before replying, “I just… had some work I had to get done first.”
“I know that can’t be true,” slight laugh from him, like the idea of you being behind on work is ridiculous.
“Well, it is,” pouting a bit.
You can feel the way he considers you, his eyes scanning your movements as you pretend to be incredibly busy with work you’d neglected. Eventually, he hums like he’s come to a decision, “Wanna have dinner together?”
That stops you and you find it a little odd how you consider it, “Sure.” Logging out of your computer and packing your things up. It’s not like you’ve got anywhere to be and dinner with Geto sounds more appetising than dinner at home.
“Great,” you both walk to the elevator together and he adds, “I’m guessing that work is gonna have to wait until tomorrow?”
“Fine, you caught me,” relenting, “I’m just incredibly meticulous.”
He hums, a little amused but clearly not buying it. “I’m sure.”
“Hey!” you take offence, “I am meticulous.”
“I know you are,” the elevator dings and you both step on, “I also know you’re lying.”
“You can’t know that.”
“‘Course I can.”
Muttering back, “I think you’re lying.”
“Ah, you think,” he grins.
“Do you get a kick out of annoying your employees or something?”
“You’re the only employee I annoy.”
Choosing to ignore the idea of being special in any sort of way and replying, “If you keep lying like this your pants are gonna set on fire.”
Brow raising to you, joking, “Is that a threat?”
“If you’re not careful,” another ding signalling your arrival at the basement.
Still smiling, “Noted.”
You follow him off the elevator and walk to his car together. It’s sleek and black and far out of your price range. It feels weird just sitting in it, like you’re doing something wrong. It must be showing on your face because Geto raises his brow in question.
“You okay?”
“Yep,” and you briefly consider not continuing your sentence, “your car is super fancy, it feels like I’m somehow sitting in the seat weird.”
He laughs at that, “Now that you’re mentioning it, you are sitting a little odd.”
“Okay, it’s not nice to poke fun,” buckling yourself in, “your stupid car is stupid.”
“I thought it was fancy?”
“I regret talking to you.”
“I don’t.”
The car ride is spent bickering back and forth in a similar fashion, it distracts you enough that you don’t really notice where he’s taking you until you’re in another parking garage. You really should’ve paid more attention.
Brows furrowing as you take in your surroundings, “Where are we?”
“My apartment’s garage,” he says matter of fact.
That spins you, “What?”
While your brain is catching up, Geto’s stepped out of the car. When you don’t immediately get out, he walks to your side and opens the door for you. He doesn’t get a second to speak, you’re immediately asking.
“What are we doing at your apartment?” And despite your reluctance, you exit the vehicle, “I thought we were getting dinner?”
“I asked if you wanted to have dinner together,” the car door closes, “I never said where.”
“You got me on a technicality,” he’d make good fae.
“Don’t worry,” he guides you through the garage, “I’m a good cook.”
“Yeah, you better be after tricking me.”
Credit where credit is due, he knows his way around the kitchen. You get the luxury of observing him work, you had tried to help but he sidelined you when you’d almost cut yourself. A total fluke by the way, you’re more than capable. He hadn’t listened to your excuses though and banished you to the other side of the counter.
His movements are confident; he knows what he’s doing. Sleeves rolled up his forearms, so they don’t get dirty. Sturdier than you would’ve pegged him for. His long hair is pulled back into a ponytail, keeping it out of the way. It’s swishing slightly as he moves and it amuses you, he has very nice hair.
Watching him dish up dinner, you absentmindedly comment, “You’d make a good housewife.”
He pauses before replying, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It was meant as one.”
“Would you be a working husband then?”
“Naturally,” you take your plate, eyes tracking him as he moves to sit next to you at the countertop, “I’d be a very good husband.”
He’s smiling like he finds you to be exhausting, “Eat your food.”
Dinner is good and you say as much while eating, it’s been a while since you’ve eaten something so tasty. Geto really would make a good partner, the fact he’s spent all day at work and still came home and cooked a whole meal shouldn’t be impressive, but it is. When you’d relayed this to him, he’d told you that you’re too easily impressed and maybe that’s true.
After you’ve both eaten, you’re relaxing on the couch together. The conversation is casual and you don’t have to try too hard to think of something to say. Any lull in conversation isn’t awkward either, the both of you seemingly comfortable in the others presence. It’s nice.
For the first time in a while, you’re feeling good. Not overthinking anything and just allowing yourself to be in this moment.
“By the way,” you start after another pause in conversation, “I’ve been meaning to mention…”
Hum of acknowledgement from him, signalling you to continue.
“I feel underutilised.”
“In what way?”
“At work,” you clarify, “you’re so on top of things, I barely feel like I’m helping.”
“You are,” he smiles, seemingly endeared by your concern, “immensely.”
Eyes rolling at him, hardly satisfied, “Geto—”
“—I’m serious,” he says your name. “Things have been running smoothly for me, you’re incredibly meticulous,” it’s a slightly mocking tone, reminding you of your earlier words.
Your head falls to the back of the couch, looking at him out the corner of your eye, “I’m not someone who can be placated with empty compliments.”
“No, I didn’t think you would be,” he continues smiling gently.
“Seriously.” You turn your head to look at him properly, “Are you hiding work from me or something?”
He drops his head onto the couch and faces you, mirroring your pose, “It’s only your first couple weeks, I had to go a little easy on you.”
Doubt is written all over your features, “I don’t know if you’re that kind.”
“You really have a low opinion of me,” his hand raises and clutches over his chest like you’ve wounded him.
You shrug back, “I think it’s significantly improved after dinner.”
“Oh, is that all it took?” He chuckles.
“I’m easy to please.”
“I wonder about that.”
A quiet falls over the both of you, still facing each other. It feels as though you’ve gotten closer to him and you can’t tell if he’s the one who moved or if it was you. The hand Geto had on his chest moves to the side of your face, sliding down to your neck. It’s an impossibly long and drawn-out moment where you’re not quite sure what he’s going to do or what’s happening between the two of you.
All your thoughts dissipate as soon as he leans in and kisses you slow, tentative. Focusing only on how his lips feel against yours, soft and careful. You kiss back and it has him responding eagerly. Moving closer to you, other hand on your waist.
His thumb strokes under your chin to encourage you to tilt your head back for him, you comply. Mouths slotting together hotly, his tongue swiping against your lower lip to ask for entry. You’re mindlessly granting it, stifling down a small shiver as he licks against your own tongue.
You’re looping your arms around his neck and he’s welcoming it, hold on your waist sliding to your back and pulling you closer into him. The longer the kiss lasts, the needier he gets. Turning from soft and sweet to hot and messy. Sucking on your tongue a little as he pulls back.
And even though he pulls back, you don’t have a real chance to speak because he’s back on you in a second. It’s intoxicating and all consuming, head filling with fog pleasantly. Involuntarily mewling against him when he nips you and it’s only spurring him on.
Grabbing you and placing you on top his lap, your pussy warm over his erection. Able to feel just how aroused he’s getting. Geto grunts a little when you shift, lowering yourself onto him a bit more. He embraces the pressure though, grip on your hips tight and slightly rocking you.
Small grinds down onto him making the both of you moan into the kiss, breaths coming harder and intermingling. You find yourself wishing he didn’t still have his hair up, wanting to run your fingers through it. His fingers slip upwards, playing with the hem of your shirt, tickling along your exposed skin.
Completely caught up in the moment, rutting down into him as he swallows your moans. His hips moving up slightly to meet yours, clearly just as lost in this as you. It’s your phone buzzing in your back pocket that pulls your attention. Reluctantly pulling back because it might be important, your eyes linger a little on his shiny lips.
Then you’re tugging your phone out of your pocket, still sat on top of Geto. “I’m sorry,” you’re still a little breathless, “It might be important.” You don’t mention it could be your parents.
He hums back at you, thumbs rubbing circles into your skin. Eyes a little glassy as he watches you read your phone screen. He doesn’t miss the way you still as your eyes glance over it.
The message is from Gojo, and you’re immediately hit with a whole slew of complicated emotions. It simply reads, ‘Do you have free time soon?’
Geto’s head tilts at you, he can feel the tone shift. Removing his hands from under your shirt, and asking, “Are you okay?”
You blink a couple times and look back to him, “What? Yeah, I’m fine!” Removing yourself from his lap a little awkwardly, “But… I think I’m going to go home for tonight.”
“I didn’t—”
“—No! You didn’t do anything wrong, Geto, honest.” You don’t want him to think he’s upset you. “I just… think this happened a little fast, I’m sort of dealing with a lot right now and the last thing I want to do is rush into something with you… my boss.”
“I understand,” he nods slowly, standing up as well, “I want you to know, that wasn’t my intention bringing you here.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t,” you smile, trying to add a bit of levity.
His head tilts a little lower to fix you with a serious look, “It wasn’t.”
“Okay, though I may still hold this over your head at work,” walking with him to the door, “maybe even get a raise.”
“Don’t push it,” he snickers, “especially not when you were all too eagerly rubbing—”
You push his side, “—Don’t you push it.” Lingering a bit at the entryway, “I hope we’ll still be able to work together.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, of course we can,” he rubs the back of his neck, “I was too hasty… it won’t happen again, unless you want it to.”
The appreciation you have for Geto only grows with how chill he’s being about this. “Thank you for dinner, I had a nice time.”
“You’re welcome anytime,” he smiles and it feels genuine, “I can drive you home?”
“No, that’s okay.” you don’t want him knowing you’re living with your parents, and you think you might need a little distance for now, “I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”
A single nod, “Get home safe.”
The whole trip home, you can’t stop thinking about what happened. About Gojo messaging you, his timing is impeccable really. There’s still a lot of things you’re feeling and rationally you know you’re not betraying Gojo in any way but the heavy weight on your chest remains regardless.
The next day, you’re sitting at your desk tending to your work. A little worried that things will be awkward with Geto, not having had the chance to have a full conversation with him today. Though, that’s not unusual for you both so you’re not sure if you’re overthinking it or not.
Wondering if things will be okay between the two of you today when he stops in front of you. Hands in his pockets, waiting patiently for you to acknowledge his presence.
Your eyes scan the time and then you’re telling him, “You’re going to be late.”
“We’re going to be late,” he corrects.
A little confused by that, “Huh?”
“You’re coming with me, come on.”
That certainly throws you for a loop, but you don’t get much of a chance to be confused, following after him. It wasn’t frequent that Gojo took you with him to meetings, not that it’s unusual or anything. If you really thought about it, you’d have to say that Gojo might be the unusual one.
You are thankful that things do seem to be normal between Geto and yourself, he’s not icing you out or anything. Everything seems to be the same and you feel like you relax at the realisation, breaths coming a bit easier now. The lingering discomfort is coming from your current setting, rather than your relationship to your boss.
Meetings are always uncomfortable for you, left feeling out of place and in the way. You’re not expected to contribute anything or do anything at all really. So, you take notes, writing down everything you can as it’s brought up. It’s come in handy a couple times, now it’s just a habit. It gives you something to do, makes you look busy and attentive, instead of uncomfortable and uncertain.
Jotting down most things said, not really paying much attention to what exactly it is you’re writing. Repeating down someone’s words when Geto leans over to say, “Yeah, make sure you get that down.”
Breathing out an amused sound at it when you realise the unimportance of what you’ve written, ‘People need to understand the vision.’ Fairly inoffensive but not really worth your ink.
You mutter back at him, “Pay attention.”
“But I’m getting bored,” he grins.
“Not my problem.”
You’re trying not to pay too much attention to him, not wanting to encourage his behaviour or get distracted yourself. These past couple weeks have you softening towards him, he’s a good boss and he cares about his company a lot. Annoying sometimes but you suppose you’re used to that.
You can’t afford yourself getting swept up in him, he’s far too appealing and you already know how good of a kisser he is… and these are exactly the kind of thoughts you were trying to avoid by not paying him much mind.
The rest of the meeting wraps up fairly smoothly, despite Geto’s attempts to entertain himself by bothering you every now and again. You’re busy chastising him when you’re walking through the lobby, “That was totally unprofessional, Geto. What if they decide they don’t want to work with you anymore?”
“Don’t overreact, I wasn’t that bad,” he nudges your side lightly, “plus, they love me.”
“You sure are full of yourself.”
“Should you be talking to your boss that way?”
“Absolutely,” nudging him back, “I need to make sure you’re kept in—”
Words dying off all at once because you’re very suddenly faced with Gojo right in front of you. Blinking up at him dumbly, not even sure if he’s really there. All the guilt you’d been ignoring flooding you at once, head very quickly feeling light. Why is he even here?
Geto talks before either of you do, trying to smooth over the awkwardness, “Good afternoon, Satoru.”
Gojo doesn’t even react, addressing only you, “What are you doing here?”
“I… I’m here on business,” you mumble out, having a hard time keeping eye contact. Your heart is racing in your chest, and it feels like there’s a lump in your throat.
“What brings you here, Satoru?” Geto asks the question you both want the answer to, though you imagine he’s curious for a different reason.
“Business,” he replies, clearly aware that him being here threatens Geto’s position with this company.
“Well, we don’t want to hold you up,” you force a smile, “we’ll be on our way.” Attempting to find an out from this conversation.
Gojo doesn’t let it happen, “Ah, I don’t think so,” he grasps your hand, “I’ve got time before my meeting, we need to talk.”
“I’m kind of on the clock, Gojo.” His hand around yours is warm, it’s a contrast to the cold chill running through the rest of your body. “And you’re probably running late already,” your smile feels sad, but you push through it, “we can talk another time.”
Giving his hand a single squeeze before slipping from his hold and shuffling quickly to the exit. This big building now feels suffocating. You don’t even check to see if Geto’s followed you out, mind only focused on getting to the car. That’s a second time now, a second time where you’re actually enjoying your new job and working for Geto without the shame tugging at the back of your brain. Only for it to slam into you all at once. Some luck you have, it’s almost like the universe punishing you or something less dramatic.
You’re resting against the side of the car, waiting for Geto to catch up. Feeling on edge, like you might cry. The last time you’d seen Gojo in person, you’d been wrapped up in his arms kept warm and safe. To be so intimate with him only to fumble over your own words and act so cold after, you feel stupid.
Eyes fixed on your shoes like they’re the most interesting thing in the world, seeing Geto’s own coming into view when he approaches you.
“You doing okay?”
“You’ve been asking that a lot lately,” looking to him, “how about you?”
By the look on his face, you can tell he doesn’t understand why you’re asking. “I’m fine.”
“Okay, I was just asking cause… you know,” rocking side to side on your feet, “if Gojo’s here then it means they might choose to—”
He waves a hand dismissively, “—Eh, I already knew they were probably gonna do something like this.” Mouth pulling to the side as he says, “I can’t tell if they’re bold or diabolical, booking us both in around the same time.”
You add, “Probably both.”
“You look sad,” his comment is decidedly not needed but he made it anyway, you suppose he doesn’t want to talk about himself.
“Just… overwhelmed, I wasn’t expecting to run into Gojo. No offence but it feels dirty to work for you sometimes.”
It’s painfully silent for a moment and you wonder if you did offend him. Concern gone when he asks, “Did you need a hug or something?”
Glare pointed, “No.”
A chuckle leaves him at your distaste, “Then get in the car and let’s leave.”
You had half expected for Gojo to text you again after you’d run into him, but he didn’t, phone suspiciously silent. It has you more on edge than if he had tried calling you. Still thinking about it the next day, wondering if maybe you should reach out to him first this time and take him up on his offer, just get it all over with.
To be honest, you don’t even know what you were expecting. If you’re working in the same field with him, you were obviously going to run into each other at some point. Were you hoping he’d never find out about you working for Geto? Was that realistic of you? Should you even feel guilty? It’s not personal, you just really needed money and Geto happened to show up when you were sick of applying for jobs.
You’re choosing to chalk your guilt up to the fact you slept with him before you’d left, you don’t… regret it but maybe things would’ve been easier for you if you hadn’t. The amount you think about that night is probably bordering on excessive. The memory of his big hands on your body still firmly planted in your mind, along with the way his lips felt against yours.
A new kind of guilt travels up your spine, kissing Geto after having been with Gojo feels weird. If Gojo hadn’t messaged at that moment, would you have gone all the way with your current boss. What ifs don’t exactly help your situation, but you may be spiralling a bit.
A familiar, soft hum sounds from nearby, “Hm, you’re slacking off.”
Your response is automatic, “You can’t talk,” and then you’re registering just who had said that. “What? How did you even get up here?”
Gojo grins, pulling one of the chairs against the wall to the front of your desk. Sitting down in it casually, like he’s not shown up completely unexpectedly. “It’s amazing how far you can get when you act like you belong somewhere,” quickly adding, “and are willing to lie.”
He really does have a great sense of time because Geto’s not here, having gone out earlier for some secret meeting he wouldn’t disclose to you. The idea that Gojo might have had something to do with that briefly crossing your mind before you shake it.
“You got time now?” His arms crossed at you.
“I’m literally in the middle of my workday.”
“Oh please,” he grumbles. “You were daydreaming.”
Flipping it back on him, “Don’t you have work to do?”
“Sure, but I thought seeing you was more important.”
Unable to help the small giddy feeling that runs through you at that, it’s not like he ever prioritises work over his whims anyway but still. You change the topic, feeling sheepish asking, “How have you been?”
He’s refusing to give you a direct answer, “How do you think I’ve been?”
“Gojo—”
“—Oh, it’s ‘Gojo’ now?” evil grin on his face, “It was ‘Satoru’ when I was balls deep inside you.”
Your lips purse at that, caught off guard and not quite sure how he wants you to respond. Turns out you don’t need to because he carries on.
“Why are you working here?” he’s pouting now, “Suguru sucks, I’m a much better boss.”
“You know I didn’t want to leave,” you sigh. “I ran into him a couple weeks ago; he offered me a job again and after thinking about it… I took it.”
“Is this why you won’t reply to any of my texts?”
“No…”
“You’ve been hurting my feelings, sweetie,” still pouting, “had me wondering if I’d done something wrong.”
You answer quickly then, “No.” Settling back into your seat, “Things have just been a bit… hard for me lately. None of it is because of you.”
“Then can you tell me what the hell is going on with you?” Gesturing at nothing frustratedly, “I know you put Nanami down as a reference, why wouldn’t you put me? You know, your former boss.”
“I felt it would be cruel.”
He softens at that, his brows unfurrowing. “I’m taking that to mean you at least care about me.”
“Of course I do.” The thought of him walking around thinking you don’t care for him hurts you… a lot. You can’t exactly blame him though, to him, you’ve probably been frustratingly secretive and evasive.
“Are you happy here?”
Hesitating a bit before replying, “Yes.” Because you are… happy here. Or at least, you’re happier here compared to the café.
There’s a look on his face that tells you he’s seeing right through you. “Your position is still open.”
“You need to fill it.”
“I’m not going to.”
“That’s stupid.” And it is stupid, but your heart skips a beat.
Raising to his feet, he stretches his long limbs, “I don’t think so.”
You’re standing up instinctively, intending to walk him to the elevator.
Gojo’s rounding your desk though, standing in front of you, “I intend to keep it open until you come back, I told you that.”
“And I’m telling you that that’s unrealistic.”
He cups the side of your face and smiles, “Don’t care.” Then he pulls you in for a hug, holding you for a few moments before speaking again, “I’ve gotta go, I don’t wanna be here when Suguru gets back.”
“How did you even know he was out?” If it comes out accusatory that’s because it is, pretty certain now that he’s done something.
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.”
You start, “Gojo—”
“—Ah,” cutting you off again, “I’ll see you later.”
And you’re sure that he kisses the top of your head before walking off. As you watch him leave, you half hope he’ll come back but that’s just selfish. You know if you told him everything, he’d help, he absolutely would. But you’re not going to put him in that position. Neither being his former employee nor one night stand entitles you to asking for financial help.
After he leaves, you take your break. Not getting to see Geto beforehand, you don’t really want to at the moment. Feeling incredibly cut open and raw, on the verge of telling everything to the first person you see because the weight of it all is getting to you. It has been for weeks.
There’s a utility closet on the floor below yours that doesn’t get utilised much and you’ve taken to hiding out in there when you need to be alone. The slightly dusty items keeping you company as you wallow, it’s truly the only time you get to be by yourself. At home has your parents and when you’re at your desk you’re, well, working. The streets are filled with people, on the weekend and during lunch. So, this small closet has become a great safe space.
If you tried, you could probably cry. You wonder if it would make you feel better. Instead of doing that, you find an old broom and turn it upside down, resting it against some shelves in front of you. Reaching into your pocket, you pull out a pad of sticky notes and a pen. Crudely drawing down a face, trying to make it look as approachable as you can. Then you stick it onto the broom.
“I should probably name you,” humming in thought, “You will now be called… Dusty.”
Dusty’s sticky note face flutters to the ground as soon as you finish the sentence, and you try not to take it personally.
“Okay, I know it’s not the best name but it’s the best I’ve got.” Picking up the bit of paper, you stick it to Dusty once more, running your fingers over the sticky part a few times in hopes it’ll coax it into staying this time.
Once you’re satisfied, you back off until you’re resting against the wall opposite him. “Maybe feeling like I’m talking to someone will help.” Gesturing at the broom, “That’s where you come into play, Dusty.”
You take in a slow breath and breathe it out before starting, “I miss my old life,” shuffling on your feet a little because it feels weird to say out loud, “I miss my coworkers and… Satoru.” Head thumping back against the wall, “The worst part is that I have no one to blame but myself… and I guess my ex-roommate situationship… sorta.”
You get distracted with an anger you’d stuffed down ages ago, only to be pulled from it very suddenly when Dusty falls to the ground with a loud clash. It causes you to jump. The image of Dusty face down on the ground resonates with you though. Emotionally in the same state as him.
Huffing out a small chuckle, “Yeah, I feel the same, Dusty.”
Your phone ringing in your pocket draws your attention away from the broom before you can prop it back upright. Geto’s caller ID scrawled across the screen, pausing for a moment but ultimately picking up. He is your boss; you should pick up even if it is your lunch break.
Beginning to slide down the wall to sit when you answer, “Hello?”
“Where are you?” Always so straight to the point.
Eyes fixed on Dusty, “…On my lunch break.”
“So… the sounds I’m hearing from this closet are just my imagination?”
Pausing again, glancing at the closed door, “…Yes?”
He hangs up the phone at that, choosing to just walk into the closet. Immediately faced with the sight of a sad broom on the floor and then over at you sitting awkwardly against the far-right wall.
“…How was your meeting?” Your smile is uncomfortable on your face.
Geto looks to the broom, then to you, then back to the broom. “Bad,” walking into the room and picking up Dusty. Miraculously—or maybe not so much—the sticky note face is still there, and he points at it quizzically, “You do this?”
“No, that’d be weird.”
A soft laugh leaves him as he places it back down. Then he moves to sit beside you on the floor. The sight of his expensive suit resting against a dusty closets wall and floor tickles you a little. You both don’t speak, just sitting in each other’s presence.
You get curious though, “Why was your meeting bad?”
“Wasn’t real,” he grumbles, “Satoru set it up, I’m guessing this is a little taste of revenge for stealing you away. Wasting my valuable time.”
The idea of his time being valuable but making space to sit on the floor in this room with you is amusing. At least now you know why Gojo had such good timing and didn’t stick around. You’re not going to tell Geto about that though.
Choosing to change the topic again, “How did you even know where I was?”
“I’ve seen you head to this floor before a few times,” he shrugs, “I got curious, imagine my surprise to find you in here talking to a broom.”
“Of course, the one time I do that I get caught.”
“You were talking to the broom then?”
“His name is Dusty,” correcting him jokingly, “and yeah.”
He offers, “Do you want to talk to me instead?”
“Not really.”
Laughing a little at your immediate response, “I’ll try not to take offence.”
Gesturing across the room as you say, “If I wanted to talk to an actual person I wouldn’t be talking to a broom.”
He corrects you this time, “Dusty.”
You snicker at that, “Right. Dusty.”
Geto doesn’t force anymore information out of you, he just stays with you while you consider things. Maybe the fact that there’s no pressure is the reason behind why you decide to open up to him a bit. “I’ve been having a hard time financially; it’s why I had to leave my job and move here. I’m living with my parents.”
“Satoru doesn’t know?”
“Nope,” your head turns to look at him, finding him already looking back at you, “I was worried he’d do something drastic.” A bitter laugh leaving you, “I’m already in debt, I don’t want to owe him too.”
Watching you for a bit and then asking, “How bad is it?”
“Bad.” Sighing as you look forward again.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, you didn’t do anything.” Ghost of a smile on your lips directed at him.
“I could—”
“—No, you couldn’t.”
“Okay, then in that case, I’m here if you want to talk about it some more.”
You face him once more, he’s closer than you thought, and everything feels tense. Geto’s eyes flick to your lips and you’re reminded of what happened just the other night. Head flipping forward before anything can happen.
Oddly enough, you think kissing him that night brought you two closer together. Though, you don’t know if that’s the same for him. The quiet is nice, it doesn’t feel so pitiful with him here beside you.
Despite yourself, you start talking again, “I had a roommate.”
“Hm?”
“Before I moved,” you sigh, “I had a roommate, an old friend sort of. Our relationship was… complicated.” Your legs draw up and you tuck your knees to your chest, “He moved out last minute and made it hard for me to stay in the apartment.”
Geto’s brows draw up, “You don’t know where he is?”
“Nope.” Lips down turning, pissed off at the memory, “Just left a shitty note and ran off.” It’s not the full story but it’s more than anyone else has gotten up until now.
After a moments pause, Geto asks, “Have you tried looking for him?”
“There wouldn’t be much point,” shrugging, “he doesn’t want to be found and it’s not like I’d want him to be my roommate again,” you laugh a little.
Geto doesn’t laugh, “I’m assuming he owes you some money though.”
More than some, “Sure but I’m pretty certain he’s not going to cough it up even if I did find him.” You stand up now, “Don’t worry too much about it Geto, what’s done is done.”
He gets to his feet as well, “It might be worth looking for him.”
“Nah,” you crack your back, done talking about this now.
A bit of regret is creeping up your spine, you don’t enjoy talking about these kinds of things and oversharing with your boss is not the move. In saying that though, it was nice to share even if it was just a bit. There’s so much you’ve been keeping to yourself for so long, for someone to listen felt good even if you’re feeling a little exposed because of it.
As if Geto can sense your unease, he says unprompted, “I’m worried about the meeting yesterday.”
You look to him, choosing to stay quiet because he doesn’t seem to be finished talking.
“I think they’ll end up going with Satoru and that’s frustrating for a multitude of reasons,” he sighs, “I’ve been trying to deal with them for some time now, to have them look elsewhere in the final hour…” he trails off before finishing, “What’s done is done though.” Repeating your words back at you.
“I get the frustration,” you offer a smile. You’d seen how annoyed Gojo got whenever Geto got business with a company he’d been working. To see the other side is a little weird, especially since you find yourself still rooting for Gojo. “Thanks for sharing.”
“Yeah, you too.” He places a hand atop your head, and pretends to be stern, “Now get back to work, breaks over.”
“Yessir,” you reply stiffly and with a curt nod.
The pair of you leave that stuffy closet and head back upstairs to finish off the rest of the workday.
The end of your third week working with Geto is the same as it has been. You’d been worried that confiding in him like you did—or even the kiss—would change your working relationship but things have been smooth. If you had to make note of anything changing, you’d say that you both seem to be closer now.
Typically, when you open up to people in similar ways, you’re later flooded with regret. Asking yourself why you’d shared so much, with Geto it’s not so bad. He’s hard to read though, sometimes you find yourself watching his expressions extra close to try and see how he’s feeling but it’s not easy at all. You’d hate to play poker with him.
You’re just about running low on things to make yourself busy with when Geto’s asking you to come into his office. Entering hesitantly, suddenly feeling a whole lot like you’re being called into the principal’s office for some reason.
“Our last meeting…” he starts, “you were taking note of everything said.”
“Yeah.” Nodding back.
“Could I look at them?”
“Sure,” you turn to head back out, stating as you go, “though I don’t know how helpful it’ll be.”
When you walk back, Geto’s patiently waiting for your notes. Taking them from your extended hand and immediately flicking through them. His brows pinch a little as he glances over everything you had written down.
“You’ve used some shorthand,” glaring at it a little like that will make it more readable for him, “I don’t recognise it.”
“It’s not real shorthand…” you look away, feeling a little shy, “it’s just so I can read it back… I only do it when the conversation is going too quickly.”
“Sit down,” he points to the chair to your side.
Now you really feel like you’re in trouble, sitting down as he said.
After a moment, he looks up from the pages and looks you over, “Why are you sitting like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like a kicked puppy.”
“I’m sitting normally,” arms crossing in front of you, “why do I need to stay in here?”
“So you can decipher these notes,” finally cracking a smile.
You feel yourself physically relax at his smile, “You were there for the meeting, Geto. You should remember what was said.”
“I was distracted,” shrugging it off.
“You were bored.”
Grinning a little wider at you, “That’s what I said.”
You roll your eyes at him but move the chair closer to his desk so you can better assist him in his reread. You weren’t wrong in doubting the usefulness of your notes. They’d spent a good chunk of the meeting repeating themselves and refusing to communicate properly what they were looking for. The idea of Gojo sitting through a meeting with them is funny, you can’t imagine he’d behave. It brings into question why Geto feels like they’re going with Gojo over him.
After you’ve gone over everything, Geto groans and relaxes further into his chair. “They’re so uncooperative.” Sighing, “The meeting was just as unproductive as I remember it being.”
Joking with him a little, “You’re not so confident they love you anymore?”
“Way to kick a man when he’s down,” but he smiles a little, clearly not hurt.
“So,” you prompt, “what are you going to do now?”
“I’m not entirely sure.” His fingers are tapping rhythmically on the desk, a familiar tune you can’t quite place. It then stops suddenly, “By any chance, were you still working for Satoru when they reached out?”
You pause a little at his question, giving him the benefit of the doubt by answering, “We reached out to them but never got a substantial response.”
That piques his interest a little, “What did—”
Before he can finish asking, you shut him down professionally, “—I’m not at liberty to discuss details pertaining to my previous employment.”
“Of course not,” he smiles politely.
“If that’s all,” you plaster a pleasant look on your face and wait for him to speak.
“Yes, that’s all. Thank you,” he says your name and with that you leave his office.
The whole interaction is painted with the quiet fact that you both know this has done damage to your budding friendship. It hurts more than you thought it would, now questioning if he was just buttering you up to be able to ask you questions like that without any push back. Even if you didn’t feel loyalty to Gojo, you’re a professional and you wouldn’t talk about a company’s inner workings after leaving.
Of course it happens when you were just thinking about how nice it felt to open up. And maybe it’s still true that talking to someone was good, it’s just now laced with a severe distaste and faint feeling of betrayal. Whatever, this was your own blunder, just another in a long list of things you’ve messed up recently.
You’re choosing not to think too hard about it, you need this job. It just means you won’t be trusting him anytime soon. This sucks. You’ve not been having an especially easy time making friends here and to have the one person you thought of as one seemingly use you for information… sucks.
Just a few more hours and you get to clock off and go home for a whole couple days. The weekend looks especially welcoming now, your parents will be gone for a bit, and you’ll get some down time. Having an empty house sounds so good, you’ll be able to exist in your space without them asking questions you can’t or don’t have the answers to.
That weekend you were so looking forward to flies by in the blink of an eye. Though you did get some time to indulge in some hobbies you’d been neglecting, you even sat in the lounge and watched a movie. Truly, your life is so exciting lately.
It’s unfortunate that it’s already Sunday though, your parents will be home later in the evening, and you’ll have to get yourself emotionally ready to go into work tomorrow. You don’t know if you’re ready to see Geto, unsure how you’ll react now that you feel used. You’d truly believed him when he said he was hiring you for you and not because of your connection to Gojo.
You’re in the middle of your evening routine when there’s a knock at the door. It has you pausing and considering ignoring whoever it may be but then it comes again and you relent. Heading towards the door and opening it a crack. The sight of Gojo on your doorstep truly stuns you, mouth opening at him because how does he even know you’re here?
He leans down, apparently pleased with your shock. “You gonna invite me in, sweetheart?”
You’re not sure if it’s such a good idea but you’ve missed him so much, so you’re stepping to the side and opening the door more for him to step inside. He enters easily, slipping his shoes off before wandering further into the house.
You follow after him, deciding a little late to be a good host. “Would you like some tea?”
“Sure,” he replies chirpily, finding his own way to the kitchen and sitting at the table.
The decently sized kitchen feels much smaller with him in it, his frame making the chairs look ridiculous. Choosing to ignore the way your heart races in his presence, you silently make two cups of tea. Piling sugar into Gojo’s, remembering that he can’t drink it without.
Placing the cup down in front of him, you ask, “How did you know to find me here?”
The only response you get is a smile and the view of him taking a sip of his tea. You groan a little at his reluctance, but if you had to guess, he probably just annoyed it out of Nanami. Moving, you sit down across from him and nurse your own mug.
“Why are you here?”
“I wanted to see you,” he states plainly, “I’ve missed you.”
It comes easily to him but saying you missed him as well is hard for you and you can’t really understand why.
Gojo doesn’t let the silence linger long, “How’s Suguru treating you?”
He meant it conversationally but it’s just another sharp reminder that you’ve gotten close to someone who probably doesn’t care much for you at all. “Good.”
When you look up from your tea, his eyes are looking back at you. It’s hard to keep eye contact so you look back to your warm drink, “I– uhm,” you shift awkwardly, “I miss working for you though.”
Reply fast and exactly what you expected, “Come back.”
“I can’t, I really want to,” you look back to him, holding his gaze firmly, “I didn’t leave because I wanted to, Gojo. I had to uproot my whole life; I’m living with my parents.”
“Tell me why then,” he frowns at you, frustration bleeding through his tone, “why did you leave? Why are you living here? Why won’t you just let me help you?”
Your brow twitches, “Am I supposed to ask my boss for financial help? Am I supposed to complain about my personal issues to you and hope you whisk me away and fix them all? I’m an adult, Gojo, and I have no right to ask that of you.”
“You were always more than just an employee to me,” he says your name, “You slept with me and you still didn’t give me any sort of explanation.”
“It was a one-night stand,” you brush it off, trying to lessen it. That’s how you’ve been rationalising it to yourself for the past couple months.
“Not to me,” pointing at you accusatorily, “and you can’t really believe that.”
“Gojo—”
“—I’m sick of not knowing, I’m sick of worrying about you,” his arms fold stubbornly, “I’m not leaving until you tell me everything.”
“It’s not exactly something I want to talk about,” especially not after recent events. You can tell by the expression on Gojo’s face that he’s serious though, and you can do without your parents coming home to see this stranger in their house. “The short of it is that I had a roommate, he moved out without notice, I couldn’t afford my apartment anymore, I moved home.”
Not satisfied, asking, “And what’s the long of it?”
“If I tell you everything, you’re just going to pity me and try to fix it all.”
“Is that so bad?”
“Yes! I don’t want to owe you too, Gojo.”
He doesn’t miss it, your phrasing catching his attention, “Too?”
“I may or may not be in debt.” In this specific moment, you’re finding the ceiling to be very interesting.
Your name comes sighed from him, “What kind of mess have you gotten into?”
“I didn’t get myself into any mess, thank you very much.” You’re finding yourself backed into a corner.
Instead of forcing your hand, Gojo suggests, “If I promise to not do anything you don’t agree to, will you tell me what’s really been going on.”
At his offer, you look him over carefully. Quietly deciding if you should or shouldn’t. Maybe at one point in your life, he was just your employer, but he became much more than that pretty quickly and you might’ve been tricking yourself by pretending otherwise. You really have missed him so much and you can’t find it in yourself to keep pushing him away.
You find that his suggestion gives you no reason to hide anything from him. You’d only been worried about what he might do, not what he might think of you. So, you’re relenting. “Fine, but you have to promise,” you hold your hand out across the table, “pinkie promise.”
Gojo can’t hide the way he softens at that, faithfully raising his hand to wrap his pinkie around yours to seal it. “I promise.”
You nod like it’s some sort of binding spell and pull back. Exhaling softly as you begin, “My roommate and I had a complex and sometimes difficult… relationship… we weren’t dating but we’d been more than friends. I’d known him for a long time, it’s why I trusted him to live with me.”
The way Gojo looks is displeased already and you can’t quite pin down why but you carry on, “At some point I guess he got really into gambling,” you shrug, “he put me down as his guarantor without my knowledge. Obviously not legally but he wasn’t gambling legally so I suppose it hardly matters.”
Gojo’s frown deepens, cutting in to ask, “And he moved out after that?”
“Yeah, I guess he got too far in over his own head and felt like he had to run.” It’s taking a lot for you to tell this story; it’s been a while now since this happened and you’ve not told anyone all the details like this. Ever. “He left a note behind, but it didn’t say anything about where he was going or if he’d come back, or even if he’d pay me back.”
There’s a pause from you but that’s not the end of your story and Gojo doesn’t interject again, so you keep talking. “I started making the payments for him, I mean there’s not really anything else I could do in that position. Eventually my savings ran low and the apartment was expensive by myself, so I resigned and moved home.”
Your finger traces the rim of your mug, “It looked bad for a moment though, finding a new job was hard but that’s when Geto showed up at the café I was working at and offered me a position with him.” Risking a glance up as you add, “It didn’t feel… right, working for him but I’m not exactly in the position to be worrying about that stuff right now.”
Gojo looks the angriest you’ve ever seen, you almost can’t recognise him. He takes in a controlled breath to calm himself and he relaxes a little. “I’m glad you finally told me.”
And you can tell that’s not what he really wants to say but he still means it, “I wanted to tell you so many times, Gojo. It’s just… I’m not exactly proud of this and I didn’t want you to offer me money.”
“Oh, I’m still going to offer,” he replies immediately, “if you ever decide you want me to pay the debt, I will.”
“No,” your gaze is unwavering. “Not only will I feel like I owe you, It’d be you paying for him and that doesn’t feel right. You don’t get to fix this for him.”
“That’s exactly what you’re doing,” he points out.
“Yeah, but at least I knew him.”
“At least I can afford it.”
“Okay, ouch.” You huff a small laugh despite the accurate jab. “Now I’m definitely declining your offer.”
He clicks his tongue disapprovingly, “Tch, you’re still stubborn.”
You ignore his unneeded and obvious comment, “How have you been, Gojo? Really?” You never did get a straight answer.
“Bad, my whole company is imploding because my favourite employee left.”
“You’re so full of it,” you call him out, “from what I can tell you’re going to get that big deal soon.”
“Oh?” he grins, “Suguru not feeling so sure of himself anymore?”
Standing to your feet and collecting the mugs, “You both have to leave me out of this feud you’ve got going on, I’m a professional.”
“Both of us,” his eyes track your movements, “what the hell has he been asking?”
“It’s nothing,” walking over to the sink to wash up, “Gojo I’m serious, leave me out of this.”
“Did you tell him the same thing?” he’s gotten up himself, standing right behind you. Both his arms cage your sides and leave you trapped facing the sink.
You’re trying to ignore the body heat radiating off him, focusing closely on how you rinse your mug. His face is so close and if you turned even a little to the side it’d become much more intimate than your heart can take.
“I told him I can’t discuss information about my previous employment.”
He hums low, “I bet you were all professional about it too.”
Placing the mugs in the drying rack, you turn around so you’re facing him. He’d refused to move back, letting you brush against him as you’d turned. “What are you doing, Gojo?”
“If I said I’m trying to seduce you, how would that make you feel?”
Truthfully, you don’t dislike it, but you can’t ignore the feelings of this being too soon. “You don’t want to do that.”
His head tilts at you, “I don’t?” Hand reaching up to caress your cheek.
The comfort you find in him is immense, feeling a weight off your chest by finally getting to tell him everything. You’re hesitant to start anything with him though, you’ve only just gotten to see each other for longer than a moment. Not to mention, you’d kissed Geto only a week ago.
When he leans in, you place a hand over his mouth, “I’m serious, Gojo.”
The intensity in his gaze tells you he’s communicating the same thing.
You rush out, “Geto and I kissed.”
A hand reaches up and grabs your wrist, pulling it away from his mouth. His only question, “Why?”
“I don’t really know…” you look away from him, “I was at his place, and we kissed… it didn’t go any further than that.”
As of right now, you and Gojo aren’t anything to each other but former employer and employee—and one-night stands. So, you aren’t really sure why you felt like you owed him that information, but it felt wrong to withhold it.
“So… you won’t kiss me because you kissed him?” He hasn’t stepped back, still invading your personal space.
“I’m saying you don’t want to kiss me because of that.”
“That’s odd,” he murmurs. “Because I could swear I still want to kiss you.”
That stumps you, deciding to be blunt, “You’re not mad?”
“Oh, I’m furious.” He touches you so gently, holding your hand, “Just… not at you.”
And since you’re on a roll of honesty, “I’ve missed you.”
“Good.” His eyes search yours, both hands holding your face, “Because I’ve missed you like crazy.”
His lips on yours are familiar and have you melting all too quickly, hands clutching onto his shirt as you meet his needy kisses. He’s not taking it slow, too desperate to. Immediately kissing you messily, tongue meeting yours. You hum against him, letting him guide your kiss hotly.
You’re pressed back against the countertop; he’s moved in closer even though there wasn’t much space between the two of you to begin with. One of his hands move from your face to slide down your body, grasping your hip firmly. A small sound resembling a moan passes from you to him and he swallows it down greedily.
Hand now on your back and gliding under your shirt, resting against your bare skin. His direct touch lights something aflame inside you, knees nearly buckling from how much you’re enjoying just a kiss.
Now that he’s finally got his hands on you, he’s so touchy feely. Hands groping all over your body, both sneaking under the waistband of your sleep shorts and palming your ass. You’re gasping against him over it, breaking the messy kiss.
A string of saliva connecting your lips still, it snaps when you talk, “Gojo, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Enjoying the moment?” He lets his lips trail lower, tickling against your cheek, then down your neck. His hands still firmly planted on the globes of your ass.
“You might be enjoying it too much– hff—”
Gojo’s pulled your cheeks apart, tips of his fingers grazing your wet pussy through your panties. Your forehead collapses against his chest and your hands clutch at his shirt harder, legs very quickly getting wobbly.
“Go easy on me,” he speaks into the top of your head, “I haven’t had the chance to touch you in fucking ages.”
Using his middle finger, he traces and prods at your hole. Chest vibrating with a pleasant hum at how wet you seem to be. Playing with you just to work you up, you can’t help but think of it as a kind of punishment for avoiding him.
Breaths coming faster, “We’re not doing this in my parents’ kitchen.”
“And what exactly is it we’re doing?” He teases further, just to embarrass you for assuming anything.
You look up to him, chin resting on his chest as you shoot him with a glare.
“I don’t know what you’re hoping that will do,” he presses a kiss to your lips, “but you’re really turning me on.”
And just as you’re about to shove some expletives his way, he’s nearly penetrating you through your underwear. Mewls leaving you at the friction, more slick dripping from you and coating your panties.
“Fuck– okay, fine,” he caves without any further complaint from you, “where’s your room, sweetie?”
It takes quite the effort for you to nod in the correct direction, “Over there.”
Finally, he removes his hands from your pants, holding your hand as he drags you over to where you signalled. “It’s cute,” he comments once inside.
The walls are still painted a slightly too bright pink, old posters you hadn’t taken down still plastered on them. The furniture is a little outdated, you’d gotten everything new when you’d finally been able to move out and that’s all in storage. Your bed isn’t even meant for more than one person.
Muttering back, “Shut up.” Your parents had painted the walls when they’d found out they were having a girl and never let you change it, even as you matured. The posters you’d kept up because you’re still you.
“I didn’t say anything bad,” he chuckles. His eyes fix on the bed, “This is gonna be a tight squeeze…” he purses his lips and then smiles, “though I suppose it was last time too—”
He grunts as you jab him in the side, “Not a necessary comment.”
“I disagree,” Gojo turns to you grinning, “but we can agree to disagree.”
His hands are all over you again, tugging at your shirt as he walks you back to the bed in the corner. Mouth slotting over yours after he’s pulled off your sleep shirt, met with your bare breasts because you weren’t expecting visitors. At the sight of you, he’s distracted. Groping at your tits, pinching your nipples.
“I’ve missed you so much,” he says low, staring at your boobs instead of you.
You’re trying to ignore how worked up he’s getting you, “You’re such a– hah– romantic.”
“Tonight I’m seducing you,” he pushes you down onto the bed, “tomorrow I can be romantic.”
Your pants are next to go, yanked down your legs, along with your panties. Left completely naked on your own bed while he’s fully dressed, it hardly seems fair. He’s leaning over you just as you’re about to complain about it, then your words are hard to vocalise when he’s got his mouth around your nipple. Tongue flicking at you cruelly, relishing how you jolt each time he does.
The old bed creaks under his added weight and your squirming. His eyes heated as he looks up to keep eye contact with you, two fingers slipping inside your hot cunt as he continues licking and sucking at you. Biting at you gently when his digits are as deep inside you as he can get them. The moan you let out is embarrassingly sinful, your hand coming up to smother down the noises escaping you.
Gojo finally lets your nipple go with a lewd pop, “I was right,” his fingers crook upwards and stroke against the spot he knows drives you wild, “it’s gonna be a tight fit.”
And he’s laughing at his own joke but all you can do is mutter back a half-hearted, “Pervert.”
He doesn’t dignify it with a response, feeling it’s already been pretty well established how he gets over you. Moving his attention instead to your other nipple, sucking and biting hickeys around it before enveloping it in his mouth. Not letting up on how he’s fingering you open, scissoring apart his fingers.
Keeping you open just to savour how you drip fresh slick down his digits and onto the bed spread. It’s pitiful how on edge you already feel, he knows your body so well. Remembering exactly how to touch you to rile you up.
Thumb sliding over your clit, rubbing messy circles around it. He’s avoiding touching your sensitive nerves directly, teasing you carefully. It’s completely frustrating, he could have you cumming in ten seconds flat but he’s not letting you. Instead, he’s carefully building your orgasm up but never pushing you over that ledge.
Bright eyes looking through full lashes at you, mouth coming off your nipple. He makes a show of it, giving you a final harsh lick, tongue hanging from his mouth as he retreats. It’s hot and makes you whimper a little, though that could also be his fingers fucking knuckle deep and stroking your weak spot.
He’s grinning at your reaction, “Have I said how much I’ve missed you, I can’t remember?”
“I think– hng– think you mentioned it,” it’s hard to keep focus on him. Your high so close, if you just ignore how condescendingly he’s smiling at you, you could—
“Close?” Gojo asks.
You nod back quickly at him, biting into your lower lip. Then, he cruelly pulls his fingers from you. Leaving you a panting mess craving for your release. Your thighs rub together, trying to make up for what you lost but it can’t compare even a little bit.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” lips on yours, kissing you deep before continuing, “but I feel the need to tease you a little extra, since you left me and all.”
He does, however, grace your eyes by removing his shirt. Torso just as toned and enticing as the last time you saw it. His belt comes undone next, popping the button on his pants but not doing any more than that. Returning his attention back to you.
Hands gliding up and down the sides of your body, ever the clingy type in how he pulls at your soft skin. It’s while he’s palming at you that you tell him, “You don’t have all night for this,” informing him, “my parents come back tonight.”
“How scandalous,” he’s amused despite the ticking clock.
“Gojo, I’m serious.”
“I know you are,” his hands push your legs apart, wide, “and I was too. You hurt my feelings so I’m gonna edge you a little.” Before you can whine about that he says, “Just a bit! I’m not gonna leave here without fucking that divine pussy of yours, I swear. I’m not crazy.”
Humming happily as he runs a thumb between your folds, pressing into your clit. Circling it directly this time, focusing his touch straight on your sensitive nub. You’re squirming on the bed over it, wanting to shut your legs and being unable to. Gojo’s got himself firmly planted between your open legs and making it difficult for you to do anything but take the overwhelming pleasure.
And then he stops, looking around the bed as he mentions, “Your bed really is tiny.”
You’re shaking from your almost high, but you still manage to bite back, “It’s– hff– it’s not tiny you’re just a giant– ah!—”
He’d climbed off the foot of your bed while you were talking and tugged you down to the edge of it by your ankles, effectively cutting you off. Able to feel his breath against your dripping cunt, it’s making you needier.
“You’re so pretty,” mouthing against your inner thighs as he rambles, “I can’t even sit in my office without think about you. It’s cruel, really. I get hard at the memory of that night and can’t leave my office because I can’t fucking stand.”
He dives headfirst into your pussy after that, licking at you crudely. His tongue slithering inside your gooey hole. Just as good at this as you remember him being, slurping at you and letting it drip all over his face.
Gojo’s eyes roll a little, having desperately missed the taste of you. Moaning into your cunt, he can’t help but get carried away. Your squirming and whining only spurring him on, sucking on your clit. Not able to leave your hole unfilled for long though, tonguing you again. Making out with your pussy lips obscenely.
Getting so caught up in it that he’s almost forgetting that he’s meant to be edging you. Feeling the telltale shudders running through you and pulling away, eyes amused as he watches your hole twitch around nothing. You’re clawing at the sheets as you whimper sadly at the loss.
“Mm sorry,” you whinge at him, because you really are but you also don’t want to take anymore edging.
“Barely heard from you,” his fingers circle around your entrance, “only a few replies– do you know how much I held back from texting you and when I did I only sometimes got a reply.” Those fingers stretching you open again, “So mean to me.”
You’d apologise more, maybe even try to explain yourself but he’s finger fucking you stupid and it’s making it hard to form a coherent thought. Barely even coming down from your almost high and he’s immediately touching you again. This cycle is going to kill you, feeling like your nerves themselves are vibrating. Desperate ache beginning in the pit of your stomach and buzzing down to your sensitive cunt.
Thoughts are all fuzzy in your head as he reaches so deep inside you, not caressing you like he was earlier. Properly fucking you with his fingers, palm slapping against your clit. The harshness of it feels so damn good, urgently needing it deep and quick.
You’re begging before you even register it, “Please, Gojo– hnn– please let me cum– hah– I’m so sorry– hng!– I’m sorry!”
He bites your inner thigh in response, hard enough to leave a mark and make you mewl. Then he sucks over it, finally laving over it with his tongue as he parts. “I know you are,” he faux pouts.
And since he seems to be on a cruelty streak tonight, he continues driving you crazy for a little bit longer than the times before. Dangerously close to the precipice, back arching meanly for it. Only to be let down once more, his fingers ripping from you so callously at the very last second.
It’s agony, tears filling your waterline. You’re even sitting up straight this time, lower lip quivering as you sulk down at Gojo. He’s smiling pleasantly at you, resting his head on your thigh and looking up like he’s not the mastermind behind your current torture.
Glibly adding, “You know, this is more a punishment for me,” nosing at your soft skin, “I love watching you cum– I love making you cum.”
Threading your fingers through his hair, you tug back and frown at him. He can only grin back at you, apparently exactly where he wants to be. You whine at him, “You’re being mean.”
“You don’t have to cry about it,” he reaches up and swipes a thumb high on your cheekbone, wiping away a tear.
“I’m not crying because you’re mean,” tugging on his hair a little harsher, “I’m crying cause I’m frustrated.”
“I know,” he laughs breathlessly, and with how you’ve pulled his head back further, you’re able to see his throat bob as he swallows, “It’s kinda cute of you.”
“Gojo—”
“—Mmm,” his face pulls in distaste, “I liked it better when you were calling me Satoru.”
You hate how attracted to him you are right now. Pulled back by his hair, eyes alight with mischief and mouth formed into a large smile. His canines are on display in a way that makes you shiver. He’d just sunk them into your skin no more than a few minutes ago and the thought turns you on further.
“What ya thinking about?” His question coming singsong and lilted.
You’re feeling spiteful though, so you don’t answer, “Nothing.”
“Such an evil woman,” he overdramatises, but leans forward, raising as he goes. “So mean to me,” your hand releases him and he presses kisses to your lips over and over, continuing to talk as he does, “doesn’t call, doesn’t text, refers to me unfamiliarly, won’t tell me what she’s thinking about.”
You’re letting him complain, getting lost in his kisses as he does. Wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him a little closer and kiss him a little deeper. Preferring he keep his mouth open only to swallow down your moans, not wanting him to pull back anymore.
While he’s kissing you, he uses his middle finger to delicately circle your clit. Moaning back at you when you let slip a pitiful, little whimper. Beginning to get hypersensitive from all his teasing. He was already able to get you close quickly, it’s even worse with all this edging.
Clinging to him a little more desperately the closer you get, hoping that maybe this time will be different. Maybe he’s done teasing you and even though you won’t be cumming on his dick you will finally get to cum.
And just as you’re stuck in your delusion of him forgetting why he’s doing this to you in the first place, he stops. Hand leaving the warmth of in between your thighs and the slick of your drooling cunt to hold your face. Greedily sucking on your tongue and all your moans, the sad moans of an almost orgasm engulfed by him.
When he pulls back, he does his best to comfort your shaking form. Soft pecks over your cheeks, kissing away some of your tears, “That was the last time, I promise.”
“It has to be,” you sound pathetic even to yourself, “I can’t take anymore.”
“I know,” he coos at you, “and you’ve done such a good job.”
Gojo parts from you completely, standing back so he can pull off his pants and boxers. His dick bobbing under its own weight, leaking precum profusely. It’s now that you realise just how much he’s probably been holding back.
And holding back he has been. Gojo’s damn near driven himself to insanity with all this edging. Close to cumming in his pants a few times just from touching you and getting to hear you moan again. Feeling deprived of you for so long that he can’t believe he actually managed to pull off playing with you without caving first.
“Lay back for me, yeah?” he nods back at your bed, “we’re gonna do our best to make this work.”
You have nothing snarky to say, feeling uncharacteristically docile as you slide back on the bed. Gojo appreciates it deeply, not knowing if he can prolong this much more. Climbing on the bed after you and parting your legs with his warm hands.
There’s no more preamble, quickly stretching you open on the head of his cock. Hissing through his teeth at how wet and creamy you are around his sensitive tip. His head falls back as he sinks deeper and deeper inside your gooey hole, inch by delicious inch. Rumbling moan pouring from him, unable to hold it back.
It’s been so long and he somehow feels bigger than last time, he’s splitting you open obscenely. It’s making your head spin, the overwhelming pleasure of him stuffing you full so satisfying you’re getting lost in it.
Then, while Gojo is biting back a whine, you’re cumming around him and he’s whimpering pitifully. Your plush walls hugging him tight and sucking him in needily, begging him for his whole dick. Obviously, he grants it, slamming the rest of the way inside and relishing in how your pussy bulges around him.
“Hah– I wasn’t even fully inside you yet,” he’s as breathless over it as he is happy, “that’s– fuuck– that’s hot. You’re so fucking cute.”
You’re still shuddering and shaking through your first and most powerful orgasm. Mind completely free of any kind of coherent thought. Only registering how fucking good you feel, how stuffed you feel and how good it is and how full your pussy is and—
Gojo taps the side of your face, “Stay with me, sweetie. I haven’t even started moving yet.”
Eyes blearily looking back at him, lazy ecstasy plastered all over your expression. The sight of you fills him with a kind of cuteness aggression, his hips slamming into you harshly as he leans down to crowd against you. Wrapping you in his arms and hugging you tight as he fucks you stupid.
His pelvis slapping against you fills the room with the slickest and lewdest sounds you’ve heard. The both of you moaning at each other, his name repeated from you over and over as he sheathes himself in your snug warmth repeatedly.
No coherent words come from you, nothing other than Satoru’s name. You can’t even be sure you’ve stopped cumming, feeling so high on the pleasure that it doesn’t feel like it has an end or a beginning anymore.
“Satoru– hng– hh—” Anything else you try to spit out isn’t understood, not to you anyways.
Though, Gojo seems to understand you fine, “I know, pretty,” he speaks against your ear, and it makes you shake, “you’re doing– hng– doing so good for me, sweetie. Taking it so well.”
He can’t stop his movements, it feels far too good to want to anyways. Your tight cunt squeezing so lovingly around him, it’s got his brain all fuzzy with lust. You respond to him so well, every time he moves, or speaks, you react in a way that’s intoxicating to him. The idea of you leaving again quite literally agonising to him.
Letting the insecurity get the better of him but doing his best to not let on. “If you ghost me again after this,” he nips your ear, pulling back to look you in the eyes and stilling his hips. Trying to show just how weighted his words are, “I won’t be nearly as relaxed about it next time.”
“Mm– hah– I– uhm I’m not gonna,” your legs wrap around his waist and tug him in impossibly closer, “Satoru, I promise.”
His dick twitches inside you, “I’ll be holding you to that.”
Kissing you after that, as if to seal the promise. Stifling down the pair of your moans when he starts fucking you again. It’s wet and sloppy and desperate, you’re trying your best to meet his thrusts but every time you try, his own hips slam you back down onto the bed. The very loud bed, creaking as he fucks you stupid.
Gojo’s feeling clingy tonight, so he keeps hugging himself to you despite his desire to see how he’s opening up your little hole. Just knowing you’re spilling slick all over his cock, no doubt a creamy ring at the base of his shaft.
“You’re– hff– you’re gonna message me back now, aren’t you?”
“Uh huh,” you hum back, trying to focus on him but your mind keeps slipping back to the overwhelming pleasure.
“Gonna let me– hng– let me take you out,” especially sharp thrust, “go on a date with me.”
That catches your attention, stumbling out, “You wanna– hnn– go on a date with me?”
“Of course I do,” he groans, like it’s so obvious. “I want to date you, regularly.” He grabs you by your chin and angles you so you’re looking at him straight, “Which is why you’re going to message me back.”
“I will– ngh– I will.”
He uses his hold on your chin to nod your head up and down. “I know you will.” Moving back so he can raise to his knees, he adds, “Now, let’s do something about that time limit.”
Shooting you an amused grin and then grabbing your hips, manhandling you and angling your hips upwards a bit. Using his hold on you to fuck you down onto him as he thrusts forward. Roughly thrusting into you and using his newfound leverage to his benefit. He even gets to watch how he shoves himself inside you, getting the glorious view of your greedy pussy taking him in so well.
He was so right too, you’re dribbling arousal all around him. Cock coated in a white sheen, both your fluids mixing together and making an indecent mess. It makes him deliriously happy to see how you’re connected, his heart hammering in his chest with excitement. You’re such a pretty thing, completely perfect to him.
If you disappear on him again, he’s going to do something drastic. He’s not thinking about that right now though, not when he has you in his hands and gets to fuck you until you’re squirming and whimpering his name. Devolving into a mess in his hold, he should try edging you again sometime. The payoff is huge, you’re not even aware of the little orgasms you’ve been continuously having while he fucks you.
The thrusts he’s delivering to you truly have your world tilting on its axis, you’d thought he had you a mess before but now you feel insane. It’s like he’s doubled his efforts; you can’t exactly pin down why. Brain not functioning well enough to properly understand the time limit he’s referring to. Officially dumb on his dick.
Drunk on pleasure, cock ramming into your g-spot regularly. It feels like his tip kisses your womb with how deep he’s reaching inside you. Stimulated so deeply that you’re panting and grinding yourself down against him. Back arched upwards further, even with him holding you up by your hips.
With a few more weighted thrusts and heavy drags of his thick cock, you’re cumming again. Your moans aren’t even audible at first, the force of your orgasm that strong. Tears pricking at your waterline again, crying from how fucking good it feels to let go and cum so hard. You can’t hear anything but the blood rushing through your head. Vision going a little fuzzy as you indulge in your high.
That very high of yours, triggers Gojo’s. Finally letting himself succumb to the immense ecstasy running through his veins. He shudders and shakes through it, pulling you tight to his pelvis as he dumps his load deep inside your womb. Overstuffing your cunt with his spend, delighting in how he fills you to the point it’s leaking out back around him. Memories of the last time he came inside you flashing in his mind and pulling a whine from him.
You go limp soon after, only jolting with shocks of the come down. Gojo hums happily as he slips his dick from you, laying your lower half back down gently onto the mattress. Then, because he’s a pervert, he pushes on your lower stomach and watches as more of his cum drools from your pussy hole.
You’re far too lazy and docile to fight him on his actions though, busy basking in your bliss. Stretching yourself out like a cat and moaning at it. Gojo leans down and takes your lips with his, kissing you slow.
Pulling back and saying, “Don’t tempt me, sweetheart. You and I both know I could keep going.”
You roll your eyes at him and he smiles. Then he shoves his arms under you and holds you to him, flopping over so he’s on his back on your mattress with you on top. It’s the only way you can both semi-comfortably rest on the small bed together. You enjoy this part, the part where he holds you for a little bit. He feels warm and safe, just like last time.
After a moment, you remember the reason why you can’t stay like this. Raising your head to look at him, “You can’t stay.”
“Just another ten minutes,” he wraps his arms around you tighter, whinging.
You urge, “Satoru—”
“—Mm, I like that,” he all but purrs, happy with your use of his name.
“Seriously,” you shove at his shoulder, “you cannot stay here.”
“Fine,” groaning with his displeasure, “but I fully expect that next time we do this, it’s an all-night thing.”
You don’t get to protest in anyway, his lips shutting you up with a deep kiss. It lasts for a moment, Gojo gets a little carried away with it. He does relent though, grumbling a little as he gets to his feet and begins to get dressed again. Dick already hardening by the time he’s pulling his pants up and buttoning them. Hissing a little as he does, he wasn’t kidding about being able to go again.
Since he’s up and you’re a little wobbly on your feet, you ask, “Can you toss me my clothes?”
“It’d be a shame though.” He tilts his head at you.
“Shut up,” you point at him, “or do you want me to walk you to your car completely naked?”
“You gonna see me off, sweetie?” he tosses you your clothes to change into, “how hospitable you’re being this evening, pussy and a sendoff.”
“You’re the worst,” you grumble. And even though you know you’re going to regret it, “Could you grab me some clean underwear? They’re in that top drawer,” indicating to the dresser in the corner with a nod.
He does so without further comment, at least no further comment until he’s rooting through it. Pulling out a blue lacy pair and holding them up, “These are cute.”
“I am not wearing such a nice pair,” you inform. “I’m still full of your cum, I don’t want to ruin such an expensive pair.”
“I can only get so hard, sweetie,” he singsongs but finds a comfortable and boring pair for you to change into.
When you’re both dressed, you walk him out to the front of the house on shaky legs. Regretting it a little bit because you won’t have him for support on your way back. At his car, he collects you into a big hug and then a final kiss.
Pulling back and reminding you, “You’re gonna message me and we’re going on a date.”
Feeling flustered all of a sudden, “I remember.”
“Just checking, you were kind of occupied when I brought it up.”
You push him away at that, “Whatever, just go home and be on time for work tomorrow.”
“That reminds me,” he looks at you pointedly, “Don’t kiss Suguru anymore.”
His comment jolts you a little, gaping back, “I wasn’t planning on it.”
“Good,” he nods, “I don’t like sharing.”
With that, he goes on his way. You’re left hobbling your way back into your parents’ house with a mess to clean up. Your relationship with him is still a little confusing to you but you suppose you’re dating now? You can’t help but have some trepidations about that but there’s also a thrill of excitement. Already finding yourself wondering when he’s going to message you…
α.η. yaaay it's done ! thank you to everyone who stuck around and waited patiently for this second part ٩(^ᗜ^ )و ´-
i'm sorry if you wanted to be tagged for this, i unfortunately don't do that :< i hope all who wanted it find this though ♡ thank you all for reading and i hope you all enjoyed ! hopefully more to come if this performs well hehe (๑•̀ <๑)✧
꒰꒰. all works are the intellectual property of aliienangel .. do not plagiarise/translate/reupload/feed to ai ♡. 。
꒰ 𓏲๋࣭࣪˖🌷.ᐟ Satoru Gojo is the loudest, prettiest boy on campus — and secretly the biggest nerd you've ever met. You make a list of twenty ways to make him yours. It works better than expected. ꒱
ᘛ ꒰ satoru gojo x reader | university au | fluff, crack-ish, mutual pining, 3.4k wc. no real warning, this is pure fluff. art by @/to00fu dividers by @uzmacchiato and @pixopix ྀིა
Gojo Satoru did not look like a nerd. That was the first thing you had to get past.
He was six-foot-three, white hair that looked like he'd bleached it out of spite, and a jawline that made underclassmen forget how to walk in straight lines. So the first time you sat next to him in Intro to Theoretical Physics and watched him correct the TA's derivation on the whiteboard— politely, cheerfully, in a way that made the TA visibly reconsider their choice of career— you assumed it was a fluke. A pretty boy who got lucky on one problem set.
It was not a fluke. It happened every single week.
By week four you knew: underneath the sunglasses he wore indoors "for the bit," underneath the easy charm and the way he called everyone "sweetheart" like it cost him nothing, Gojo was the single biggest nerd you had ever met in your life. He annotated his textbooks in four colors. He had a ranked opinion on which university library floor had the best "ambient silence." He once spent twenty minutes explaining the Fermi paradox to a girl at a party who had asked him, literally, where the bathroom was.
And somehow, against every instinct you had about self-preservation, you'd fallen for him anyway.
The problem was that Gojo Satoru was completely, catastrophically oblivious to the fact that you liked him. Not because he was dumb— the man had a 4.0 and could recite pi to sixty digits when he was nervous— but because emotional self-awareness was, apparently, the one subject he'd never taken.
So you did what any reasonable person would do. You made a list.
Not a real list, not at first— just something you texted your roommate at 1 a.m. after he'd walked you back to your dorm and then said "anyway, goodnight, study buddy!" like a golden retriever who'd just learned the word "goodnight." But it grew. Item by item, week by week, you built yourself a plan. A syllabus, if you wanted to be annoying about it. A plan for how to make a nerd— your nerd, if you had anything to say about it– fall for you back.
Here's what the list looked like, three weeks later, mostly executed and slightly out of order:
1. Ask him to explain something you already understand
Not because you need it explained. Because Gojo lights up like a Christmas tree the second someone asks him a real question, and there is nothing in this world cuter than a six-foot-three man drawing a diagram of quantum entanglement on a napkin at 9 p.m. because you asked "wait, but how does that actually work?" He'll talk for eleven minutes straight. You will not understand half of it. You will not care.
2. Bring him coffee exactly the way he takes it, without asking.
Oat milk, two sugars, and— this is important— he needs it slightly too hot, because he likes complaining that it burned his tongue and then drinking it anyway. The first time you showed up to your study session with his order memorized, he stared at the cup for a solid five seconds like you'd handed him a diamond instead of a four-dollar latte.
"You remembered," he said, and for once he didn't sound like he was performing anything.
"It's not that hard, Satoru."
"No," he agreed, still staring at the cup. "I guess it's not."
3. Steal his hoodie and never give it back.
This one is less a strategy and more just theft, but the effect is the same. You took it during a group project when the library air conditioning decided finals week was a personal vendetta, and you simply forgot to return it. He noticed. He did not ask for it back. He instead started "accidentally" leaving other sweaters at your dorm, like he was building a small collection of hostages in reverse.
4. Beat him at something. Anything.
Gojo has never lost gracefully in his life. He is aggressively, hilariously competitive about things that do not matter, like Mario Kart, or who can name more moons of Saturn, or whose flashcards are better organized. Beat him once— just once— and watch a switch flip behind his eyes. He will demand a rematch. He will demand several rematches. He will, three rematches later, forget that he is supposed to be trying to win and just start trying to make you laugh instead.
5. Notice the thing he's insecure about, and don't make a big deal of it.
Underneath the confidence, Gojo has Opinions about his own eyes— the pale blue, the way people stare, the way strangers sometimes ask invasive questions like he's a museum exhibit. You noticed early that the sunglasses weren't entirely a bit. So you never once commented on his eyes unless it was in passing, the same way you'd mention someone's nice handwriting. Ordinary. Unremarkable. Just a fact about him, not a headline.
He clocked that you'd clocked it. He didn't say anything. But he started taking the glasses off around you more.
6. Let him info-dump. Then remember what he said.
Two weeks after the Fermi paradox incident, you asked him— out of nowhere, mid-lecture— "okay but statistically, if the paradox holds, doesn't that actually support the idea that we're early, not alone?" He turned to look at you like you'd grown a second head. A good second head.
"You remembered that?"
"You explained it for twenty minutes to a stranger looking for the bathroom. Of course I remembered."
7. Make him carry something heavy for you.
Not because you need the help. Because there is a specific, devastating satisfaction in watching Gojo Satoru— who could probably bench-press the entire physics department— insist on carrying your grocery bags, your laundry basket, your six textbooks, all at once, while pretending it's nothing, while very obviously flexing about it.
8. Show up to his study group uninvited and stay anyway.
He runs a Tuesday night study group that is, allegedly, "for anyone who wants to come," but somehow the same three terrified freshmen show up every week and leave within the hour because Gojo cannot resist turning every session into a TED talk. You started showing up too. You did not leave within the hour. By the third week, he'd started saving you a seat next to him without being asked— the one by the outlet, because he'd noticed your laptop charger was fraying.
9. Text him something dumb at 2 a.m. and let him overthink his reply.
You know this one works because your roommate is somehow also friends with his roommate, and the intel came back within the hour: Gojo spent eleven minutes composing a response to your "ok but if a vending machine gains sentience is it a philosophical zombie or just annoying" text. Eleven minutes. For a joke. He sent back four different drafts before landing on one, and it was still unhinged.
10. Compliment his handwriting, not his face
He gets told he's hot approximately nine times a day, by everyone, including strangers on the bus. It means nothing to him anymore— it's just weather. But tell him his lecture notes are genuinely, freakishly beautiful— every equation boxed, every margin annotated in four colors like he's illuminating a medieval manuscript— and watch him go quiet in a way he never does when someone calls him pretty.
11. Let him see you fail at something.
Gojo doesn't actually want a girl who has it together 100% of the time— he wants someone real, though it took you a while to realize that. The night you completely bombed a presentation and cried a little in the stairwell after, he didn't try to fix it or hype you up with empty noise. He just sat down on the concrete step next to you in his very expensive jeans and said, "okay, worst professor you've ever had, go," and let you complain until you'd laughed the tears away.
12. Ask about his family. Actually listen.
He deflects hard whenever anyone brings up the Gojo name, the money, the expectations. Most people either fawn over it or pretend it doesn't exist. You did neither— you just asked, once, gently, "is it heavy? Carrying all that?" and let the silence sit instead of filling it. He didn't answer for a full minute. Then he told you more than he'd told anyone all semester. He told you about his twin.
13. Give him a nickname that isn't about how he looks.
Everyone calls him "Six Eyes" as some ironic school-wide joke about how much he supposedly sees. You started calling him "Professor" instead, low and teasing, every time he got insufferable about a fact nobody asked for. He complained about it constantly. He also, notably, never asked you to stop.
14. Show up to his dumb extracurricular thing
He's in the university's astronomy club, which meets on the roof of the science building at ungodly hours to look at things you cannot see because of light pollution. You went once, mostly out of curiosity, and ended up going every month after, wrapped in his stolen hoodie (see: item 3), while he pointed at smudges in the sky and insisted, with total conviction, that one of them was definitely Saturn.
"That's a plane, Satoru."
"It's Saturn, and I won't be taking questions."
15. Get jealous. Badly. On purpose.
You are not proud of this one, but it worked, so it's staying on the list. A guy from your seminar started sitting suspiciously close to you during group work, and Gojo— usually the most chill, unbothered person alive— suddenly developed a burning need to sit in on your seminar "for fun." He is not enrolled in your seminar. He does not need to be there. He was there anyway, arms crossed, radiating an aura your professor mistook for academic passion.
16. Take care of him when he forgets to take care of himself.
For someone so smart, Gojo is disastrous at remembering to eat during midterms. You started leaving snacks in his backpack without telling him— protein bars, the specific brand of gum he chews when he's anxious, a note sometimes. He never mentioned it directly. He just started leaving you snacks back, an unspoken little economy of care neither of you would put a name to yet.
17. Let him walk you home even when you don't need it.
It's fifteen minutes out of his way. He does it every time anyway, sunglasses off, hands in his pockets, talking the entire walk about nothing and everything, and you've started timing your goodnights to be a little longer than they need to be.
18. Catch him staring, and don't look away first.
It happened in the library, over a stack of shared notes— you looked up and he was already looking, not at your notes, at you, and for once in his entire dramatic life he didn't have a single word ready. You didn't look away. Neither did he. Somebody's highlighter rolled off the table and neither of you moved to catch it.
19. Tell him, out loud, that you like the nerd version of him best.
Not the flirt. Not the golden retriever performing for a crowd. The version that gets quiet and intense over a whiteboard, that memorizes the digits of pi when he's anxious, that lit up over a napkin diagram because someone finally asked him a real question. You told him this on the roof, under his fake Saturn, and he went so still you thought you'd broken him.
20. Kiss him first.
Because he will never, ever make the first move— not out of fear, but because some small, stupid, sincere part of him doesn't believe someone like you would actually want someone like him, underneath all the noise. So you have to be the one. You kiss him on the roof, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, his ridiculous fake constellation still glowing faintly behind him, and he makes a sound against your mouth like every ounce of composure he's ever performed just short-circuited at once.
When you pull back he's staring at you the way he stares at a problem he's finally solved— stunned, delighted, a little smug that he got there at all.
"Say something smart, Professor," you tell him, breathless.
"Give me a second," he says. "You broke my working memory."
Summary: Gojo Satoru is the most arrogant, big-headed person you know. He also happens to be your biggest fattest crush ever. You can't handle it anymore and because of that…you plan to confess in pursuit of a rejection. All in order to motivate you to get rid of these pesky feelings you harbor for the man.
wc: 5.9k
Tags: friends to lovers, mutual pining, idiots in love, shy!gojo, love confession, fluff, tooth-rotting fluff, pre hidden inventory arc, highschool gojo, gojo is bad at feelings
a/n: hello! first fanfic ever posted. I really tried to make this as light-hearted as I possibly can! enjoy! feel free to leave a comment if you like ^^ also! shoko is written to be the closest to reader, hence the first name usage ^^ and if you've seen this before, it is a repost from my previous account!
read on ao3!
Gojo Satoru is the most annoying, arrogant, big headed man you've ever met. One interaction with him could potentially make you lose brain cells with the way he presents himself to others. No regards to seniors at all, acting like he's the greatest of all time. Which is true, you hate to admit.
He also happens to be your biggest fattest crush ever.
You didn't understand it at first. You think it might be because of the fact he helps you study, or maybe it's the way he shares his food with you when he would normally gobble everything up in one go if he could.
You probably think you're special because of that, huh? You almost came to that conclusion. Until you saw him help his best friend with his own studies too. The food he'd give you? It's only because Geto told him to give it. Though, for some odd reason you ended up with a crush! A big crush that doesn't have any proper explanation whatsoever! It's stupid and you know it!
He's so out of your league and you doubt he even looks at you that way. He displays a tinge of indifference towards you whenever you're around him while the others are present. He goes quiet when it's just the two of you too, as if he's bored when a moment forces you both to be in a spot together. Yet, here you are having overwhelming feelings for him that keeps you awake at night.
Your heart is aching right now. You'd assume the answer is heart failure if the real reason for it wasn't located at a distance from where you sit on the field. Drinking a juice box with the second best flavor (in your opinion) from the vending machine. Your elbows stay propped up on your lap, supporting your head while your gaze lingers to the white haired man who happens to be training with his best buddy. You can see them arguing from a distance, although you can barely make out what they're saying.
He's sweating. His hair sticking to his forehead, the sunlight reflecting on his cheeks. Normally no one would notice from where you sit. But you're weirdly fixated on his features to the point you almost notice every detail of him.
That's creepy.
Then again, who wouldn't be fixated? His features are godsend. Unique eyes that replicate the sky, dashing white hair that rivals the snow, and on top of all that a handsome face. You doubt anyone can compete with him in terms of looks. If he wasn't a sorcerer, he should try modeling. He'd make it big.
His looks aren't the reason you fell though, that's what makes it frustrating. There's something about him, you just can't pinpoint what. Yes, he's good looking, but you're not that shallow to the point where you'd have a deep crush over someone's appearance.
You sigh, pushing the thoughts away. Standing up from your spot, legs feeling a bit heavy now that weight is present. Your juice is empty again, you need another one.
You made your way to the vending machine, footsteps echoing on the concrete floor. You prepare your coins in your hand while the other stays empty.
Just when you arrive at the rectangular metal box, your mind flashes images of him.
Get away, damn it!
You try to avert your attention, an attempt to stray away from any thoughts of him. Seriously, your heart can't stop beating from all these imaginary scenarios!
Like, how he'd hold your hand while you two go shopping together, even have a date at a cafe while you both are at it. Buying you your favorites on the menu no matter the price. He's probably the type to give gifts! Something he knows you'll definitely like.
Yeah, those thoughts are eating at you. Not because you dread them, but because you want that to happen. So bad, actually.
You hear the sound of footsteps approaching you, breaking you from your inner mind for a moment. You look up to see who the culprit is, and what a pleasant surprise it's Shoko. You consider her to be your closest in this batch, despite her not being the social or expressive type.
“You've been standing there for a while now.” Her hand points to your hand. The subject is unmoving, positioned to put coins in the slot, but it stays hanging between your fingers instead.
“Ah.” You let out. Finally pushing the coin inside the machine. Your digits pressing on the buttons for your ideal drink.
You let out a nervous laugh, trying to brush off your awkward stance. “Sorry, I was deep in thought.”
“Of what?” She tilts her head, arms crossing. For once in your time together she shows genuine curiosity for you.
You stay silent, contemplating whether to tell her or not. You move to the side, letting her take the next turn of getting a drink.
“Um…”
“Uh-huh?”
You think you should say it, you can trust her, after all. She won't snitch and plus, what's the worst thing she can do? Laugh at you? That's so immature!
“I was thinking about Gojo.” You blurt out in the midst of her entering her drink number. Her eyes widen just so slightly, though noticeable to your keen eyes. “In a ‘he did something wrong’ way, or a different way?”
“A crush way.”
“Ew,” her face contorts as she cringes, “Seriously?”
The sound of a metal can dropping announces itself, along with a look of disgust. She takes her drink from the machine, opening it as soon as she gets the fizzy substance. “I had my suspicions, but the confirmation of it makes me want to puke. Blegh.” Her eyes roll, not taking this seriously.
This reaction is worse than you thought. Now you feel ashamed for even having these feelings over a man like him.
“Sorry?” Your face scrunches, your brows furrowed. “I can't control what I feel?”
“You should learn how to. Starting from now. Get over him, there are better people out there.”
You scoff, but nevertheless she's right. There's a huge problem though; you can't do it.
Falling out of love is harder than falling in love. At first you thought it was a simple infatuation, but turns out to be bigger than that. Gojo hasn't done anything to make you feel outright hatred for him. No matter what you do it can't simply go away like wiping a smudged window in your bedroom. Having a damp cloth polish the transparent display can't be something comparable and easy as love.
“I've tried, but…” Your lips purse for a split second, as if that would help you explain. “...I don't know how to. It keeps coming back no matter what.”
Your revelation receives a puzzled look from the girl in front of you. You can tell that she finds it unbelievable, the concept of it being completely foreign to her.
“Okay?” She just stares at you, making you almost believe you said something ridiculous. Then she continues as if her words were the most obvious things ever. “Then just keep trying till it happens.”
You would let out a loud groan, but you aren't rude, “Have you ever had a crush before?”
“No.”
“Makes sense.”
You wonder if there were really higher beings who controlled your every move. If so, then you'd beg them to reset your entirety in order to not harbor anything for one of the strongest men alive. Erase the existence of it, so you can go on with your life without anything bothering you.
Those beings probably don't exist, but if they do then they just don't care and are simply using your misery as the source of their entertainment. Watching and laughing while you chug on the juice box you took out from the machine a while ago. Letting the flavor distract you even if it is momentarily.
Shoko takes a sip of her drink, the liquid staining her lips, prompting her to lick it up. An imaginary lightbulb suddenly comes up from her head, making her give you a not so reliable smirk.
“I have an idea. Why don't you confess and get rejected?”
You almost spit out what's in your mouth. “Are you crazy?!”
“What? I read that it works somewhere.” She shrugs at the thought, convincing herself that it's a good one.
This is the most humiliating idea you have ever heard. A bad one—no, nefarious even! Who on earth does that?! A crazy person, I tell you! No one in their right minds would confess just to get rejected, everyone does that to get accepted! At least, the expectation of it.
“I'm not doing it. If I were to, then consider me dead!” You stand firm with your declaration, the whole thing beyond what you consider reasonable.
Shoko raises a brow, finger tapping on the can she's holding. “Listen, think about it. If you get rejected then wouldn't that be a motivation for you to fall out of love? That should make your predicament easier.”
“I…” You're at a loss for words. That is reasonable. The idea is almost genius! Excellent even! Nevermind, your senses are coming back, realizing a drawback to this. “Wait, wouldn't it be awkward between us after that?”
“Only if you make it awkward.”
“Good point.”
—
Wow, you're really considering it now that it's night. Brainstorming ways to get the perfect moment between the two of you. A good weather and calming atmosphere would be nice, perhaps somewhere beneath the cherry blossoms? Something straight out of a cheesy highschool romcom would make it comical.
All this planning is keeping you awake. Your eyes won't stay shut and your body is strangely energetic. You don't recall having any naps in the afternoon nor drinking any caffeine.
You decided to go for a walk on campus. You stand up, finding your slippers under the bed. The night happens to be a freezing one, which made you decide to take a jacket out from your wardrobes. Picking the most comfortable one amongst the handful of options hanging.
It's a quiet night. The moon is full and bright with barely any clouds covering it. Radiating a serene ambience from the illumination. You continue your walk, the only sound available is the small shuffling from your feet.
You pause when you notice someone in the field. There's no mistake in knowing who it is, the bright white hair says it all. Despite the darkness he still has his round glasses on, you know it's for his technique, but you want to know what it's like being him with how he puts it on almost 24/7.
There it is again. Your heart is beating fast from just the scene of him under the moonlight. You touch your chest, taking deep breaths to calm you down. It's a slow process, still it's a working one.
Now that you think about it, a setting like this would be a perfect time to confess to someone. Especially since the moon is out and no one is awake to witness and tease you about it later.
Which is why you walk up to him at this very moment, with newly fledged confidence.
“Hey.” You greet, a bit too stiff to your liking. It's not often you two get alone time together, which is why it gets you clumsy. Almost slurring your words from just being near him. “Can’t sleep?”
“What does it look like?” Impolite as ever. He doesn't even look at you, eyes glued to the moon. You can't complain, it is beautiful.
You sit down next to him, keeping a safe distance so your mind doesn't go haywire on you. You're surprised you can even keep this up and not stutter at all.
“I was just asking, jeez.” You bite the inner corners of your mouth. The silence that comes after starts to become deafening with the way he doesn't answer. It's like you're not even there, just some dirt on the ground that lays around.
“Should I leave?” You ask, your voice higher than you wanted it to be. You're nervous, it really is apparent that he doesn't like you.
“You can stay.” He lowers his head, eyes flickering towards yours before looking away.
You're stunned. It's the first time he's ever said something like that. It doesn't help from the fact his voice was sultry, soothing, or whatever it is. It has an effect on you, for sure!
“O…okay then.”
Now the beating isn't stopping anytime soon. You're an idiot for subjecting yourself through this torture. You can't exactly leave, it wouldn't leave a good impression on you. You have an image to maintain as a kind and respectable classmate that anyone should admire and ought to be.
The quiet music of the night continues. You're just sitting there beside him, nothing on your mind. No words come out of you, it's almost like you forget how to speak. Small talk would be nice and appropriate. The silence was too much to bear.
“Are the glasses even necessary when it's dark or are your eyes that sensitive?”
“Doesn’t matter if it's dark or light. Someone like you couldn't even see with these glasses on if you were to wear it anyway.” His reply was quick, methodological with witty remarks. Waiting for you to take the first step in this conversation.
Your brows quirk up. His inability to not insult someone is an astounding one, you must say that. “How so?”
With one swift motion he takes his glasses off and hands it over to you. Hesitating, you take it from his hand, fingers brushing. Causing the tips to receive an electrical spark that was only exclusive to you from what you can see. You twitch, looking down at the sunglasses you're holding right now.
“Go on, wear it.”
You don't move, eyes just looking down at the shape of it. You're a bit shy to do so.
“Oh, come on.” He grabs it and does it himself. Slotting it on your face, the circular lenses taking over your view.
It's dark. In fact, you can't see at all. The whole sight of it is black and the only light you see wearing it is from your peripheral vision. Nothing, just nothing, but pure darkness. This really emphasizes the difference between the two of you, power and skills being miles apart. Something you find…extremely awesome.
“Woah…”
And with that, he takes the glasses off of you. His gaze averted from yours till he put it back on himself. It was easy to miss the slight color of his cheeks due to the dim light surrounding you both.
“See? Told ya.”
He lets out a yawn, stretching his long limbs. A blank unreadable expression comes back to his face once again. His usual demeanor makes its way to present itself, the one that gives the mix of indifference and disinterest.
You should leave. You really should, you have nothing to say and he isn't initiating anything. He doesn't bother to, actually. What's the point in letting you be seated next to him if he's just gonna stare at the sky and not utter a single syllable?
“Are you sure you don't want me to leave?”
“Like I said, you can stay.”
You try to remain unperturbed. Is this special treatment? No, you're overthinking it. Maybe? No, no, seriously you are. He acts this way to others too, especially his best friend, Geto, for example. They're close and you two aren't. The distinction between how he treats you and him though is that he's loud and obnoxious with the man, while with you…he's quiet and somewhat reserved. You're torn whether or not a proper relationship you have with him is existent outside the whole tutor sessions you have going on.
You want to understand him more. What goes into his mind and what makes him tick. Anything for him to look more human in your eyes instead of an exceptional superhuman who could kill you with one single touch. A death like that would be pathetic, but predictable.
You let out a puff of air, watching the crescent moon in the sky glow its nightly rays. A question pops up in your head, a very peculiar one at that, you almost considered to not utter it at all.
“Do you have any opinions about me?”
That caught the bespectacled man off guard. Making him turn his head back at you in a haste. “Should I?” He wonders if that should even matter. People can live and avoid having specific outlookings on others since it isn't relevant to their everyday activities. That's what you assume from him, at least.
You click your tongue, biting the urge to punch yourself for such a stupid question. “You don't have to answer that—”
“I think you're nice.”
This time, you're the one who's caught off guard. Took you at least five seconds to comprehend what he said before you covered your cheeks. “R-really now?” You curse internally, the stuttering finally makes its way to your throat. The possibility of it being a dead giveaway to your flustered state is high.
Who knew a simple compliment can cause a surge of emotions. You're absolutely smitten for a man who you only ever talk to for school work and whatnot. It's strange, no? Any normal person would be enamoured with their love if they've known each other on a deeper level. That's what you lack, the inner knowledge of each other's whole self.
Which is why your feelings don't have any proper explanation for how it suddenly blossomed in your life.
“Thank you.” Your voice involuntarily cracks, causing you to bite your tongue. Hard enough to feel the soft pain as punishment for such a minor mistake.
“What about you?”
“Hm?”
He straightens his back, blue eyes boring at you, peeking out of the sunglasses he wears, “What's your opinion about me?” He looks so calm and endearing. If you could, a pinch of his cheeks would satisfy your greed.
The first thing that pops up in your mind is this; should you confess?, would this be a good time to? A simple ‘I like you’ should be enough.
Easier said than done.
You open your mouth and it stays agape, nothing coming out from it. You look like an idiot who's trying to articulate their words to the best of their abilities. Numerous phrases and sentences jumble within your mind, knowing that all of it is true and reveals a part of yourself. But only one can taste the victory of escaping your tongue.
A debate is being conducted inside of your mind, all happening within just a few seconds. The tiny yous in your head arguing over whether you should beat around the bush or outright display the undeniable affection you carry.
Then, a winner was decided.
“I like y…your company.”
Stupid, stupid, stupid! So close, yet so far from the goal at hand!
That receives a hum from the young man. Turning away from you now, attention directed to the field in front of him. “What else?”
“You only said one thing about me. Why should I say more?”
“Because there's a lot to say about the greatest and most handsome man on the planet.” He says, in the most matter-of-fact way ever.
You almost scoff at the statement. Instead, you shake your head, laughing at his arrogance. This is what you fell in love with? A man so confident in his abilities that he doubts that no one can compete with him. That is considered an unattractive trait, yet you're drawn to that. The silliness of it, carried with the way he presents himself makes it all the more charming in your perspective.
“I won't say anything unless you say something about me again.” You playfully said. Shoulders relaxed, breathing finally steady again.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Easy, you have a nice personality.”
“That's basically the same thing as earlier!”
“What? No it isn't.”
You can hardly contain it, the sound of laughter escapes you once again. You're awfully flighty tonight. The sound of it gave Gojo a slight fright. The man was confused with the sudden burst of elation. “What's so funny?”
“Nothing, it's just…” You stare at his eyes, the radiant ones you will always admire, “For someone so smart you act stupid sometimes.”
Gojo acts offended, a hand plastered on his chest the moment he heard ‘stupid’. “Excuse me? Fine!” He's warming up and it's conspicuous because his personality is mostly reserved when around you. It's completely welcomed, you get to see the side of him that's usually displayed around others. Now he acts comfortable enough to do it with you, when alone at least.
“Your face,” He points with his index finger, “It's a nice one.”
“Is “nice” all you can say?”
Defeated, he sighs, “Beautiful then.”
With cheekiness you replied with a simple gratitude. The shyness and timidity are all gone just for this.
Until you actually process what he said.
That heat rushes up and you cover your face in a hurry. This is getting repetitive. You're lucky it's dim, if not he could see the shift of hues on your skin.
Ouch, does it tug on your heart strings. Over some basic compliment he probably said to others before. You already hammered into your mind that finding someone pretty doesn't equal attraction. You think Shoko and Geto are attractive, but in no shape or form are they the victim of your unwanted affection.
“Great.” You stand up, wiping any excess dirt from your behind. “I'll be off then.”
“Where are you going—”
You start to make a run for it. Wacky and weird, but you need to get away from him or else you'll actually explode.
You can hear his yells from a distance, distraught in his tone for your sudden attempt at fleeing away, “It’s supposed to be your turn!”
“Tomorrow!”
“Jerk!”
—
Now you've done it.
Leaving like that is the most childish and crude thing you've ever done. What are you, 12?! You're beating yourself over what happened last night, he called you a jerk. Oh, to the beings above, may someone tell you that he didn't mean it like that. You're endlessly overthinking about how disrespectful and pointless the whole night was with the lack of reasonability there is to your escape.
What's the price to pay for doing all that you might ask? Avoidance! Mostly you, not him, he doesn't look like he cares at all, but you? Having to be in the same room as the man gets your limbs uncoordinated and crooked, as if you were some robot in disguise.
If there's one thing to describe you is that you're pathetic when the time comes. Here you are, begging Shoko to sit next to him instead of your normal sitting arrangement where he's located to your right.
Hands clasped together, knees buckled against each other instead of the typical kneeling on the ground to salvage what remains of your dignity. “Oh, please, please, please, just do me this one favor! I'll buy you cigarettes and not complain over the smell for a week!”
She gives you a jaded look, one hand on her hips while she looks down on you like she's someone above status.
“I would if you got on your knees.”
“I'm not doing that.”
“Deal’s off.”
In one swift motion you get on your knees as told, bowing down to her as you continuously beg over and over for something so insignificant. Tears almost shed from your eyes by how dedicated you are to this role of a good for nothing bum.
Shoko lets out a laugh of contentment. Offering a hand to lift you up to your feet. “That's enough! What a splendid performance.” She raises her palms together to clap, regarding you for the show of desperation.
From your agreement, you get to sit one seat away from the almighty Gojo Satoru. Though, even he isn't oblivious to your unmistakable attempt at dodging his presence. For now, he just listens to the teacher, making quick remarks here and there as any student would in the middle of a lesson.
You just have to do this for a few more days until you're ready.
—
You're so dead.
You think he's forgotten about the whole ditching thing four nights ago. Oh, no, no, no! He didn't! In fact, he has you cornered on a wall, not letting you escape his tall and lean structure with his hand right besides your face, not allowing any sort of escape at all.
What a life, you think. Getting pinned against the wall by the most annoyingly handsome man you've ever met was a dream written on your non-existent bucket list.
In your thoughts it would be a sensual scenario where he'd lean over and capture your lips with his thumb. Swiping left and right to feel the texture with his calloused pads. Admiring the color with his bright blue eyes before he leans in and partakes in his desires—
That's enough. You're getting a bit too ahead of yourself.
“We didn't finish that conversation we had.” He pouts, how cute. Like a puppy begging its owner for a treat. “You just left me hanging, how dare you?”
Why is he like this? Someone help you! Save you from this evil offender who continues to unknowingly attack you with his indisputable charm beams!
“I…don't know…what you're talking about.” Arms crossed and steady, you turn your head to the side. Acting defiant to his claims. In actuality, you can't give him a single look or else all hell will break loose on your face. “Why are you so hung up on it?”
“I find it distasteful when something is left unfinished.” He pulls away for a second, adjusting his glasses, before going back to you. Closer than before. His voice goes lower than what you expected. “And you're avoiding me. I don't like that.”
You're confused, finally giving him another piece of attention. “We barely talk as it is, why does it matter now?”
He lets out a groan, frustration seeping in. “You didn't ask for any help as usual. It's bugging me the heck out.”
You're speechless. Is that really his perspective? Who knew the big and almighty Gojo Satoru would ponder over you dodging his presence. A sensitive side to him, a reminder of his human qualities and proof he isn't some all-knowing super monster.
“I understood the lesson better than usual.”
“Are you sure? I saw you complaining about it to Shoko.”
“You were looking at me?”
“I always look at you—”
He clicks his tongue, retracting his full body from you. Face red, evident in his pale, poreless skin. With a grimace on his face he grumbles to himself. Saying something incoherent, but you can make out the words ‘dammit’ and ‘fuck me’ from his mouth. What an odd guy.
He then proceeds to put on a show of immaturity and childishness. To your surprise, he inches closer to the wall next to him, back facing towards you.
Then… he slams his head onto the concrete.
For about…one…two…three…five times? More than that.
“What are you doing?!” You walk up to him, hand on his shoulders to stop the man from any further damage. There's a dent from where he keeps butting at—you're more concerned to the wall itself than the bruise that's forming on top of his forehead. You might get in trouble for that even if you have no play in this. You're just a witness!
Is your life a comedy? If not then, who on earth is stupid enough to do this till they bleed?! You don't know RCT and have nothing on you to give basic medical care to the smartest, yet most stupid man besides you.
“What’s up with you?! Are you crazy?!” You take out a handkerchief from your pocket, stopping the minor bleeding that's seeping out of his head. There it is again, that unreadable expression.
“I hate you…”
You pause, stumped. “What?”
He pushes you away, hands going up to cover his face. He lets out a loud groan as if he was exasperated.
“You…you witch.”
“W-what?” Your voice shakes. Nervous by his demeaning tone. It's the first you've heard of it from him. One that's directed at you too. You wanted to hear him out first, reasoning behind the sudden name and attitude that you're getting yourself into.
Until…
“I hate you so fucking much.”
Your heart drops. All colors in your face slips out. In just milliseconds you become a lifeless ghost. In no way in this goddamn world did you think he’d just blurt it out so casually. The underlying hatred he has for you, true feelings shown in just six little words that have so much impact.
All those times he shared food with you really was just forced obligation. The appropriate kindness you ought to show to your classmate was really all he was doing.
You clutch up your chest, biting the insides of your mouth. Hoping to let out a response that doesn't result in lashing someone out.
“Okay…” Is all you can muster up. Weak and simple.
Just when you were about to make your leave, he finally speaks. A whine coming out from his lips, the most pitiful one ever.
“You make me insane…” Voice hoarse as he turns around, sliding onto the floor. Resting on his behind while he slouches on the ground. Hands on top of his head, sheltering himself from the unknown. He doesn't look up, too shy and embarrassed to even do so.
“You make my heart beat so fast, it's driving me nuts. Just say you hate me and so I can get rid of these feelings.”
Then, a sigh, as if it takes every ounce of his strength to admit everything.
“Reject me, please.”
…
………
…………..????????????????????
“What?”
The third time you have said that. A rollercoaster of emotions surges through you. A mixture of delight and confusion plastered in your mind. At first he hates you and now he's declaring that he has feelings for you and now he wants a rejection?! That's your plan, not his! This is…utterly ridiculous! You're in disbelief of it all because this scene is…seriously, what even is this?
All this time you've been hiding your feelings, planning the time you get the courage to ask him out in hopes he declines your motives. The tables have turned, what a sweet moment!
“You're not joking?” You had to ask, you need multiple affirmations before you get to move on from this.
He sinks deeper into his arms, begrudgingly replying, “No. I'm not. Why would I lie about this?”
You shrug, “I don't know, you're Gojo Satoru.”
He lifts himself up, dusting away any dirt that catches his clothes. “The Gojo Satoru doesn't lie!”
The corners of your lips turn up right, a sound of bliss escapes you. A loud one at that. Hands on your stomach as you process every single thing that has happened within these few minutes together.
Old couples would laugh and comment about how this is the peak of youth. The essence of time and love with how idiotic teenagers can be when faced with the person they admire the most. The days where fumbling your words and tripping over them is a common route.
You hear a groan from the man, a frustrated one at that, “Stop laughing!”
How could you not? This situation is just hilarious, plus, you don't know how you should respond to his unforeseen confession. Now you know what it's like having to make a big decision in your life. Reject him and nothing comes out of it or…try it. See where this goes. It turns out to be mutual, after all.
“I…feel the same, y'know. I just didn't think you liked me too.” You lift your hand up to the back of your head. Scratching it due to your indecisiveness. “I never thought you out of all people would like me.”
“What's there not to like?” Gojo steps closer to you, swiping some dust from your hair. As if preserving an ancient artifact that's meant to show its beauty to the world. “You're everything.”
He lets out a deep breath, the tips of his fingers twitching. Controlling himself for what he was about to do. He looks rigid, complimented with a look of sincerity on his face.
“One last question. Are you accepting me or do you want to stay as friends?”
You can't help, but tease. The sudden confidence in you just by knowing the truth is egging you to do so, “We were friends?”
“Just answer the question.”
“I thought you wanted a rejection?”
He scoffs, not wanting to play this little game any longer, “Not anymore now that I know you feel the same.”
You give him a smile, ready to say with the most eagerness you ever had in your life. The words dancing around your tongue and playing who knows what before you finally give him a proper answer, “I accept.”
“Great.”
Your eyes widen from the sudden action. In a quick haste, he catches you by surprise. The soft feel of fresh sweet lips crashing against your own. You gasp in shock, fingers grasping his sleeves as he deepens the kiss. You let out a moan, breathless by how passionate he is to swoon you from your feet.
This was your fantasy, one of them at least. You had a lot, but actually experiencing it is like lighting up fireworks for the first time. The thrill and excitement to do something that lasts merely seconds in your life. But with this, you can relive it as many times as you want for free if you just ask.
Then something tries to protrude in your mouth, wet and a bit slimy. You pull away, panting. Hot breath coming out of you from how warm your upper body has turned.
“Don't…don't do that.” You smack his face, trying to cool down the blush on your cheeks with the attack. “Ask next time. Was that your tongue?”
He nods, unashamed, “I thought it'd be more romantic.”
You shake your head, rolling your eyes because of such a daring approach. “I'm so not ready for that…”
Still, his display of affection gives you a smile on your face and a fluttering stomach. What a sweet gesture in order for you to not have any doubts in what he wants the most from you. You have a feeling this will happen often with him.
“Are we official now?” He bites his lips, anticipating your approval.
“Sure.” You giggled, “Whatever you want.”
—
Treating his small injury by Shoko was supposed to be a quick one…but this bastard can't shut his trap for one second with how giddy he is.
“One more thing about true love and I'm not giving you any ounce of healing.” Shoko says, irked out of her mind.
“You don't understand! I'm ecstatic!” He chases her around the classroom, trying to convince her to heal him.
Watching as the scene plays out, you stay in a corner with Geto. With him revealing all the little secrets Gojo had kept from you in these months of being classmates.
“Y'know, he had a hard time making the first move.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah, I had to push him through it all or else that coward would never say anything.”
“I see.” You nod at the revelation, pleased to know you aren't the only one who's the scaredy cat here. “Were you the one who told him to get rejected by me?”
Damn sure I’ll never let you know where you stand.
Frat AU Hockey!Gojo who is the captain of the hockey team—and insufferably handsome—is wrapped around the campus shy girl’s finger, unintentionally so, he was intending on having her clinging onto him. But oh how the tables have turned when she's the one playing with him.
Inspired by Sabrina Carpenter's: Don't worry, I'll make you worry.
Tags: [MDNI] porn with plot, hate sex, missionary, fucking against a locker, exhibionism (?), breeding, p in v raw, praise kink if you look hard enough for it, oral (f receiving).
You do and will do just about anything BUT put up with the hockey captain’s bullshit.
Six months ago you became the victim of your college’s biggest star, Gojo Satoru.
You don’t really know why or how it even started. Just that one day, you entered your typical high-school playboy’s radar who hasn’t grown out of being immature and insufferable
He’s a Tokyo prodigy, grew up rich like they all apparently do and unfortunately for you, with enough looks to put up with his cocky attitude.
And somehow that’s the worst part. The idiot can flaunt left and right his greatness because the world just works in his favor. Despite his riches too, he’s on a full ride at JJKU for hockey just to rub salt into the wound even deeper.
So when he approached you half a year ago on a random day in October back in the library, catching you in an all nighter, knee deep in some math homework, you smelled lt the fishiness from miles away.
What was he doing talking to you?
You, who does not study anything that has to do with sports or his world or who doesn’t even want to do anything with his side of paradise.
You, who has never had a boyfriend and never peaked in high-school, who surely isn’t interested right now in getting to know anyone that isn’t the response to your math sheet exercises.
And you who most definitely was not about to get played by the school’s pretty boy.
Gojo was clad in a dark blue sweatshirt with the school’s logo slapped on the front, messy white hair under the pulled up hood, glasses sliding off his nose bridge despite it being three in the morning and matching sweatpants.
Looking entirely too good—objectively so—when you know he doesn’t even have to try to look that way.
You had moved onto a rathole for a research essay, something professor Gakuganji swore he could not leave class before assigning when Gojo finally stopped beating around the bush.
He strolled over, smacking his chewing gum against his molars over and over again—way too loudly for someone in a library—and rooted himself by your messy desk where papers were scattered all over and your face was illuminated by the artificial light of your laptop.
With your earbuds plugged in, of course you didn’t take notice of the towering 6 foot 3 menace looming over you from behind.
But one poke on your shoulder and your soul almost left your body. Instantly your face reddened, a fresh tomato shade spreading across your cheeks, ears and neck.
And Satoru, laughed. Like he wasn’t in your personal space—a stranger’s personal space.
You remember how your first encounter went with him.
Plucking out one of your earbuds just in time to hear him say:
“What’cha doin?”
Just what was he doing?
You hesitated before replying. “Um, studying?”
His eyes rolled back over his glasses. “Duh, what else do you do at a library?” Not liking his response, or whatever this conversation was, you slightly nodded at the time and began to turn back around.
“Hey! Don’t turn around! We haven’t finished, tell me your name.”
Embarrassment, pure and unfiltered embarrassment ran down your spine at the loudness of his voice.
Squirming in your seat from the looks he’s attracted, you whisper back. “Why should I tell you my name?”
His lip caught in between his teeth as he pondered a reason, a second later a smile came on his face.
“Because I want us to get to know eachother-”
You cut him off. “Can you quiet down-”
“Gojo. Gojo Satoru.” He finished for you, wide smile plastered on his face. All pearly whites showing.
You sighed, realizing he wouldn’t let you go so easily. “Nice to meet you Gojo, I’m L/N Y/N.”
At the time, you assumed that if you gave him what he wanted now, he would disappear with it and then you’d lay low enough for him to completely forget about you.
Oh how you were wrong.
Monday morning, October 27th, not even a week after the encounter you see a tall figure that has never been inside of your statistics class walk in.
Oh no.
Said figure walked up right to where you were sitting, row seven at the far back to be invisible, and plopped down right next to you instead of the thirteen other chairs.
The backpack that was slung over his shoulder unceremoniously fell down on the chair, a plop noise reaching your ear before his lanky body turned to face you.
“Good morning, Y/N!”
That was when the rumours started.
Gojo Satoru knows the quiet girl at the back? Has our time finally come? What is going on?
You tried to physically disappear. He kept showing up.
Tuesday 28. Laptop open infront of you, essay halfway done, a freshly brewed warm cup of coffee by your notes, perfect cinnamon roll sitting by it.
It was the perfect evening. The perfect balance between studying and relaxing.
Then the door chime rung, a figure ducked under the door, and before you could even catch up to his face, you knew your evening was ruined.
He didn’t even try to act like he came for a drink, aiming for your table at the back immediately when he recognised you amidst the faces.
“Y/N! What a coincidence, saw you from outside and came to say hi.”
“Hi.” You quietly muttered back.
A frown came from him. “Have you forgotten my name already?” His lips turned downwards like you personally hurt him.
Taking a sip of your coffee, you licked your upper lip to get rid of the foam that clung onto them and slowly shook your head no.
“Good evening, Gojo.”
Satisfied, he smiled. Doing a quick once-over, he then began itching closer to you and angling himself to see what was on your computer.
“Still working on that essay?”
“Yeah.” You breathed out, feeling the ends of his pale hair brush against your shoulder from how hunched over he is.
Picking at your cinnamon roll with your fork caught his eye. And he ended up eating your cinnamon roll while pestering your occupied mind with topics that left you with no idea what he was talking about.
Wednesday. He coincidentally shops at the same grocery store you do. One peek at his shopping cart—candy, candy, donuts, condoms—and you know his excuse of “What a coincidence, you shop here too?” Is bullshit.
And your decision to not fall for his tricks tenfold.
A few awkward interactions from your sides here and there, you mainly brushed him off until Thursday.
Thursday morning you saw him in statistics again. Green hoodie swallowing his torso, loose fit jeans, same bag thrown over his shoulder—seemingly empty.
It was empty. He asked you for a pen and you gave him one. Where was the harm in lending a classmate a pen when in need?
Except, you lent a pen to Gojo.
It shouldn’t have surprised you when he showed up that same evening at 11 P.M. at your door when you were in your tiny pyjamas , lounging around—not thinking about anyone coming to bother you.
Wrong, one look through the peephole and your world came crashing down. You answered the door with a blanket covering your body.
“Gojo… What are you doing here at this hour..?” You asked, looked around the corridor to see if anyone else caught sight of him.
The campus pretty boy cannot be caught at the girls dorms especially not after 6 P.M. so you were mortified some para social fangirl would find him here and ruin your life.
He shrugged and pulled out a pencil from his back pocket. “I came to bring you your pen!” Exclaiming way too loudly for the time it was.
“And I have to ask you something.” Suddenly he turned serious.
After a second of chewing on your inner lip and pondering whether you should let him in, you do.
You kindly asked him “Do you want something to drink?”
“Anything is fine.” So you opted to make him some tea, figuring that whatever he was about to say would take some time.
He dramatically fell down on the couch, you sat on the other keeping your legs tucked under yourself.
You both sat in silence for a minute while he took a look around your apartment. Observing the fairy lights hung around the ceiling, the portraits you have of who he assumes is your family, the simple trinkets you have around the apartment.
Finally, the silence broke when he said “So, I wanted to invite you to my party Friday.” He simply said, as if you were someone who went to those functions.
So you ask him, “Do I look like someone who would go to parties? Much less your parties, Gojo?”
His face comically scrunched up, as if your words had winced him. Though you knew they didn’t when his facial muscles fell into a frown.
“Ouch. What’s wrong with my parties?”
You didn’t miss a beat. “They have a reputation.”
A grin jumped onto his face. “Of being the best, I’m aware.”
Eerily smiling, he took a sip of his chamomile tea and cringed, “Jesus, do you have sugar? This tastes like grass.” while you thought about your next words.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Seems like you had hit a nerve with that because his eyes jumped out of their sockets at that. “What the hell do you mean whatever helps me sleep at night? My parties are the best-”
“The answer is no, Gojo-”
Apparently he didn’t like the sound of his name spilling from your lips either. “Satoru.”
You grimaced, “I’ve known you for a week max.”
His head fell sideways, “So?”
Internally, you groaned. “So, I’m not going.”
“Oh come onnn, leave this place for a while will ya? My party is going to be-”
“Gojo—
“Satoru.” He corrects.
“—you don’t even know me-”
“I will! Come to my party.”
It’s late, almost midnight. You’re not dressed to host but there’s a 6 foot 3 playboy on your couch begging you to come to his party when the most he probably knows about you is your apartment complex and living room.
A heavy sigh presses past your lips. “Fine.”
Almost as if your words were the on button to disneyland, Satoru lights up. “You’ll come?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe is a maybe.”
Maybe turned out to be a yes.
“Girl, why are you even doing this?”
Mei mei is the most superficial, materialistic, bratty, unloyal—the list unfortunately could go on—friend you have. But she's actually the only social butterfly from your acquaintances that actually goes to parties.
So she's the only one you can go to. It's needless to say that you are dreading spending the night attached to her hip, which leads you to the same question she's actually asking you.
Why are you doing this?
You don't owe Gojo Satoru a single minute of your time. For fucks sake, you don't know the man. Parties aren't even your thing. So why are you dressed in Sally from Toy story's costume while Mei Mei readjusts her tiny—leaving little to the imagination—scandalously short euphoria-themed dress that has you swallowing bundles of nervousness at her possibly flashing someone with any minor movement.
Deciding that no matter how long you ponder the question, you won't find an answer and it's already too late to change your mind as you're in your costume—adding the finishing touches: freckles and curling the ends of your hair in a ponytail—you simply shrug Mei Mei off.
Half an hour later, Mei's boyfriend of the week—some guy from her economics class you swear has to just have popped into the school because you have never seen him—drops both of you in front of Satoru's mansion while he parks out back.
And fuck.c
He really does have the money and privilege to be so full of himself.
Tall structured while walls, french style architecture—balanced, symmetrical sides—a huge as wooden door pried open where bodies storm in and out of the building.
The party has been going on for around two hours when your feet drag themselves forward and past a multitude of buzzed, drunk and high people who sway left and right to the DJ's mix who you could see working from the second floor balcony once you reached the back yard.
It's electric, people are having fun. At least that's what it looks like.
There's fog around Gojo's unnecessary huge pool where the guests are around—and if this is some cliché movie, they'll all jump inside and skinny dip at some point when the alcohol has really got to them.
You didn't even realize Mei Mei has already ran off from your side when you stopped scanning the place.
Panic quickly starts to grow under your skin. This isn't your kind of space, and you surely didn't want to be here alone. Anxiety latches onto your breathing, making it go shallow—breaths too short, not bringing enough oxygen to your blood.
Your head starts to spin, the smell of marijuana and vodka starting to be the only thing invading your nostrils—and white musk? What?
A hand finds it's way around your waist and your heart aggressively slams itself against your chest from the scare.
Soon enough, Satoru's cheeky smile comes into view, and then his whole face once you crane your head upwards to meet his eyes.
Just a bit, you relax. Breathing evening out, heartbeat steadying from seeing a familiar face. You're not particularly happy to see him, but he is the one who called you here after all.
"Oh, the princess came?" He muses. "Welcome to my party."
Gojo is... dressed in a fucking woody costume.
Woody. From Toy Story. As in the Toy Story your own costume is from. What are the odds.
How is it that every person in this room is wearing a costume not even remotely close to Toy Story—which, last time you checked was the most overused idea hence why it was so easy to find at the Halloween store—but Gojo is coincidentally wearing the one character that yours is shipped with.
And god help you does he look good.
Too good.
His broad frame—jacked arms, bulky legs, veiny forearms revealed from his sleeves being pushed up, bundled around his elbows—pressing against the cotton yellow and red striped checkered shirt under his cow print vest. Matching your flare pants.
A cowgirl and a cowboy.
Great.
Just great.
His fan girls will have your head by tomorrow morning.
You roll your eyes at his cheesy welcome.
"Look at that, we're matching!" He brightens up once his eyes finish raking over your every curve, dip of skin under the clothes, costume.
You fight the urge to roll your eyes even further this time. Growing uncomfortable under his dangerous stare, his large hands on your waist keeping you grounded in a way they shouldn't and the people pushing around you.
He notices. "Hey? You okay?"
Recieving no reply from you and only a doe-eyed look that spoke without you needing to part your pretty lips (and that made his pants grow a bit too tight for his liking), his hands leave your waist and grab one of your wrists before pulling you away and off to somewhere else.
Climbing a hidden pair of polished marble stairs in the kitchen, you reached a room tucked away in the giant lively mansion.
It's a sanctuary so different from everything else. The room is cozy, galaxy projector in the corner painting the roof in stars and material dreams are made of. A blue bean bag in the corner, one red next to it.
A TV screen in the middle with a PS5 under it. A couch pressed against a wall where he leads you to. The heels of your cowboy boots dig into the rug underneath you silently.
He plops down first onto the brown leather, man spreading as he gets comfortable and while his hand still on your wrist brings you down to sit next to him.
You sit, half uncomfortable from the proximity, half relived you're away from the chaos.
Satoru wastes no time in shattering the short-lived silence you were in.
From behind the closed door, you can hear the faint sound of "The Color Violet" by Tory Lanez play, typical party song, over his smooth voice.
"So, why'd you end up coming?"
Your eyes narrow to him, back peeling off the couch to lean closer to him, a faint but purposeful frown wedged between your features. "Are you not happy to see me?"
His lower lip catches between his teeth as he bites is, tension building as you see his eyes locked on your lips and your mock pout.
"No, I am glad you came." He says.
You sink back onto the couch, shrugging. "You talked so much about this party and I got curious."
There's a smile on his face now, amused. "And?"
"Curiosity kills the cat."
He winces. "Ouch, seriously?"
"Yes." You deadpan.
Now it's his turn to pout, though he can't hold is as his entertained smile keeps breaking through. "Aw come on Y/N, It's not bad."
You sigh, crossing your arms over your chest and admitting. "It's not. Just not my kinda place."
"I can make it your place." He coyly says as an arm of his finds the headrest behind your head. Body turned sideways to you now.
Your head spins to him. "How?"
His eyes, hungry and with a dangerous glint behind them, trail up from your neck to your lips, to your eyes and you feel your pulse picking up.
"You look good in that costume, you know?" The tip of his tongue sticks out as it pokes his canine.
"That's not what I asked." You shoot back, feeling something weird pool in your stomach.
He continues nonetheless, "People might think we are dating."
The scoff you let you is accidental, but it lands. "As if I'd ever date you."
He laughs. Propping his head on his now bent arm that was draped behind your frame. "They all say that."
And the tension grows while you stay quiet. Eyes locked onto his. His heat reaching your skin without even touching you, his minty breath fanning your cheek as he looks down at you.
While there's fire, annoyance and defiance behind your irises. Lust, passion and amusement cloud his.
You smirk because his tricks may work on many girls but you have no intention of being his bitch.
A manicured hand of yours finds the center of his chest, right on the sternum as you push him back. The hand his head was on stretches out again as he's put into his original position.
The couch makes squeaky noises as his body sinks back on it. His legs open again, manspreading and pressing against your thigh. His pants cling to his thigh and make a sinful sight.
Not letting him react, you take the chance to throw your thigh over his before he's fully settled in. You straddle him as he grows red, face twisted into surprise.
The grin on your face softens around the corners as you peer down at him now. Feeling the hardness under his jeans grow and press at you. Satoru is shocked out of his words.
Arms open by his sides onto the couches top while your hands settle on his shoulders. You push the cowboy hat off of his head, leaving only yours on. His soft bundles of impossibly white hair stick up.
You brush them down with your fingernails at an excruciatingly slow pace. Making sure to shift the slightest bit, unnoticeable if someone were to see you both, but enough to make electricity shock Gojo's body over and over as his hard cock receives the stimulation.
His breath hitches, a pathetic little sound that snaps him out of it. Out of the haze you had momentarily caught him in. His hands fly to your waist, stilling you on his lap and locking you over his boner in place. Eyes darkening as you zero on the fact that you've lost the upper hand.
Satoru's voice rings close to your ear from how close your faces are. "Oh? What are you doing, angel?"
Swallowing the anxiety in your throat, you wet your lips and watch how his eyes flicker to them. You smile down at him, "Satoru, I'm not them."
You feel his chest vibrate when he chuckles. "Yeah?"
Your hands run over his collarbones, deliberately slow. Watching every fiber of his body betray him as his muscles tense under your touch.
"Yeah."
Sky blue eyes looking up at you, trying to find what you're intending to do.
You kiss his cheek.
And slide off.
Fix your hat on your head.
Don't look back.
And leave.
"See you."
Satoru knows you’ll crack sooner or later.
He’ll be buried to the hilt inside your pussy and leave you dry the next day.
He just needs to test a friend’s theory.
That’s all.
Monday mercilessly came once more.
Satoru had practice like always. From the start of the week till Friday they train, train and train. Off-ice conditioning and on-ice mechanics. Brutal drills.
Loads and loads of cardio resulting in him and Suguru leaving the rink with a parched throat, adrenaline pumping high and their clothes sticking underneath to their skin.
Not to mention the explosive, hard workouts their coach has them do for lower-body strengths. Most hockey players don't dare to sign up for the gym because of them.
Yaga keeps them fit. Diets, core power workout, high-intensity stuff that would have a normal college student fainting on round one.
Suguru is boasting about his new stick, 345 grams. The lightest one he's found by now. Probably going to allow him to be faster and more efficient on the ice—and last less.
Well, it would be breaking on the first match with Satoru. He's not really known for being calm when he gets played.
But as his best friend rambles to Choso, and apparently him, Suguru notices Satoru is uncharacteristically silent. Mind somewhere else. Eyes glued to the ceiling.
He hisses at him. "Yo, idiot. What are you looking at?"
Satoru's head snaps back into place, head spinning from the sudden movement.
"What?" He asks at the two men looking at him like he has a third head.
"What's up with you?" Suguru questions, eyebrow lifted.
Choso nods, his helmet bouncing against his leg. "Where were you Friday?" He asks out of the blue.
Gojo shrugs like it's obvious. "At my party, duh?" Uncertain of what they're trying to paint here.
The other long haired, pierced raven haired man groans. Choso continues. "No shit, bro."
Suguru sweeps in. "You disappeared for a while. Couldn't find you anywhere."
His throat goes dry. This has never happened before.
Come on, Satoru. Shrug it off. Smirk and say you snuck off with some girl.
While he struggles to find an answer, making him look suspicious in front of his friends, an insufferable green haired man skates over to crash their conversation.
"Gojo."
He snaps out of his thoughts to be met with the unpleasant face of Naoya Zenin. "What do you want, Zenin?"
The three men stare at the newcomer with serious expressions, clearly unamused by his arrival.
"When did you start inviting losers to your parties?"
"I don't know, when did you start coming?"
Naoya shrugged it off. Grew the shit-eating grin on his face and continued "Care to explain what Y/N L/N was doing at your party Friday?"
Satoru tensed under the layers of clothes he was wearing.
But he deflected quick. "Fuck am I supposed to know? Mei Mei came with her."
The Zenin hummed, shooting him a strange look before leaving unconvinced.
Suguru and Choso were turned to Satoru by the time Naoya's figure disappeared.
"Y/N? The Sally girl?" Tries Choso.
"Apparently." Replies the white haired center.
The week flies by abnormally quick with Satoru catching no sight of you. Not even in stats.
Till Saturday.
November caught up to you after the cursed Halloween party. A cold knocking on your door on the first and leaving you bedridden to miss your classes.
Saturday you felt well enough and to celebrate studying so much while sick, trying your best to keep up with your classes—and totally not doing to keep your mind off sitting on Satoru's lap—you went out for coffee.
The off-campus coffee shop is the best local one. Tucked away at a five minute walk from your walk, Mimi's cafe always greets you with the same atmosphere.
The sound of coffee grinding in the background, slow jazz spilling from the vintage record player in the corner, perfectly chosen wooden tables with mug stains that make it all the more cozier.
It's heaven on earth.
But you get your cappuccino to go today, needing to stop by the post office and pick up an order in a few minutes.
"Hey, chlo. One cappuccino please—" You start, smiling up at Chloe, a barista you'd become a regular to.
"I know, Y/N." She smiles, typing down the order.
"—And one hot chocolate with extra whip cream and chocolate flakes on top for me please. By card."
Satoru's smooth voice sends a chill down your spine as his chest presses against your frozen figure and taps his card while Chloe silently complies.
You look at him from your peripheral vision. Catching the cream wool scarf around his neck, his heavy dark blue coat and the pink tip of his nose.
"What are you doing here?" You whisper as you move to the waiting zone, him following with his hands shoved in his pockets by your side.
"Buying you a drink, pretty."
"You didn't have to do that."
"I know." He grins.
You suspiciously eye him. "What do you want?"
"Where have you been all week? Haven't seen you since.." Satoru trails off.
You internally wince. "Way to dodge my question."
A deep sigh leaves his chest. "Fine you caught me."
"Spill." You urge.
"Come to my game tomorrow."
Uh.
What is it with this dude inviting you everywhere?
He continues, a colly smirk on his handsome face you wish you could slap. "Cheer for me."
Ding!
An idea comes into mind. You pretend to ponder for a second.
Then you hum. "Sure."
He brights up.
He has no idea.
No idea that the very next day, Sunday, you will in fact attend his game.
However, not in blue.
Not in dark blue and white stripes with JJKU's logo printed in the middle.
But in red.
Red and white stripes.
With the number 19 on the back.
Sukuna Ryomen.
Rival team's center.
Sukuna motherfucking Ryomen.
Also nationally known as Satoru, star of JJKU'S hockey team's enemy.
They're the kind of rivals that drive each other up the wall. Bodies slamming against the boards. Sticks constantly clashing in fight for the puck.
Yelled insults, shoved bodies, bleeding lips and bruised skin in result.
They have history and tension.
You're there to play Satoru.
He said to come.
You did.
But you're not obedient enough to cheer him on.
Yorozu eyes you from her seat on the bleachers next to you, arms wrapped around herself and trying to heat her cold arms up under her cardigan by rubbing her hands over them.
You're not cold as you swim under Sukuna's jersey. 19 stitched onto your back, Ryomen in big white letters as his school's emblem sits on your chest.
"Last time I checked you study at JJKU and they wear blue." She points out, trying to riddle whatever you were doing.
"Correct!" You applaud. The red flag in your hand shaking as you do so.
She doesn't try to question you again.
Only glues her eyes to the rink once the speakers boom and the players spill onto the ice.
Satoru comes out last.
Hands in the air, stick shaking as he waves it to the many figures on the bleachers, secretly searching for a certain someone.
And then his eyes find you under his helmet.
And he stops moving.
His figure stills.
Halfway to the center.
He's shooting daggers at you.
You're smiling sweetly like you're buzzing with excitement for the game to start.
Sukuna shouts something that makes him lock into place.
Jaw tight under the protection, mouth protection in place as his teeth dig holes into it, hands tightly grasping his stick. Back hunched, blood boiling.
You cheer for the reds.
Jump with Yorozu when they score.
Groan when Toji misses a goal like it pains you and like you actually care about sports.
Satoru's eyes fly to you when he scores to find you blankly looking back at him. Unimpressed face in place.
He slams bodies onto the the boards, he yells. Throws the puck, his stick, glares at you with something you can't understand behind his eyes while he drinks water on the halftime.
He breaks a new record. 12 goals in a game at 21 fueled by pure rage.
By you.
The game ends.
Yorozu runs off when she sees Uraume at the rink's entry ready to pick her up.
You sit on the bleachers a little longer, watching Satoru's frustrated figure retreat. Throw his helmet on the padded floor behind the gate to the ice.
Then you get up.
Start to move out of your row, heading for the door when a loud banging sound startles you.
From behind your back, you hear Satoru's voice booming through the empty arena.
"Y/N! GET DOWN HERE!"
His fist harshly colliding with the plastic board he smashes rivals against.
Your heart frantically jumpstarts into irregular beats.
Your knees go weak.
But you slowly step down the bleachers, circle the rink and find him coming to you—meeting you halfway.
He's still in his skates.
Well over his normal height now, towering over you so much your neck hurts when you crane your head to look up at him.
The rink is to your right, the sturdy wall of plastic that separates the public from the chaos in the games being the only thing between you and the actual ice.
Satoru's looming figure is tense.
He's still in his uniform.
Blue and white suiting him criminally well while your red contrasts. It clashes.
Helmet gone, you see his half-lidded azure eyes piercing into yours. Gaze heavy. Tension about to snap at any second.
You can't breathe with how thick it is.
You blink one and you're pressed up against the board, his hands pressed against the plastic and you trapped under him.
"What are you doing Y/N?" He asks, voice hoarse.
Throat painfully dry. You swallow.
His body presses against yours, heat transferring like glue onto you. Hard muscles of his chest carving themselves against your chest.
Face close.
Too close.
Mere inches between the two of you.
Mint fills your mostrils again.
The familiar scent of him making your head go haywire.
Sweat, musk, something clean.
Something so him.
Your thoughts shatter at his voice reaching your ears again. "Cat got your tongue?"
Yes.
You hadn't through your plan this through.
What now?
"I told you to cheer for me, baby."
Butterflies explode in your stomach.
His face drops even more, lips ghosting up the side of your neck.
And when he reaches your temple.
He whispers lowly. "I'll show you what happens when you're screaming another man's name."
"Oh!—Satoru!"
How did you end up like this?
With your back against the cold metals of the school's hockey team changing room. Sukuna's shirt thrown on the floor, your hair messy and drool spilling from the corners of your mouth—and Satoru's cock stretching you out like he wants his shape to be the only one your needy pussy remembers.
You're liquid in his hands as he bounces you on his cock against the wall. Raw. The sound of skin meeting skin and your mixed mewls and whimpers the only thing echoing through the empty zone.
Satoru's eyes are shining, blue orbs full of lust and hearts as he watches himself disappear in your wetness. A filthy pace ruining you in his arms.
There's a frothy white ring at the base of his cock where your juices mix while he rams and rams onto you. His mouth explores the exposed surface on your neck.
Marking with bites and hickeys you won't be able to cover. On your collarbone, neck, nipples, waist. He has a strong grip that's surely going to bruise on your hip as he dives in relentlessly.
Your brain is all mush so all you can say is his name.
"Satoru—'
He's feral. "Yeah, keep moaning my name like that. Told you what would happen."
"—It's-too much!" There are tears running down your eyes from the overstimulation, you've lost track of how many times you've cummed.
"You can take it."
And you really can't because Satoru is huge. He's bruising your cervix as he hits it with every plunge in your pussy but you love it.
In one sharp movement you're back on the bench, back pressed against old wood. Satoru inside of you—pushing your legs up and changing the position before delivering that first toe-curling thrust.
A choked sound escapes your throat as he hits your g-spot. Spots of white clouding your vision.
Your nails finding his shoulders, scratching sensitive skin. Flushed cheeks and hot bodies meshing he unravels you in the locker room with the risk of being caught.
Which makes it all the more thrilling.
His large hand leaves your hip and trails up your side till it lands on your face. Delicately catching a stray tear from falling.
"Aw, look at you, babe." He muses.
You clench around him, pulling him back in stronger.
He continues. "You were right when you said you weren't like the others."
Another involuntary cry rips free from your chest.
"You like that?"
He sees the fucked out face you're wearing. Your eyes rhythmically rolling back to your skull when he finds that hidden point. Your back arching when he blows past your cervix.
Placing slow, open mouthed kisses that are way too gentle with how his thick cock is tearing you apart, he hums against your warm skin.
"Answer me, honey."
You snap. "Mhm! Mh—It's so good, 'toru."
His dick twitches inside of you at the nickname. "Yeah? I can feel you're close."
A high pitched whimper escapes you when his thumb presses your clit. Drawing slow and increasingly fast circles that melt your whole existence as the coil in your stomach thins out.
"I'm so close, imsoclose, Satoru. Please—"
You're not even sure what you're begging for, but you want him to continue.
Satoru groans and whispers a trail of curses you can't understand before he shoves his tongue down your throat and starts absorbing your moans.
He picks up the pace one more time, balls meeting the soft globes of your ass hardly until you break and come undone on him.
Burying himself to the hilt and losing to your warmth, Satoru spills his cum deep inside of you as you shake under him.
Now slowly kissing each other to bring you down from the high, Satoru gently pulls out and parts from your lips.
Your breathing is heavy as you look up at him in between your legs.
You feel him spilling out of you.
Before his cum can leave any more of you, his finger picks it up and shoves it back inside. You hiss at the sting.
He chuckles deeply, finger still inside of you.
"You're criminal, Y/N."
You drive him insane with that sweet and shy girl facade to everyone.
And act like a honey covered devil with him.
But he’s crazy for it.
He’s barely known you for two weeks but you’re so magnetic he physically can’t forget you.
A beat passes.
"Round two in my car?"
So he carries your trembling figure on his back with his gear in his other hand to his car while you wear his jersey and Sukuna's shirt stays wet on the floor.
Brings you over his lap on the driver's seat, has you straddling his thick thighs. Bunches his your shirt over your tits.
Bounces you on his cock
You ride him.
Sweat glazing his body, a hard-on that won't go down no matter how much you ride him with your weak legs and his palms helping you bounce.
White locks cling to his forehead, brushing over those drowsy, lust clouded cerulean eyes of his.
Satoru's mind starts to crash as you mewl and grind on him. The sound of your slick sticking to his lap as your ass meets his balls over and over sending his consciousness out the window.
Wet plop, plop, plop is all that resonates through the car.
His head is tipped back, jaw slack, mouth open as you kiss down his throat. Nails scratching his shoulders. He'll probably feel the sting of the sensitive skin tomorrow underneath his uniform.
It will all be worth it though.
A low rumble climbs out of his chest as you lean back away from his chest and continue lifting and dropping your hips hard on him.
Satoru is groaning with no control.
"Oh god—Y/N-"
The cocky, hot hockey captain moaning under you, cute.
Your irregular breathing mixed with salty tears rings in his ear. The cars foggy windows do little to hide your figure over his, and somehow the risk of being caught drives him even more insane.
The familiar knot in your stomach churns. Looking down you're met with how your greedy pussy swallows Satoru's 8 inches with ease now that his own previous release and your juices serve as a lubricant and since your walls know his shape.
Quicky sensing you grow tighter around his length, Satoru's hands wrap around your waist—pulling you flush against him and tucking your head in his neck as he starts thrusting up.
You shatter, moaning loudly in his shoulder. He delivers the last few home runs and covers your insides in white again. New and old release mixing inside of you.
And you don't ever dare to wear red again.
Or you do..
Either way, Satoru doesn't expect you to shrug him off Monday.
With his hickeys peeking out from underneath your shirt.
You may have gotten your back blown out by the school's hockey center.
But he isn't anywhere close to getting you wrapped around his finger.
Which is why Suguru and Choso watch with their jaws dropped as their friend trails behind you like a desperate virgin in attempt to get you to tag along with their celebration dinner.
Because Gojo won twice that day.
Now he can't get enough.
What’s he going to do now so you end up dating him?
He tries to get you to attend something he throws or he’s involved in again—Tuesday he innocently appears in front of your apartment with a cup of coffee in hand and the words “My sister is getting married this week and I need a date.”
He doesn’t have a sister.
“Gojo, you have no sister.”
And that stops him dead in his tracks.
“I meant my aunt.”
You grabbed the drink from his hand, surprisingly the same order you’d gotten the last time he popped up behind you at a coffee shop.
Smiled sweetly at him.
Thanked him, and said: “I’m a busy woman, Satoru. Maybe some other time.”
Did he need to know you had no other plans but to read and eat banana bread on your weekends? Absolutely not.
That was your personal you time.
But when Wednesday rolled around and you got your grade back for your last math exam—a depressing 31/100 that could have you ending up retaking first year statistics, you turned to straight A math student Satoru.
Having nowhere to go and desperately needing help if you didn’t want to fail the subject, he was unfortunately the only one around you with grades that were too good for how little he studied.
You remember the chill going down your spine at the thought of trading your cozy Saturday for a tutoring session with…him.
When you shyly asked him for help though, he lit up like a Christmas tree on December 25th. All big smiles and frantic nods with questions about when? Why? What should he bring?
“Um, yourself? I have my material at home, Satoru.”
He happily agreed with no complaints.
So here you are now.
Cross-legged on the floor.
Three huge math textbooks he brought when you’d told him there was no need but he insisted that this was the guide to math 101.
Whom the numbers inside meshed into Chinese at some point for you.
And made a headache slowly start to brew instead of understanding whatever he was explaining.
“Are you listening?”
That snaps you out of your head. Guilty, you slowly look back up at his face, gaze abandoning the rubber residue on the paper you’d been drilling holes into with your eyes and finding a playful pout on his face.
“Sorry, I can’t focus.” You confess, fingers picking at the ends of your skirt.
You’re not even sure why you wore a skirt.
But you refuse to admit it was for him even for a fleeting second.
He softly smiles.
“I can help you with that.”
Curiosity crawls under your skin.
You peek up at him. “You can?”
He grins.
Seriously, how do you get in these situations?
Satoru had hooked an arm behind your back, another under your legs and in one swift motion lifted both you and him off the floor then plopped you on your bed.
Pushed you back gently till your head met your pillow. Crawled over you painfully slow. Traced the bare skin of your right thigh till it met the beginning of your skirt.
Watched your face till you shyly nodded.
Allowed his hands to go further up and meet the thin lace of your panties which made his boner harden more.
Press a thumb to your clit, sending a jolt of electricity up your spine. Shocking every nerve in your system into consciousness.
And dipped his head in between your legs where he is now.
One big hand pressing against your twitching hips as his tongue relentlessly moves in unclear directions—from side to side, up and down.
Flattening it, drinking every single drop of sweet nectar you offer him. Earning a low grumble from him whenever he feels you flutter and clench around nothing.
He inserts a finger and grows jealous of it disappearing when it should be him inside of you.
But he continues watching your chest raise and fall, your breathing hitch at his every moment. The leaking of his saliva mixed with your slick onto your white bedsheets.
“You’re doing so well for me, baby.”
You feel the tears start to sting your waterline as your orgasm approaches. Your view of the ceiling and Satoru’s pale hair between your legs growing blurry.
The outside start to fade and your body tingles when it crashes over you.
“Come on, pretty. Come on my tongue.”
And you do.
Satoru feels your essence spill onto his tongue and he wastes no time in enjoying it. Tongue nipping at your sensitive bud and making you jolt under every reverent lick.
You’re panting once he rises from beneath you.
Not thinking straight yet and on cloud 9 when he grabs your hips and turns you over. Now having you on top of his chest.
“Ride my face.”
You learn that Gojo Satoru is an insatiable monster in bed that rewires your brain every time he gets in your pants.
Satoru finds out that the shy girl in his class has him wrapped around her pretty fingers after he gives her his all during sex and still can’t get her to even so much as look at him after the night bleeds into morning.
But he finds out that he’s more than willing to be your little toy until you’re ready to let him stay in the morning.
And make love to you instead.
He just has to wait some time till you warm up to him.
Maybe an eternity.
He thanks Choso for telling him that the shyest ones are the freakiest.
You may not even consider him a friend now.
But Gojo knows he’s going to be the one waiting at the end of the altar in a few years.
You just wait.
Woah what in the freak. Thank you to my useless ridiculous ex for teaching me hockey shit. Like and subscribe!
Summary: Gojo Satoru is the most arrogant, big-headed person you know. He also happens to be your biggest fattest crush ever. You can't handle it anymore and because of that…you plan to confess in pursuit of a rejection. All in order to motivate you to get rid of these pesky feelings you harbor for the man.
wc: 5.9k
Tags: friends to lovers, mutual pining, idiots in love, shy!gojo, love confession, fluff, tooth-rotting fluff, pre hidden inventory arc, highschool gojo, gojo is bad at feelings
a/n: hello! first fanfic ever posted. I really tried to make this as light-hearted as I possibly can! enjoy! feel free to leave a comment if you like ^^ also! shoko is written to be the closest to reader, hence the first name usage ^^
read on ao3!
Gojo Satoru is the most annoying, arrogant, big headed man you've ever met. One interaction with him could potentially make you lose brain cells with the way he presents himself to others. No regards to seniors at all, acting like he's the greatest of all time. Which is true, you hate to admit.
He also happens to be your biggest fattest crush ever.
You didn't understand it at first. You think it might be because of the fact he helps you study, or maybe it's the way he shares his food with you when he would normally gobble everything up in one go if he could.
You probably think you're special because of that, huh? You almost came to that conclusion. Until you saw him help his best friend with his own studies too. The food he'd give you? It's only because Geto told him to give it. Though, for some odd reason you ended up with a crush! A big crush that doesn't have any proper explanation whatsoever! It's stupid and you know it!
He's so out of your league and you doubt he even looks at you that way. He displays a tinge of indifference towards you whenever you're around him while the others are present. He goes quiet when it's just the two of you too, as if he's bored when a moment forces you both to be in a spot together. Yet, here you are having overwhelming feelings for him that keeps you awake at night.
Your heart is aching right now. You'd assume the answer is heart failure if the real reason for it wasn't located at a distance from where you sit on the field. Drinking a juice box with the second best flavor (in your opinion) from the vending machine. Your elbows stay propped up on your lap, supporting your head while your gaze lingers to the white haired man who happens to be training with his best buddy. You can see them arguing from a distance, although you can barely make out what they're saying.
He's sweating. His hair sticking to his forehead, the sunlight reflecting on his cheeks. Normally no one would notice from where you sit. But you're weirdly fixated on his features to the point you almost notice every detail of him.
That's creepy.
Then again, who wouldn't be fixated? His features are godsend. Unique eyes that replicate the sky, dashing white hair that rivals the snow, and on top of all that a handsome face. You doubt anyone can compete with him in terms of looks. If he wasn't a sorcerer, he should try modeling. He'd make it big.
His looks aren't the reason you fell though, that's what makes it frustrating. There's something about him, you just can't pinpoint what. Yes, he's good looking, but you're not that shallow to the point where you'd have a deep crush over someone's appearance.
You sigh, pushing the thoughts away. Standing up from your spot, legs feeling a bit heavy now that weight is present. Your juice is empty again, you need another one.
You made your way to the vending machine, footsteps echoing on the concrete floor. You prepare your coins in your hand while the other stays empty.
Just when you arrive at the rectangular metal box, your mind flashes images of him.
Get away, damn it!
You try to avert your attention, an attempt to stray away from any thoughts of him. Seriously, your heart can't stop beating from all these imaginary scenarios!
Like, how he'd hold your hand while you two go shopping together, even have a date at a cafe while you both are at it. Buying you your favorites on the menu no matter the price. He's probably the type to give gifts! Something he knows you'll definitely like.
Yeah, those thoughts are eating at you. Not because you dread them, but because you want that to happen. So bad, actually.
You hear the sound of footsteps approaching you, breaking you from your inner mind for a moment. You look up to see who the culprit is, and what a pleasant surprise it's Shoko. You consider her to be your closest in this batch, despite her not being the social or expressive type.
“You've been standing there for a while now.” Her hand points to your hand. The subject is unmoving, positioned to put coins in the slot, but it stays hanging between your fingers instead.
“Ah.” You let out. Finally pushing the coin inside the machine. Your digits pressing on the buttons for your ideal drink.
You let out a nervous laugh, trying to brush off your awkward stance. “Sorry, I was deep in thought.”
“Of what?” She tilts her head, arms crossing. For once in your time together she shows genuine curiosity for you.
You stay silent, contemplating whether to tell her or not. You move to the side, letting her take the next turn of getting a drink.
“Um…”
“Uh-huh?”
You think you should say it, you can trust her, after all. She won't snitch and plus, what's the worst thing she can do? Laugh at you? That's so immature!
“I was thinking about Gojo.” You blurt out in the midst of her entering her drink number. Her eyes widen just so slightly, though noticeable to your keen eyes. “In a ‘he did something wrong’ way, or a different way?”
“A crush way.”
“Ew,” her face contorts as she cringes, “Seriously?”
The sound of a metal can dropping announces itself, along with a look of disgust. She takes her drink from the machine, opening it as soon as she gets the fizzy substance. “I had my suspicions, but the confirmation of it makes me want to puke. Blegh.” Her eyes roll, not taking this seriously.
This reaction is worse than you thought. Now you feel ashamed for even having these feelings over a man like him.
“Sorry?” Your face scrunches, your brows furrowed. “I can't control what I feel?”
“You should learn how to. Starting from now. Get over him, there are better people out there.”
You scoff, but nevertheless she's right. There's a huge problem though; you can't do it.
Falling out of love is harder than falling in love. At first you thought it was a simple infatuation, but turns out to be bigger than that. Gojo hasn't done anything to make you feel outright hatred for him. No matter what you do it can't simply go away like wiping a smudged window in your bedroom. Having a damp cloth polish the transparent display can't be something comparable and easy as love.
“I've tried, but…” Your lips purse for a split second, as if that would help you explain. “...I don't know how to. It keeps coming back no matter what.”
Your revelation receives a puzzled look from the girl in front of you. You can tell that she finds it unbelievable, the concept of it being completely foreign to her.
“Okay?” She just stares at you, making you almost believe you said something ridiculous. Then she continues as if her words were the most obvious things ever. “Then just keep trying till it happens.”
You would let out a loud groan, but you aren't rude, “Have you ever had a crush before?”
“No.”
“Makes sense.”
You wonder if there were really higher beings who controlled your every move. If so, then you'd beg them to reset your entirety in order to not harbor anything for one of the strongest men alive. Erase the existence of it, so you can go on with your life without anything bothering you.
Those beings probably don't exist, but if they do then they just don't care and are simply using your misery as the source of their entertainment. Watching and laughing while you chug on the juice box you took out from the machine a while ago. Letting the flavor distract you even if it is momentarily.
Shoko takes a sip of her drink, the liquid staining her lips, prompting her to lick it up. An imaginary lightbulb suddenly comes up from her head, making her give you a not so reliable smirk.
“I have an idea. Why don't you confess and get rejected?”
You almost spit out what's in your mouth. “Are you crazy?!”
“What? I read that it works somewhere.” She shrugs at the thought, convincing herself that it's a good one.
This is the most humiliating idea you have ever heard. A bad one—no, nefarious even! Who on earth does that?! A crazy person, I tell you! No one in their right minds would confess just to get rejected, everyone does that to get accepted! At least, the expectation of it.
“I'm not doing it. If I were to, then consider me dead!” You stand firm with your declaration, the whole thing beyond what you consider reasonable.
Shoko raises a brow, finger tapping on the can she's holding. “Listen, think about it. If you get rejected then wouldn't that be a motivation for you to fall out of love? That should make your predicament easier.”
“I…” You're at a loss for words. That is reasonable. The idea is almost genius! Excellent even! Nevermind, your senses are coming back, realizing a drawback to this. “Wait, wouldn't it be awkward between us after that?”
“Only if you make it awkward.”
“Good point.”
—
Wow, you're really considering it now that it's night. Brainstorming ways to get the perfect moment between the two of you. A good weather and calming atmosphere would be nice, perhaps somewhere beneath the cherry blossoms? Something straight out of a cheesy highschool romcom would make it comical.
All this planning is keeping you awake. Your eyes won't stay shut and your body is strangely energetic. You don't recall having any naps in the afternoon nor drinking any caffeine.
You decided to go for a walk on campus. You stand up, finding your slippers under the bed. The night happens to be a freezing one, which made you decide to take a jacket out from your wardrobes. Picking the most comfortable one amongst the handful of options hanging.
It's a quiet night. The moon is full and bright with barely any clouds covering it. Radiating a serene ambience from the illumination. You continue your walk, the only sound available is the small shuffling from your feet.
You pause when you notice someone in the field. There's no mistake in knowing who it is, the bright white hair says it all. Despite the darkness he still has his round glasses on, you know it's for his technique, but you want to know what it's like being him with how he puts it on almost 24/7.
There it is again. Your heart is beating fast from just the scene of him under the moonlight. You touch your chest, taking deep breaths to calm you down. It's a slow process, still it's a working one.
Now that you think about it, a setting like this would be a perfect time to confess to someone. Especially since the moon is out and no one is awake to witness and tease you about it later.
Which is why you walk up to him at this very moment, with newly fledged confidence.
“Hey.” You greet, a bit too stiff to your liking. It's not often you two get alone time together, which is why it gets you clumsy. Almost slurring your words from just being near him. “Can’t sleep?”
“What does it look like?” Impolite as ever. He doesn't even look at you, eyes glued to the moon. You can't complain, it is beautiful.
You sit down next to him, keeping a safe distance so your mind doesn't go haywire on you. You're surprised you can even keep this up and not stutter at all.
“I was just asking, jeez.” You bite the inner corners of your mouth. The silence that comes after starts to become deafening with the way he doesn't answer. It's like you're not even there, just some dirt on the ground that lays around.
“Should I leave?” You ask, your voice higher than you wanted it to be. You're nervous, it really is apparent that he doesn't like you.
“You can stay.” He lowers his head, eyes flickering towards yours before looking away.
You're stunned. It's the first time he's ever said something like that. It doesn't help from the fact his voice was sultry, soothing, or whatever it is. It has an effect on you, for sure!
“O…okay then.”
Now the beating isn't stopping anytime soon. You're an idiot for subjecting yourself through this torture. You can't exactly leave, it wouldn't leave a good impression on you. You have an image to maintain as a kind and respectable classmate that anyone should admire and ought to be.
The quiet music of the night continues. You're just sitting there beside him, nothing on your mind. No words come out of you, it's almost like you forget how to speak. Small talk would be nice and appropriate. The silence was too much to bear.
“Are the glasses even necessary when it's dark or are your eyes that sensitive?”
“Doesn’t matter if it's dark or light. Someone like you couldn't even see with these glasses on if you were to wear it anyway.” His reply was quick, methodological with witty remarks. Waiting for you to take the first step in this conversation.
Your brows quirk up. His inability to not insult someone is an astounding one, you must say that. “How so?”
With one swift motion he takes his glasses off and hands it over to you. Hesitating, you take it from his hand, fingers brushing. Causing the tips to receive an electrical spark that was only exclusive to you from what you can see. You twitch, looking down at the sunglasses you're holding right now.
“Go on, wear it.”
You don't move, eyes just looking down at the shape of it. You're a bit shy to do so.
“Oh, come on.” He grabs it and does it himself. Slotting it on your face, the circular lenses taking over your view.
It's dark. In fact, you can't see at all. The whole sight of it is black and the only light you see wearing it is from your peripheral vision. Nothing, just nothing, but pure darkness. This really emphasizes the difference between the two of you, power and skills being miles apart. Something you find…extremely awesome.
“Woah…”
And with that, he takes the glasses off of you. His gaze averted from yours till he put it back on himself. It was easy to miss the slight color of his cheeks due to the dim light surrounding you both.
“See? Told ya.”
He lets out a yawn, stretching his long limbs. A blank unreadable expression comes back to his face once again. His usual demeanor makes its way to present itself, the one that gives the mix of indifference and disinterest.
You should leave. You really should, you have nothing to say and he isn't initiating anything. He doesn't bother to, actually. What's the point in letting you be seated next to him if he's just gonna stare at the sky and not utter a single syllable?
“Are you sure you don't want me to leave?”
“Like I said, you can stay.”
You try to remain unperturbed. Is this special treatment? No, you're overthinking it. Maybe? No, no, seriously you are. He acts this way to others too, especially his best friend, Geto, for example. They're close and you two aren't. The distinction between how he treats you and him though is that he's loud and obnoxious with the man, while with you…he's quiet and somewhat reserved. You're torn whether or not a proper relationship you have with him is existent outside the whole tutor sessions you have going on.
You want to understand him more. What goes into his mind and what makes him tick. Anything for him to look more human in your eyes instead of an exceptional superhuman who could kill you with one single touch. A death like that would be pathetic, but predictable.
You let out a puff of air, watching the crescent moon in the sky glow its nightly rays. A question pops up in your head, a very peculiar one at that, you almost considered to not utter it at all.
“Do you have any opinions about me?”
That caught the bespectacled man off guard. Making him turn his head back at you in a haste. “Should I?” He wonders if that should even matter. People can live and avoid having specific outlookings on others since it isn't relevant to their everyday activities. That's what you assume from him, at least.
You click your tongue, biting the urge to punch yourself for such a stupid question. “You don't have to answer that—”
“I think you're nice.”
This time, you're the one who's caught off guard. Took you at least five seconds to comprehend what he said before you covered your cheeks. “R-really now?” You curse internally, the stuttering finally makes its way to your throat. The possibility of it being a dead giveaway to your flustered state is high.
Who knew a simple compliment can cause a surge of emotions. You're absolutely smitten for a man who you only ever talk to for school work and whatnot. It's strange, no? Any normal person would be enamoured with their love if they've known each other on a deeper level. That's what you lack, the inner knowledge of each other's whole self.
Which is why your feelings don't have any proper explanation for how it suddenly blossomed in your life.
“Thank you.” Your voice involuntarily cracks, causing you to bite your tongue. Hard enough to feel the soft pain as punishment for such a minor mistake.
“What about you?”
“Hm?”
He straightens his back, blue eyes boring at you, peeking out of the sunglasses he wears, “What's your opinion about me?” He looks so calm and endearing. If you could, a pinch of his cheeks would satisfy your greed.
The first thing that pops up in your mind is this; should you confess?, would this be a good time to? A simple ‘I like you’ should be enough.
Easier said than done.
You open your mouth and it stays agape, nothing coming out from it. You look like an idiot who's trying to articulate their words to the best of their abilities. Numerous phrases and sentences jumble within your mind, knowing that all of it is true and reveals a part of yourself. But only one can taste the victory of escaping your tongue.
A debate is being conducted inside of your mind, all happening within just a few seconds. The tiny yous in your head arguing over whether you should beat around the bush or outright display the undeniable affection you carry.
Then, a winner was decided.
“I like y…your company.”
Stupid, stupid, stupid! So close, yet so far from the goal at hand!
That receives a hum from the young man. Turning away from you now, attention directed to the field in front of him. “What else?”
“You only said one thing about me. Why should I say more?”
“Because there's a lot to say about the greatest and most handsome man on the planet.” He says, in the most matter-of-fact way ever.
You almost scoff at the statement. Instead, you shake your head, laughing at his arrogance. This is what you fell in love with? A man so confident in his abilities that he doubts that no one can compete with him. That is considered an unattractive trait, yet you're drawn to that. The silliness of it, carried with the way he presents himself makes it all the more charming in your perspective.
“I won't say anything unless you say something about me again.” You playfully said. Shoulders relaxed, breathing finally steady again.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Easy, you have a nice personality.”
“That's basically the same thing as earlier!”
“What? No it isn't.”
You can hardly contain it, the sound of laughter escapes you once again. You're awfully flighty tonight. The sound of it gave Gojo a slight fright. The man was confused with the sudden burst of elation. “What's so funny?”
“Nothing, it's just…” You stare at his eyes, the radiant ones you will always admire, “For someone so smart you act stupid sometimes.”
Gojo acts offended, a hand plastered on his chest the moment he heard ‘stupid’. “Excuse me? Fine!” He's warming up and it's conspicuous because his personality is mostly reserved when around you. It's completely welcomed, you get to see the side of him that's usually displayed around others. Now he acts comfortable enough to do it with you, when alone at least.
“Your face,” He points with his index finger, “It's a nice one.”
“Is “nice” all you can say?”
Defeated, he sighs, “Beautiful then.”
With cheekiness you replied with a simple gratitude. The shyness and timidity are all gone just for this.
Until you actually process what he said.
That heat rushes up and you cover your face in a hurry. This is getting repetitive. You're lucky it's dim, if not he could see the shift of hues on your skin.
Ouch, does it tug on your heart strings. Over some basic compliment he probably said to others before. You already hammered into your mind that finding someone pretty doesn't equal attraction. You think Shoko and Geto are attractive, but in no shape or form are they the victim of your unwanted affection.
“Great.” You stand up, wiping any excess dirt from your behind. “I'll be off then.”
“Where are you going—”
You start to make a run for it. Wacky and weird, but you need to get away from him or else you'll actually explode.
You can hear his yells from a distance, distraught in his tone for your sudden attempt at fleeing away, “It’s supposed to be your turn!”
“Tomorrow!”
“Jerk!”
—
Now you've done it.
Leaving like that is the most childish and crude thing you've ever done. What are you, 12?! You're beating yourself over what happened last night, he called you a jerk. Oh, to the beings above, may someone tell you that he didn't mean it like that. You're endlessly overthinking about how disrespectful and pointless the whole night was with the lack of reasonability there is to your escape.
What's the price to pay for doing all that you might ask? Avoidance! Mostly you, not him, he doesn't look like he cares at all, but you? Having to be in the same room as the man gets your limbs uncoordinated and crooked, as if you were some robot in disguise.
If there's one thing to describe you is that you're pathetic when the time comes. Here you are, begging Shoko to sit next to him instead of your normal sitting arrangement where he's located to your right.
Hands clasped together, knees buckled against each other instead of the typical kneeling on the ground to salvage what remains of your dignity. “Oh, please, please, please, just do me this one favor! I'll buy you cigarettes and not complain over the smell for a week!”
She gives you a jaded look, one hand on her hips while she looks down on you like she's someone above status.
“I would if you got on your knees.”
“I'm not doing that.”
“Deal’s off.”
In one swift motion you get on your knees as told, bowing down to her as you continuously beg over and over for something so insignificant. Tears almost shed from your eyes by how dedicated you are to this role of a good for nothing bum.
Shoko lets out a laugh of contentment. Offering a hand to lift you up to your feet. “That's enough! What a splendid performance.” She raises her palms together to clap, regarding you for the show of desperation.
From your agreement, you get to sit one seat away from the almighty Gojo Satoru. Though, even he isn't oblivious to your unmistakable attempt at dodging his presence. For now, he just listens to the teacher, making quick remarks here and there as any student would in the middle of a lesson.
You just have to do this for a few more days until you're ready.
—
You're so dead.
You think he's forgotten about the whole ditching thing four nights ago. Oh, no, no, no! He didn't! In fact, he has you cornered on a wall, not letting you escape his tall and lean structure with his hand right besides your face, not allowing any sort of escape at all.
What a life, you think. Getting pinned against the wall by the most annoyingly handsome man you've ever met was a dream written on your non-existent bucket list.
In your thoughts it would be a sensual scenario where he'd lean over and capture your lips with his thumb. Swiping left and right to feel the texture with his calloused pads. Admiring the color with his bright blue eyes before he leans in and partakes in his desires—
That's enough. You're getting a bit too ahead of yourself.
“We didn't finish that conversation we had.” He pouts, how cute. Like a puppy begging its owner for a treat. “You just left me hanging, how dare you?”
Why is he like this? Someone help you! Save you from this evil offender who continues to unknowingly attack you with his indisputable charm beams!
“I…don't know…what you're talking about.” Arms crossed and steady, you turn your head to the side. Acting defiant to his claims. In actuality, you can't give him a single look or else all hell will break loose on your face. “Why are you so hung up on it?”
“I find it distasteful when something is left unfinished.” He pulls away for a second, adjusting his glasses, before going back to you. Closer than before. His voice goes lower than what you expected. “And you're avoiding me. I don't like that.”
You're confused, finally giving him another piece of attention. “We barely talk as it is, why does it matter now?”
He lets out a groan, frustration seeping in. “You didn't ask for any help as usual. It's bugging me the heck out.”
You're speechless. Is that really his perspective? Who knew the big and almighty Gojo Satoru would ponder over you dodging his presence. A sensitive side to him, a reminder of his human qualities and proof he isn't some all-knowing super monster.
“I understood the lesson better than usual.”
“Are you sure? I saw you complaining about it to Shoko.”
“You were looking at me?”
“I always look at you—”
He clicks his tongue, retracting his full body from you. Face red, evident in his pale, poreless skin. With a grimace on his face he grumbles to himself. Saying something incoherent, but you can make out the words ‘dammit’ and ‘fuck me’ from his mouth. What an odd guy.
He then proceeds to put on a show of immaturity and childishness. To your surprise, he inches closer to the wall next to him, back facing towards you.
Then… he slams his head onto the concrete.
For about…one…two…three…five times? More than that.
“What are you doing?!” You walk up to him, hand on his shoulders to stop the man from any further damage. There's a dent from where he keeps butting at—you're more concerned to the wall itself than the bruise that's forming on top of his forehead. You might get in trouble for that even if you have no play in this. You're just a witness!
Is your life a comedy? If not then, who on earth is stupid enough to do this till they bleed?! You don't know RCT and have nothing on you to give basic medical care to the smartest, yet most stupid man besides you.
“What’s up with you?! Are you crazy?!” You take out a handkerchief from your pocket, stopping the minor bleeding that's seeping out of his head. There it is again, that unreadable expression.
“I hate you…”
You pause, stumped. “What?”
He pushes you away, hands going up to cover his face. He lets out a loud groan as if he was exasperated.
“You…you witch.”
“W-what?” Your voice shakes. Nervous by his demeaning tone. It's the first you've heard of it from him. One that's directed at you too. You wanted to hear him out first, reasoning behind the sudden name and attitude that you're getting yourself into.
Until…
“I hate you so fucking much.”
Your heart drops. All colors in your face slips out. In just milliseconds you become a lifeless ghost. In no way in this goddamn world did you think he’d just blurt it out so casually. The underlying hatred he has for you, true feelings shown in just six little words that have so much impact.
All those times he shared food with you really was just forced obligation. The appropriate kindness you ought to show to your classmate was really all he was doing.
You clutch up your chest, biting the insides of your mouth. Hoping to let out a response that doesn't result in lashing someone out.
“Okay…” Is all you can muster up. Weak and simple.
Just when you were about to make your leave, he finally speaks. A whine coming out from his lips, the most pitiful one ever.
“You make me insane…” Voice hoarse as he turns around, sliding onto the floor. Resting on his behind while he slouches on the ground. Hands on top of his head, sheltering himself from the unknown. He doesn't look up, too shy and embarrassed to even do so.
“You make my heart beat so fast, it's driving me nuts. Just say you hate me and so I can get rid of these feelings.”
Then, a sigh, as if it takes every ounce of his strength to admit everything.
“Reject me, please.”
…
………
…………..????????????????????
“What?”
The third time you have said that. A rollercoaster of emotions surges through you. A mixture of delight and confusion plastered in your mind. At first he hates you and now he's declaring that he has feelings for you and now he wants a rejection?! That's your plan, not his! This is…utterly ridiculous! You're in disbelief of it all because this scene is…seriously, what even is this?
All this time you've been hiding your feelings, planning the time you get the courage to ask him out in hopes he declines your motives. The tables have turned, what a sweet moment!
“You're not joking?” You had to ask, you need multiple affirmations before you get to move on from this.
He sinks deeper into his arms, begrudgingly replying, “No. I'm not. Why would I lie about this?”
You shrug, “I don't know, you're Gojo Satoru.”
He lifts himself up, dusting away any dirt that catches his clothes. “The Gojo Satoru doesn't lie!”
The corners of your lips turn up right, a sound of bliss escapes you. A loud one at that. Hands on your stomach as you process every single thing that has happened within these few minutes together.
Old couples would laugh and comment about how this is the peak of youth. The essence of time and love with how idiotic teenagers can be when faced with the person they admire the most. The days where fumbling your words and tripping over them is a common route.
You hear a groan from the man, a frustrated one at that, “Stop laughing!”
How could you not? This situation is just hilarious, plus, you don't know how you should respond to his unforeseen confession. Now you know what it's like having to make a big decision in your life. Reject him and nothing comes out of it or…try it. See where this goes. It turns out to be mutual, after all.
“I…feel the same, y'know. I just didn't think you liked me too.” You lift your hand up to the back of your head. Scratching it due to your indecisiveness. “I never thought you out of all people would like me.”
“What's there not to like?” Gojo steps closer to you, swiping some dust from your hair. As if preserving an ancient artifact that's meant to show its beauty to the world. “You're everything.”
He lets out a deep breath, the tips of his fingers twitching. Controlling himself for what he was about to do. He looks rigid, complimented with a look of sincerity on his face.
“One last question. Are you accepting me or do you want to stay as friends?”
You can't help, but tease. The sudden confidence in you just by knowing the truth is egging you to do so, “We were friends?”
“Just answer the question.”
“I thought you wanted a rejection?”
He scoffs, not wanting to play this little game any longer, “Not anymore now that I know you feel the same.”
You give him a smile, ready to say with the most eagerness you ever had in your life. The words dancing around your tongue and playing who knows what before you finally give him a proper answer, “I accept.”
“Great.”
Your eyes widen from the sudden action. In a quick haste, he catches you by surprise. The soft feel of fresh sweet lips crashing against your own. You gasp in shock, fingers grasping his sleeves as he deepens the kiss. You let out a moan, breathless by how passionate he is to swoon you from your feet.
This was your fantasy, one of them at least. You had a lot, but actually experiencing it is like lighting up fireworks for the first time. The thrill and excitement to do something that lasts merely seconds in your life. But with this, you can relive it as many times as you want for free if you just ask.
Then something tries to protrude in your mouth, wet and a bit slimy. You pull away, panting. Hot breath coming out of you from how warm your upper body has turned.
“Don't…don't do that.” You smack his face, trying to cool down the blush on your cheeks with the attack. “Ask next time. Was that your tongue?”
He nods, unashamed, “I thought it'd be more romantic.”
You shake your head, rolling your eyes because of such a daring approach. “I'm so not ready for that…”
Still, his display of affection gives you a smile on your face and a fluttering stomach. What a sweet gesture in order for you to not have any doubts in what he wants the most from you. You have a feeling this will happen often with him.
“Are we official now?” He bites his lips, anticipating your approval.
“Sure.” You giggled, “Whatever you want.”
—
Treating his small injury by Shoko was supposed to be a quick one…but this bastard can't shut his trap for one second with how giddy he is.
“One more thing about true love and I'm not giving you any ounce of healing.” Shoko says, irked out of her mind.
“You don't understand! I'm ecstatic!” He chases her around the classroom, trying to convince her to heal him.
Watching as the scene plays out, you stay in a corner with Geto. With him revealing all the little secrets Gojo had kept from you in these months of being classmates.
“Y'know, he had a hard time making the first move.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah, I had to push him through it all or else that coward would never say anything.”
“I see.” You nod at the revelation, pleased to know you aren't the only one who's the scaredy cat here. “Were you the one who told him to get rejected by me?”
with your love life in ruins, the last thing you want to do is think about romance. unfortunately, between passive-aggressive notes and an infuriating neighbour named 4B who won’t leave you alone, love might not be done with you just yet
pairing: frat!jo x reader
content: mdni idiots in love, satoru as a faceless voice for a while, larping abt frats again, one (1) frat party scene, voyeurism, p in v, slightly intoxicated but consensual sex, cunnilingus, slight public sex/hidden sex 30k+
note: there are some images in this fic for immersion but if there's any difficulty in reading them, please click the alt text option! alternatively, you can read this on ao3 !!
When you eventually gained the courage to break up with your shitty boyfriend, you knew it would be a public spectacle considering he’s the vice president of Tau Delta Phi. What you didn’t expect, however, was to find yourself spotlighted in the living room of some random houseparty, an empty red plastic cup in your hand and whatever had been inside now poured over your ex-boyfriend’s head.
It was almost funny watching humiliation and rage surge across Naoya’s face, marked by that red-hot blush you’ve seen far too many times, spit flying from his mouth when he yells that you’ll regret this, he’ll make sure you do. To no surprise he had you kicked out, leaving you stranded on the side of the road at 2am, alone, slightly intoxicated, and with a massive hole punctured through your concept of love.
Whatever Etsy witch he paid to ruin your life would have been hunted during the Salem witch trials because you never find peace following the breakup. You find out he’d been cheating on you with a plethora of girls, you find out the lady living in the apartment next to yours is moving out, and worst of all, you find out the free elective course you enrolled in specifically to take it easy gives you an assignment on love.
ARTS505: Screen Media Practice
Assessment 1: Observational Short Film — “Love”
Weighting: 30%
Due: Friday, 11:59 p.m.
Length: 3–5 minutes
For this assessment, students are required to produce a short observational film responding to the theme of love.
Go fuck yourself.
The day your neighbour next door moves out, you tear up at the news and let her believe it’s because you’ll miss her and not because you’re terrified her replacement won’t be nearly as forgiving.
Because she smiles when you run into her at the bottom of the staircase and gives you small containers of food, nagging you in the way old women do about eating healthy and sleeping early. To her sweet, unassuming face, you tell her you will though you won’t, and she’ll nod like she believes you and tells you she’ll try to keep it down, kindly avoiding the fact that she can hear you wail at atrocious hours in the night when you’ve assumed everyone has already fallen asleep.
She understood the highs and lows of being a newly single woman in this current social environment. But whoever moves in next? You’re not so sure will.
Okay, so maybe you do miss her.
Because you find out someone new has moved in from the heavy thumping of feet crossing the floor, the thuds of boxes dropped onto the floorboards, the vibrations seeping into your own floors. It seems Naoya’s Etsy witch still has their grip on you because your new neighbour is horrible. They play loud music in the morning, the afternoon, late at night, usually right when you have convinced yourself that this night you will finally get eight uninterrupted hours of blissful sleep. Thuds, banging, thumping, any onomatopoeia, your neighbour has done it.
Sometimes, they leave a pair of sneakers outside their door for two whole days, directly in your path to the stairs, so you have to step around them every morning. Their moving boxes sit in the hallway for so long they might as well be furniture, and you’ve started dumping your tote on the tower of them whenever you dig around for your keys. Packages get delivered to your door instead of theirs. They seem to always be ordering DoorDash, too, the scent of something sugary-sweet seeping under your door until you start craving DoorDash yourself.
It’s even worse today. You’d come home with groceries instead of takeout, washed your bedsheets for the first time in a long while, lit a candle called Midnight Sunset, and sat down at your desk with the firm intention of brainstorming your film assignment. Then, from the other side of your bedroom wall, your neighbour starts assembling what can only be a large, flat-packed piece of furniture. For forty minutes, there is nothing but the intermittent scrape of wood, the clattering of metal parts, occasional low murmured curses, and one very loud crash that caused the floorboards to tremble, along with all the tiny screws that rattled in an echo. By the time the banging finally stops, your candle has burned unevenly, your tea has long gone cold, and the only thing written under love film ideas is: ‘kill him’.
shoko: utahime and i are heading to the library to lock in
we’re inviting you so you can’t say shit like there’s always a duo in a trio
but don’t actually come we’re probably gonna js make out
you: ?
utahime: she’s joking we’re going to study
shoko: booo u whore
you’re a cockblock y/n
you: i literally didn’t do anything
if anything utahime is cockblocking you
but i’ll come if ygs are actually studying i need a fucking break
shoko: we aren’t
utahime: we are
shut the fuck up shoko oh my god
shoko: whats with u y/n u sound grouchy
you: im going to kill my new neighbour
hes playing shit music through the wall like i miss the old lady so bad
shoko: you really gotta complain to the landlord or smth
you: hell no im not a snitch
utahime: ure weirdly compassionate abt the wrong things
hows the assignment going?
shoko: teacher teacher! im snitching!
you: ? do u want me to snitch or not
and its not going good at all how can i think about love when theres someone playing phonk in my ear at 6pm on a random tuesday afternoon?
shoko: have u even seen this person?? go up and give them a piece of ur mind or smth
also come lib
you: give me a sec
i might ive never seen them though theyre usually out at weird times and doesnt really sleep in their own room ?? but what if its a 40 yo gymrat and i get bodied
utahime: yeah thats actually scary
write a note or something
shoko: and then come library
you: give me fifteen minutes
Perhaps Shoko’s insistence on going to the library is contagious because you’re suddenly eager to rip out a piece of paper to spill just how much you appreciate phonk in your ears to your neighbour. Or maybe you really just want to tell your neighbour to die.
It starts off innocently enough, the last of your patience allowing kinder words and a light reminder that your neighbour isn’t the only one living in this creaky, ancient building. But then it gets to you, the music, the thudding, the inability to remove laundry from the laundry machine appropriately, and you find you’re pressing the lead of your pencil deep into the paper until it almost leaves a mark on the table beneath.
You heave out a breath of pure catharsis and read it over, giving it an approving nod. This will certainly do.
Then, with your heart much lighter and a perk in your step, you sling your tote over your shoulder and head for the door. Instead of walking to the elevator after you’ve locked up, you make a small detour to your neighbours door and bend down to slide the letter under their door.
There, problem fixed.
With a smile, you turn and walk to the library, oddly lighter for it.
Shoko and Utahime thankfully do not make out the entire time you’re at the library. Unfortunately, they’re still Shoko and Utahime and the three of you waste time gossiping about the high school dead horse that just broke up again instead of doing anything productive. Your document for planning your films remains as empty as ever, only now it’s been shared to two email addresses so they can witness your writer’s block unfold in real time.
By the time you drag yourself back from the library, night has already settled in and you have to use your phone’s flashlight to illuminate the path to your building. The hallway is hushed in that apartment building kind of way, distant television laughter, pipes clinking somewhere behind the walls, the hum of someone’s microwave. You’re fishing for your keys when you notice it, a torn corner of lined paper stuck to your door with blutack.
You blink, too tired to make the connection straight away, brain still slogging through the haze of a caffeine crash. But then you peel it free, turn it over, and squint at the scrawny handwriting on the back.
are you twelve? what’s with the note passing come talk to me if you have an issue
also i told the landlord btw lol have fun with that —4b
You crumple the note in your hand.
That fucking asshole.
The landlord does, in fact, show up at your door the next morning wearing a stern expression and with even sterner words. You apologise with a tight smile, offering up the half-truth that you’ve been under a lot of stress lately and didn’t mean it. And then, because two can play at that game, you finally snitch on 4B too, feeling a sharp jolt of triumph when the landlord sighs and assures you that’ll be having a word with the resident next door.
You incorrectly assume that’s the last of it. Because when you come home at the end of another long day of classes, there’s a sticky note taped to your door.
snitch
A disbelieving huff slips out of you as you let yourself into your apartment, your tote sliding off your shoulder with a dull thump, hands too busy flattening the wrinkled paper to catch it. Five minutes ago, all you wanted was to collapse face-first into bed and sleep through the rest of the day. Now, irritation blazes through you so quickly it feels like caffeine, sharp and immediate, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re fishing a pen from your bag and scrawling a reply across the back.
you literally snitched first asshole. maybe if you weren’t playing anime music at 7pm in the evening i wouldn’t have to snitch on u at all
You stick it to his door on your way back from taking out the trash, pressing your palm against the paper just to make sure it stays there. When you leave the next morning for your usual nine a.m., another note is waiting.
you literally told me to die im not a masochist i wasn’t gonna let that slide ps. ntm on the digimon opening theme that’s something special to me
You write a reply during class, sticking it to his door when you come home.
and u’ve been loud as fuck ever since u moved in here yk the apartment has thin walls right? also what the hell is digimon
It doesn’t take long this time. You’re still boiling water for a coffee when there’s a faint tap at your door. When you open it, there’s a new note stuck smack in the middle, scrawled in hurried letters. You glance up and down the hallway and see no one, and smile as you step back inside.
then just walk those five steps to my door and tell me next time? and ofc someone as unfun as u has never experienced the highs and lows of digimon in ur childhood it all makes sense now
You sip your coffee as you pen your reply.
i swear i’ve knocked in the morning and u didn’t open the door
so r u gonna keep edging me or r u gonna tell me what digimon is
It’s only after you’ve already closed your door that you realise you didn’t respond to his second comment so you quickly take a pen and walk back to his door, pursing your lips in effort as you try to add another line against the door. Maybe you’re imagining it but you swear you hear footsteps pause on the other side of the door.
also i just searched it up and i can’t believe my next door neighbour is 12 years old watching cartoons
You quickly scurry back to your apartment just in time, hearing their door open after yours just as you closed yours. A couple seconds later, there’s a knock.
digimon is NOT just for kids
You stare at the note for a second, oddly thrown by the concession considering it had seemed too easy. You’d expected another argument, maybe some smug reply, maybe an insult in even messier handwriting. But instead, he had simply folded.
For some reason, it feels less like a victory and more like a sudden end to something you hadn’t realised you were enjoying. Your other neighbours probably didn’t feel the same considering they had to listen to you and 4B open and close your doors consecutively for the past few minutes.
Still, you tell yourself as you peel the note off the door, a win is a win.
The next morning, you check your door out of habit and is immediately rewarded by a piece of a4 paper stuck to the front.
hey 4a,
first of all i want to say that i’ve been very good and very quiet recently which i hope pleases you. please acknowledge my growth
— 4b
Because you’re lazy, you flip the paper over and write.
4b,
sure ur growth has been noted (?) i feel like there’s more to this do u need something
— 4a
You slide it under his door before you can overthink it. By the time you come home that afternoon, there is another note waiting.
4a,
thank you for acknowledging my progress but i fear i have received your criticism and decided not to grow from it. maybe head out for the evening
also important question do u own a screwdriver ??
thanks, 4b
You frown then write back:
why?
Five minutes later, his reply slides under your door and you watch as the paper slips through completely before standing and reaching for it.
i give u a yes or no question and u still manage to dodge
do u own one or not? please.
— 4b
The next time you tape a note to his door, you also leave a screwdriver on the ground beneath.
u better give this back
You’re halfway to backing your things for the library when his reply slides under your door. You pick it up while locking your apartment and read as you walk, catching the tail ends of some heavy thudding and hammering from the door beside yours.
people assume just because im a man i must have five screwdriver variants in my drawers or smth anyway im making furniture for my friend and its ikea :( wish me luck
You snort despite yourself, tucking the note into your pocket as another dull bang sounds behind his door.
“Good luck,” you think as you walk by, and then, less generously, “and good luck to all the other people living in this building.”
The library turns out to be the right choice. You spend three hours pretending to work, two hours ranting to the group chat about Naoya’s latest monthly photo dump, and fifteen minutes with your fingers tapping away at your keyboard which is still fifteen minutes more of productivity that you wouldn’t have achieved at your apartment so you’d call that a success.
When you come home, you brace yourself before reaching your floor.
Surprisingly, there’s a lack of any noise at all. No thudding, no scrapping, no IKEA-related violence. Your screwdriver sits neatly outside your door, wrapped in a sticky note.
returned in one piece like i promised! im hoping u took my advice and left the building otherwise can u write your complaint in five words or less? im sleepy zzz
You look at his door, a reluctant smile on your face. For the first time since he moved in, you wonder if maybe the problem was never that he was impossible to live beside. Maybe the walls were thin, and he was loud, and you were miserable, and neither of you had known how to be people around each other yet.
Maybe, if you both communicated like normal neighbours, this could actually work.
If you assumed life would look up following this revelation, then you’re sorely underestimating the evil forces (read: Naoya’s Etsy witch) conspiring against your happiness.
Because the next morning, it isn’t some upbeat anime opening that wakes you up. Instead, it’s the mucus trapped in your airways and the pounding at your temples, dragging you from the dead only to make you feel worse for it.
You throw your duvet over your head and pray that when you resurface, your cold will have miraculously disappeared. It doesn’t work, to no surprise, though that thought irritates you too. Then again, maybe that’s just the built up annoyance from having your nose blocked. Miserable and stuffy, you close your eyes and remind yourself to take in a deep breath through your nose when you’ve healed, just to not take it for granted.
It’s times like this when you miss your good-for-nothing ex, times like this when you remember there used to be someone you could text without thinking, someone you could badger for some chicken noodle soup and maybe a hug and a kiss on your forehead.
Your own weakness pisses you off.
With great effort, you drag yourself upright and shuffle into your kitchen, pawing through empty pantries. Any plans of heading to that early morning tutorial this morning immediately leaves your mind at your pathetic show of strength.
You’re halfway through grabbing cereal, any other breakfast option simply too tedious, when a loud voice cuts through the haze.
“Yeah, she just didn’t get it. And when you have to explain a joke, it’s already over. No dude, obviously it’s her fault for not being with it and not because I’m unfunny, don’t even kid.”
You frown slightly, munching on another chip, thumb scrolling past a video you’re not even sure you watched. Who the hell says ‘with it’?
“If you don’t fuck with with it, then you’re one of the people who aren’t with it. You’re without it.” He continues.
You make a small noise of consideration, vaguely thinking that you might get along with his friend as they seemingly voice your own thoughts.
Your neighbour continues, undeterred from his friend’s unenthusiastic responses. “There’s no chance I’m seeing her again. She did text me but I’m just going to leave her on delivered. Is it cruel or is it saving myself from someone who called my Agumon keychain the deformed twin Charmander consumed in the womb?”
You laugh, sound muffled when your neighbour’s voice peaks.
“He doesn’t, Charmander is from a completely different franchise! And I’ll have you know that keychain was from an artist at Anime Con so when you’re picking on my little guy, you’re making fun of a small business.”
A pause. You scrunch your nose.
“Yeah, I didn’t mean to call it my little guy. If it helps, I gave my dick she/her pronouns like how a truck guy calls his truck a real beauty so she’s not my little guy.”
You snort, crunching down on a chip. You wonder if that sweet salesman next door is as enthralled in 4B’s love life as you were.
“Don’t make such a disgusted sound, she’ll take offence.”
There’s shuffling from above as your neighbour supposedly shifts to a different position, now closer to you such that you could faintly make out the voice of his friend.
“Is liking Agumon such a big deal breaker for you?” his friend says, voice smoother than the whiny tilt in 4B’s.
“Honestly, no. Agumon is my favourite character and I’m not really comfortable sharing him with others because he means a lot to me. But then when I started talking about Digimon she asked me why I didn’t just get a Pikachu keychain instead since everyone at least knew Pikachu and it’ll save me from the questions. Pikachu. The mainstream corporate mouse.”
“Okay,” his friend sighs, “but to be fair, most people know more about Pokemon than Digimon. At least she was trying?”
“That’s the problem!” your neighbour fires back and the image of him in your head changes around his enthusiasm about digital monsters. “No one gives Digimon the respect that it deserves. People act like it’s Pokemon’s weird cousin when really it’s more like Pokemon’s smarter, cooler, better-dressed older sibling who went overseas to continue pursuing their education.”
“And did you tell her that?”
“Yeah, right there in the restaurant."
“You’re never getting a second date.”
He snorts, apparently offended. “Please, like I wanted one.”
Despite yourself you laugh though the silence that follows is enough to rid you of all your amusement. Awkwardly, you trail off by clearing your throat, feeling somewhat like a creep for letting your eavesdropping be known. All this talk about knowing to stay quiet and yet you catch yourself slipping.
You listen as 4B says a quick goodbye to his friend. There’s a rustle, a soft thud, and then his voice comes again, closer this time, like he’s leaned right up against the wall between your apartments.
“Hello? Is someone there?”
For one fleeting second, you think that if this were a horror movie, he would absolutely be the first to die. Not that you’d fare much better, considering you answer him.
“Hi.”
There’s a small pause, then, “No way. 4A? What the hell, I thought you already left for class.”
Your heart skips, thudding against your ribs. For a second, you consider staying quiet and let the walls swallow the moment whole. Pretend it wasn’t you, pretend like the two of you haven’t been trading insults like you were passing notes in class.
There had been a fragile understanding between the two of you to never reach out. And yet, in this moment, you can’t bring yourself to remember why.
You clear your throat, thick with the tail end of your cold. “Well it looks like you guessed wrong. Do I need to send you another death threat for you to keep it down?”
You hear him wince, a quiet sound muffled by the walls. “Maybe we should go back to writing notes to each other. I didn’t know you’d sound like a 40 year old smoker.”
“I’m sick, jackass.”
He hums, unconvinced. There’s a beat of silence as he thinks of what to say. Then, “So, you’re a girl?”
Your eyes roll to your ceiling as you sigh, whatever you were expecting immediately thrown away. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
He huffs out a small chuckle like he can hear the exasperation in your voice and finds it amusing. “I’m just surprised. I mean, you’re so mean to me. Girls usually love me, you know, I’m kind of a ladies’ man.”
That pulls a laugh out of you, rough on your sore throat but impossible to stop. “You? With that personality? Consider me the one surprised.”
“I’m serious. I’m kind of a campus celebrity. Girls flock to me.”
You hoist yourself up onto the kitchen counter, angling your back against the wall where his voice comes through clearest. “You don’t have to lie to impress me.”
There’s a pause and you wonder if your playful insults had gone a little too far in your sick state.
“Oh, I might be into this.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” There’s the faint sound of movement on the other side before your mysterious neighbour talks again. “I meant, what type of person do you think I am then?”
“Considering you fumbled a first date because of a cartoon, I think you have your answer,” you coo with faux sympathy. “You should be nicer to her since I’m sure your cooldown for the next date might take a while.”
“First of all,” he says, apparently offended. “It’s not a cartoon. Second, she fumbled the date on her end. It was a necessary culling for me.”
You snort. “You got dumped over Digimon, let’s settle down.”
“You didn’t even know what Digimon was until I put you on a few days ago.”
You shrug, despite the fact that he can’t see the gesture. “And now that I know it’s even more pathetic. Agumon is the weird orange dinosaur thing, right?”
His whine comes through the wall, only cementing the fact that whoever is on the other side might be the biggest nerd you know. You wonder if he lied about not being a masochist considering he’s taking your insults pretty well. “Hey, come on. He’s just a cute little guy.”
“Right,” you draw out, unimpressed. “Don’t glaze him when he might be the reason you’re a social shut in.”
“That’s a new one. I am now, am I?”
“Please,” you start, warming up to the idea as she speak it into existence. “If women are all over you like you claim they are, why haven’t I heard anyone come over? You and I both know just how thin the walls in this place is.”
“Exactly,” he shoots back. “So why would I bring them back here? Unless you want to be kept awake all night.”
That makes you laugh, the idea of this voice you’re hearing now having any experience at all extremely humourous, much less with the ability to go all night long. You can almost imagine the state of his room, littered with anime posters and plushies making sex feel like a group activity. If you looked up past his figure over you, you’d probably see neon light up stars on his ceilings.
“If you can talk so much about my love life,” he trails off, voice deceptively casual and airy, “do you have a boyfriend?”
That makes you freeze. Something hard and spiky settles in your stomach and you shift on the countertop, searching for a spot that’s comfortable because for some reason, it feels like you’ve lost it. “No.”
The voice doesn’t say anything for a while. “My bad. Touchy subject?”
You shrug despite the fact that he can’t see the gesture and pull your legs to your chest. “It’s fine. It’s been, like, half a year. He was a douche anyway.”
“Okay, six months, not bad.”
Hearing the slight mumble from the other side of the wall but unable to understand it coherently, you frown and press your ear closer. “What was that?”
4B clears his throat. “I’m just saying maybe don’t talk shit when I haven’t heard you bring anyone over either.”
You roll your eyes, forcing your shoulders to relax and somewhat grateful at his deflection. “At least I don’t claim to be a microcelebrity. I keep my circle small and that works.”
“Is there room for one more?”
A laugh escapes you, genuine and surprised. “Why? Asking for a friend or yourself?”
You can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “You diagnosed me as a social shut in, remember? I’m clearing asking for myself.”
“We’ll see, 4B,” you say, though you’re matching his tone with a smile. It doesn’t, however, stop your voice from sounding croakier than intended and you have to painfully make an awkward gargling sound to clear your throat a number of times.
4B winces sympathetically, and he lets you get the worst of it out before speaking again. “Sounds like you might need some water and then a nap.”
“Trust me, that was the plan.”
You start to wiggle down from your counter and grab something to drink, wrongly assuming the conversation ends here.
“Are we going to talk again?” he asks in a rush, and you huff as your feet touch the ground.
“We live next to each other, genius. I don’t think I could avoid you even if I tried.”
“And would you try?”
You sip from your glass, ignoring him.
“Okay, that’s fine. I’ll win you over, just wait.” There’s no doubt in your mind that he’s grinning, you can hear it in the peaks of his voice. “I’ll try to keep it down for you. And then maybe you’ll be less grouchy when you wake up?”
“Go fuck yourself, 4B.”
You roll your eyes, glad that there’s a wall between you to prevent him from seeing your smile. “Goodnight, 4A.”
Gojo Satoru isn’t a man who lacks.
He’s got the grades (barely, but they’re there), the genes (obviously), the height (something even Suguru finds unfair), the charm (obnoxious), and a reputation on campus that both precedes and betrays him. He walks into a room and people notice. Professors sigh, girls nudge each other, guys scowl though it’ll be his friends that’ll roll their eyes at his presence first.
He is used to winning. More importantly, he is used to having almost everything in a way that requires very little effort on his part.
So what the hell is he doing, lying on his bedroom floor where the voice of a stranger still lingers, staring at his wall like it might crack open and offer him answers? She hadn’t even said much, not enough to leave this big of an impression.
Maybe it was the shock that the person leaving at ungodly hours in the morning beneath him was a girl. He doesn’t know why he’d assumed otherwise. Maybe because the notes had always read so dry, so flat, so quick to snap back at him that somewhere along the way he’d started hearing them in Suguru’s voice.
Except the voice through the wall had been unmistakably feminine, and now Gojo was having the deeply inconvenient realisation that he might, in fact, be into that.
It wasn’t even what she said more so how she said it, offhanded and easy as if talking to him was nothing, like he was nothing. and curse his enormous ego, he was Gojo Satoru, for god’s sake. He’s got at least three people in his dms right now asking what he’s up to tonight and it would be as easy as typing back “nothing” to have any one of them.
But none of them had left a note that told him to get his shit together. None of them made him laugh when ten seconds prior he was so ready to implode, none of them had him craning to his floor like some desperate victorian man listening to the ghostly whispers through the thin plaster.
Gojo drags a hand down his face, then turns his head again to look at it.
The wall. Plain, off-white, slightly cracked near the skirting board, absolutely identical to every other wall in this terrible building and yet suddenly the most compelling thing in his apartment because now, you’re behind it. Separated from him by a few layers of plaster and paint and bad insulation, close enough that he can hear your laugh if the room is quiet, close enough that he can picture you leaning back against the other side without ever having seen it happen.
Gojo runs a hand through his hair, frowning.
“This is bad,” he mutters for the second time that day as he explores the foreign feeling in his chest.
The urge to hear from her again beats like a second heart in his chest, and the distinction between hear and see is important because now it feels less about appearances and more about something else, something he doesn’t have a smug enough name for yet.
Gojo reaches for his laptop, then drops it back onto the floor a second later when even pretending to do work feels stupid when he’s one bad decision away from knocking on the wall just to see if you answer.
Because Gojo doesn’t lack.
Yet tonight, as he sits on his cold carpet, phone face-down beside him and no urge to answer any of his unread messages, he realises he might be wanting.
The next time you wake, your fever has left you in an uncomfortable puddle of your own sweat, damp sheets sticking to your skin. A reluctant glance at your alarm clock confirms the worst: it’s 7 a.m. the next day, and you have a 9 a.m. lecture to attend. Somehow, you’d managed to sleep through a near-complete twenty-four-hour cycle, vaguely only remembering how you had stumbled out of bed for the bathroom or small bites of whatever you could find.
When you open your door to make a hasty exit, jammed toast between your teeth and the delirious hope that you’ll run into a handsome guy around the corner of your block, you almost trip over something that ends your hopes (and almost your life). Thankfully, you catch yourself on your hands and glare down at the perpetrator.
A sports drink looks back up at you, adorned with a yellow sticky note stuck to its side. After looking left and right down the empty corridor, you pick up the bottle and read the note.
im not a fan of sick neighbour asmr —4b
You snort despite yourself, heading for the stairs. On the way, you flip the note around and pen a short reply, sticking it to 4B’s door before heading out.
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Somehow, despite being sick, Shoko shows up to your tutorial later than you. You wave as she dumps her tote under the table and flops unceremoniously into the seat beside you.
“Are you still sick?” she asks in lieu of a greeting. “You shouldn’t come to class if you’re not feeling well.”
“What makes you think I’m still sick?” you ask in a voice that can only be attributed to years of smoking or recovering from sickness.
She gives you a look. “Right. So the eyebags are just your usual go to?”
“It would be fucked up if i always looked like this and you just called me ugly.” You cover your face with your hands. “But it’s not that bad, is it? I still have a reputation I care about.”
“I’m genuinely afraid of telling you the truth because it might push you over the edge. So yes, girl you look gorgeous.”
You roll your eyes, slumping to rest your cheek against your arms, looking at her from the side. Her phone vibrates and you hear it loud with your ear pressed against the desk, flinching slightly until she picks it up.
“What is it?”
Shoko lets out an unamused huff and shows you the screen.
gojo (DO NOT ANSWER): wanna hit me up with the pre lab questions?
It would be a mission to go through university without hearing the name ‘Gojo Satoru’ whether in secretive whispers or muffled in laughter. For one, he’s sport captain for some sport you’ve never paid enough attention to remember. He’s stupidly charming in a way that makes people sigh even when they’re rolling their eyes with an accompanying begrudged smile. Half the girls in your course claim he’s flirted with them whilst the other half say they’d punch him given the chance, before pausing and muttering something like, “but he’s kind of funny, I guess.”
The only other piece of information you know about him is that he’s loud, annoyingly so which places you in that category of girls that would more likely punch him in the stomach than kiss him.
You wonder how on earth Shoko could be friends with someone her complete opposite.
You look up and raise an eyebrow at her. “Well? Are you going to?”
“Do you read with your eyes closed? I clearly saved his contact as ‘do not answer’. If Gojo wants pre-lab questions that badly, he can go flirt them out of one of his fifty fans.”
You snort.“Glad to know you’re a bad friend to everyone and not just me.”
She shrugs. “He thinks I owe him a huge favour for something he did for me a while ago when that is not true at all. I’m sure there’s other people he can hit up for answers. You know how he is, there’s always someone trailing after him like a lost puppy.”
“Considering I don’t know the guy, no not really,” you say, nudging your cheek more firmly into your folded arms, locking in for a storytime. “Tell me about him.”
Shoko narrows her eyes at you. “You want to know about him?”
“Girl,” you huff, “like gossip. I promise I’m not a groupie. I don’t think I’ve ever actually had a conversation with him so don’t look at me like that.”
“That makes sense. He’s usually only on lower campus so there’s little chance of him showing up randomly, anyway.”
“Sounds like you don’t like him,” you say, intelligently.
“I’ve been stuck with him and Geto since high school,” she starts and you actually feel bad for her. “God forbid I don’t want to see him in my formative years, too.”
You laugh because misfortune is always better on others than yourself. “Now you have to tell me. What did he do to you?”
Shoko doesn’t seem amused. She looks you up and down, eyes narrowing at the smile on your face. “You know, I’m actually an incredible friend and as a friend who cares about you deeply, let me tell you this. You do not want to hook up with him.”
You splutter, lifting your head. “What the fuck? I just wanted to know about the guy! Can we start with being friends first, damn?”
“Let’s just say I know him,” your best friend continues, unfazed. “He wouldn’t be able to stay as just friends with someone like you.”
“Okay, and what the fuck does that even mean?”
“Look,” she says, and you open your mouth to cut her off because the telltale signs that she’s about to change the topic are there. “He’s also in Sig Kap.”
The words hit like cold water. Whatever fragile lightness had been carrying you through the morning dims all at once. Shoko notices immediately, of course she does, and some of the bite leaves her expression.
“I just thought you should know.”
You slump back into your chair, crossing your arms and looking down at your table, contemplating if you should start banging your head against the hard surface and end your suffering. “What a mood killer. Did you really have to bring that up?”
“I’m just saying, if you start seeing Gojo around, the chances of also seeing your ex is very high. Sure, they’re not in the same frat but they’re both still in that same group of guys. You know, inter-fraternity relations.”
“There’s a lot of assuming going on right now, like the fact that I would even see Gojo in the first place, but I’ll let it slide because I suddenly feel the urge to shoot myself in the head.”
“I thought you were over your ex?”
You don’t say anything for a while, trying to muse out the complex ball of feelings in your gut.
You had been falling out of love with Naoya for months before the breakup. Maybe even longer, if you’re being honest. It wasn’t like it happened all at once, and there wasn’t one dramatic collapse, no one, big, awful fight, just a slow and steady erosion. A hundred small disappointments, a hundred moments of realising he was more interested in having a girlfriend than being a boyfriend. He forgets the things you tell him, interrupts you to tell your own stories better, talks all pretty to your girl friends and then simultaneously talks shit to you about them when you ask him to stop requesting them on Instagram.
So if you do miss him, then you might have a masochist streak in you.
What you miss, maybe, is who you were before all of that. The version of you that believed romance was something soft and mutual and worth fighting for, instead of something performative that slowly hollows itself out while you stand there insisting it’s still alive.
“Y/N?”
You blink and realise Shoko is watching you. “Oh, uh. I am over him. I just wish I could have the pre-Naoya me back, that’s all.”
Shoko makes a disgusted sound on your behalf. “Do not say his name. I gagged.”
“Right?” You shake your head and dismiss whatever useless thoughts still linger, forcing yourself to relax back into something a little more light-hearted. “But it’s whatever. I’ve learnt my lesson now, frat boys are not to be trusted and dating one is like draining all the whimsy out of your body. I honestly don’t care about him anymore and I wouldn’t even think about him at all if I didn’t have that film to make.”
That makes your best friend giggle. “The one about love.”
“Is this funny to you?” you ask with a huff, but you’re grateful that she doesn't force you to say any more than you’re ready for.
“Extremely.” She nods, then dodges when you reach over to try and playfully hit her. “Look, I’m sure inspiration will hit you soon. Love always arrives when you least expect it, and all that.”
You give her a long look, face unmoving. “I don’t want the girl with the girlfriend of three years to say that. Get out of my face.”
Shoko laughs loudly, and you both trail off as the lecture starts.
The rest of class passes in the usual blur of half-listening and half-heartedly playing minesweeper on the google chrome extension open on your laptop. By the time you make it back to the sketchy, wilted building you unfortunately call home, winter evening has settled in for real, the kind that turns everything blue-grey and has you squinting down the street every few minutes just to make sure the shape in the distance is a person and not a fire hydrant. You had to use your phone’s flashlight for this, and in the last few steps up to your apartment, it betrays you by dying.
Thankfully, you still manage to make it to your place in one piece.
You peel the note off your door on your way in, flick on the lights, and let your tote bag drop to the floor with a tired thud.
feeling better?
A soft smile tugs at your mouth before it fades just as quickly, replaced by a small furrow in your brow. Weird.
You’re halfway to the kitchen to find the stack of sticky notes you left on the island in a rush this morning when the world abruptly cuts out.
“The fuck—”
“Ow!” In the sudden darkness, you misjudge the turn around the counter and slam straight into the corner of it.
From the other side of the wall, 4B’s voice comes a little louder. “4A? You okay?”
You suck in a sharp breath, one hand nursing your hip as you try to steady yourself. “Yeah. Just walked straight into my counter corner. What the fuck happened?”
There’s the sound of faint footsteps, then the creak of something shifting as he leans against the wall in his kitchen. “I think this is what they call a power outage. Correct me if I’m wrong.”
“I know that, smartass,” you mutter, though not so quietly where he can’t hear. “But how did that happen? It’s not even storming or anything.”
“What’s wrong? Scared of the dark?”
You scoff, already dreading the upcoming conversation. Despite this, you fumble to where that familiar countertop sits against the connecting wall between your apartments and hoist yourself up easily, leaning back so his voice is clearer when he speaks. “No. We pay rent for this place, of course I want to know what’s happening when the lights all suddenly cut.”
“I can text the landlord. If it happened to both of us then it’s probably a building wide thing so it’ll be their responsibility. But all we can do is wait.”
You sigh, long and full of suffering. “This sucks. Couldn’t the power go off at midnight or something?”
“I’ll let the landlord know your availability.”
You roll your eyes and make yourself comfortable, relenting to stay for however long it’ll take for there to be light again. You mourn the death of your phone then, holding the power button for some kind of miracle and get reminded that, once again, your life sucks and is only full of betrayal and tragedy.
For a short moment, silence settles between you, and suddenly you’re struck by the irritating realisation that beyond his notes, his terrible taste in alarms, and his frankly irresponsible attachment to Digimon, you know almost nothing about the stranger on the other side of the wall.
“So,” you start.
“Yeah?”
“What were you up to? You know, before the power went out and everything.”
“Curious, hm?” your neighbour replies, that irritating teasing tilt in his tone. “I was just about to lock in for an assignment so I can focus on the midterms coming up in a week.”
You hum. “What course are you doing?”
“Physics. And I know what you’re going to say—”
You snort. “Nerd.”
“You know, some people find intelligence attractive.”
“Do those people also happen to be the same imaginary campus-wide fanbase you keep bringing up?”
He laughs and you immediately lock onto the pleasant sound, not because you particularly care, but when your vision is knocked out, everything you hear seems amplified. Including the pretty tilt in his tone, the richness in his laugh, and the fact that his voice sits somewhere deeper than you expected from his petulant notes.
“Well, what about you, then? If I’m the resident physics nerd, what are you?”
You glance out into your dark apartment, the outline of your living room barely there in what little evening light still makes it through the windows. Your camera sits somewhere on the table, your laptop buried inside your tote, your assignment still waiting to be done.
“Film,” you say at last. “Well, not film-film. I’m just doing one elective this semester to boost my grades but if I could go back in time I would have picked that social media class everyone else does as a GPA booster.”
Your neighbour makes a sound of recognition. “Oh, that! Yeah, I took that in my first year. Our midterm was to write a report on the significance of ‘get ready with me’s’. I’m so serious.”
You groan, dropping your head onto your knees. “I know, my friend was telling me how she did that class too.”
“Who’s your friend? Wouldn’t it be so funny if your friend was actually in my class that year?”
You roll your eyes. Shoko would have definitely told you about someone like him. “I doubt it. We do the same course and none of our classes are ever near the physics buildings.”
He hums. “You never know. I get around.”
That makes you laugh. “Sure, 4B. Let’s stick to hypothetical equations instead of your hypothetical maladaptive daydreams, okay?”
“You pick on me too much,” he whines. “Give me something to work with, I’m starting to really feel this power imbalance. What’s your film assignment about?”
You let out a long breath through your nose, already hearing his voice in your head and every possible jab he can make. “It’s a film on love.”
He snorts. “Right, because when I talk to you I’m just overwhelmed by the love seeping out of you.”
You sigh. “Kill yourself.”
“See, this is what I mean.”
“All you know about me is my voice,” you shoot back, not necessarily offended so much as annoyed. “I’ve been told that I’m a very benevolent and kind person.”
He hums. “Maybe not when you’re so grouchy then.”
“I’m not being grouchy.”
“At least try and make your point come across.”
“My point is that I’m a delight,” you say flatly. “A warm presence, a gentle soul. Campus-wide rumours actually say I’m beloved by all who meet me.”
“Now who has the imaginary campus-wide fanbase?” he laughs, and even though you roll your eyes, it’s harder to hold onto your irritation when he sounds that pleased with himself.
The dark presses in around your apartment, turning everything into vague shapes and corners, but his voice keeps coming through the wall like a little light you cannot see.
“Okay, then,” he says after his laughing fit. “Prove it.”
You frown, even though he can’t see you. “Prove what?”
“That you’re not grouchy. That you’re a person full of fun and whimsy. If your film is about love, then tell me one thing you love.”
You make a face. “That sounds like world’s worst icebreaker.”
“Someone’s getting defensive,” he sings, sounding far too amused. “Come on, 4A. one thing. It doesn’t have to be deep. Actually, please don’t make it deep, I’m not emotionally prepared for that. Just something stupid that makes you happy. That’s still love, you know?”
You open your mouth with another complaint ready, but nothing comes out. Which is annoying, because it should be easy. Before Naoya, before the breakup, before the awful assignment and the worse timing, you had liked plenty of things without needing to justify them. You liked when orange and pink bleeds across the sky on the walk back from a long day of classes, you liked smiling at dogs when they crossed your paths on the streets, you liked the warmth of a delicious heated drink in your hands on a cold, winter morning. You liked watching people reunite at train stations, you liked filming light moving across your bedroom wall because, at the time, it had seemed like something worth keeping.
Now, asked to name that something out loud, your mind offers you nothing but static.
“Jesus, okay,” he says after a beat. “The silence is very telling.”
There is a soft scrape on his side of the wall, like he is sliding down to sit more comfortably. “Okay, I’ll go first since clearly you need a role model. I love when vending machines actually drop the thing you paid for instead of holding it hostage behind the glass. I love when you think a package is coming next week and then it arrives today like a tiny miracle.”
Despite yourself, you huff. “Sounds like you just love consumerism.”
“I also love when a dog on the street looks like it has somewhere important to be. Like, where are you going? Do you have a meeting? Are you late? Should I call ahead?”
Fuck, that was on your list too.
“Fine,” you say, shifting on the counter until your socked foot bumps against one of the cabinet handles. “I love when you’re walking past a bakery and they’re making bread, but you’re not hungry, so you just get to enjoy the smell without spending money.”
“How very financially responsible of you. You’re like the opposite of me. Anti-consumerism.” You can hear the grin in his voice. “Okay, next. We’re making a list now. That’s how brainstorming works, right?”
You sigh like this is a burden, like you are not already turning the question over in your hands. “I love when the train comes right as you get to the platform.”
“Really? That sounds stressful.”
“I love when someone in front of you in line is ordering something complicated and you get annoyed, but then they’re actually really nice to the worker, so you forgive them.”
“Because is it ever that serious?”
You roll your eyes, but your mouth betrays you by pulling into a smile. It feels strange on your face, like trying on an old jacket you had forgotten in the back of your closet, something that had once been yours. It’s not a terrible feeling, you decide, perhaps just a little unfamiliar.
“Okay, my turn again,” 4B says. “I love when you see someone running for the bus and the bus driver waits for them.”
“That’s rare, some people have that sadistic bone in their body that wants to only see others suffer.”
“Which is why it makes those off chance moments better. Rarity increases market value.”
“There’s that consumerism bleeding through again.”
A thought arrives quietly, not quite the decision you were hoping for in the library, but it’s a small, familiar itch of wanting to keep something before it passes.
“I love when someone laughs so hard they make the other person start laughing even if they don’t know what’s funny,” he continues.
Your eyes have gone to the table again. There isn’t a clean, decisive moment to it, certainly no sudden burst of artistic purpose that you might call inspiration. You simply slide off the counter while he keeps talking, careful not to knock your hip into the corner again and feel your way through the dim apartment toward your camera.
“Also,” he continues, completely unaware. “I love finishing a book or movie and getting so into it that you look it up on Twitter for everyone else’s take.”
“Sounds like you just struggle to form an original thought on your own.”
“I’m superseding my opinion.”
“Oh, what a big word! Good job, 4B.”
You finally find your dust camera hidden by more important things, and take it back to the kitchen.
The room is too dark for the lens to catch anything properly. For a second, you nearly give up, but then your gaze lands on the candle sitting untouched on your dining table, the one you bought months ago because it smelled like vanilla and cedarwood and you had convinced yourself buying one candle would somehow turn your apartment into a Pinterest board’s dream. You’ve never lit it.
But for some reason, the desire to make a mark in the wax comes to front and you set it on the windowsill without any more thinking.
The lighter takes three tries to catch.
“What’s that clicking sound?”
“What clicking sound?” you mumble, brows burrowed as the fire dies again.
“Am I going crazy? Just warning you but I have crazy keen hearing. And now with my sight gone, I’m even more locked in. Sounds like… are you lighting a birthday cake? Is it your birthday?”
“That’s what you think of first when you hear a light?” You don’t know whether to laugh or coo at his innocence in your dorky neighbour. “I’m just lighting a candle because it’s dark.”
The candle flame shivers to life, small and uneven. Throwing a weak gold light over the window ledge and the lower half of the glass. It’s frankly a terrible light source, dim but somehow managing to catch the smudge of your fingerprints on the window and turns the kitchen sink into a dark, warped shape in the reflection. When you prop the camera up against your water jug, lifted by two stacked coasters, the frame tilts slightly to the left.
You hit record.
“Okay, your turn,” he says.
You blink at the red dot on the camera screen. “What?”
“It’s your turn again. Don’t think I didn’t notice you going quiet there. Just because I can’t see you doesn’t mean you can get away with not contributing your part to this list.”
“As if you’re keeping track of everything.” You settle back against the counter, close enough to the camera that your voice will catch. “Okay, here’s one. I love it when people apologise to furniture after walking into it. Oh, and, when someone saves you a seat.”
He hums, turning the thought over in his head. “That’s a good one. Could even be your thesis statement for your film, honestly. Something pretentious. Like how love is making room.”
You giggle. “Love is setting aside a space for someone.”
“Love as chair politics,” he says smartly.
“Love is an empty seat: an interdisciplinary exploration into effort-based decision-making.”
“Okay, you made this not fun by actually sounding smart. What the hell is effort-based decision-making?”
“Google is free.”
You hear the grin in his voice as he bounces off your words. “So is a tree, hang from it.”
The laugh leaves you before you can stop it. It is sharp and ugly, startled out of you in a way that makes you clap a hand over your mouth too late. The sound echoes faintly in your dark kitchen, caught by the camera, your shadow probably distorted by the terrible angle and the water jug propping it upright.
There is a beat of silence on the other side of the wall. Then, quietly, delightedly, “Oh, you thought that was funny. You think I’m funny?”
“Please, it was a fluke.”
“That was the healthiest you’ve sounded all day.”
You make an offended noise and reach blindly toward the counter until your hand lands on a tea towel. You throw it at the wall and it hits with a soft, deeply unsatisfying slap before flopping onto the floor.
He gasps. “Did you just throw something at me?”
“Consider it a formal complaint.”
“I’m snitching to the landlord.”
“Tell them to fix the power while you’re there.”
“Fine. But I’m adding attempted murder on top of that previous violent note.”
You shake your head to yourself, still smiling. If you were sane, you might take the time to wonder what the fuck you were doing, sitting on your kitchen counter, arguing with a man you’ve yet to seen, smiling like an idiot at your own wall. And yet, you hesitate to move.
For a moment, neither of you say anything and a silence that isn’t quite awkward settles over you both.
Then, with a sudden electric hum, the fridge kicks back on and the ceiling light blinks once, twice, and then floods the kitchen in a harsh yellow that makes you squint, and makes your neighbour curse in surprise.
“Oh!”
From the other side of the wall, he lets out a sigh. “Boo.”
You laugh again, leaning over to check your camera. “Boo?”
“I was having fun,” he says, almost accusingly. “The dark was doing wonders for our dynamic. You were less mean when you couldn’t see.”
“You mean when I was visually impaired and vulnerable?”
“Exactly. It was bringing out your softer side. Or maybe it was all me.”
Looking at the camera, you see that the little red dot is glowing steadily on the screen, and only then remember what you were meant to be doing in the first place. Most of the clip is probably just your kitchen window, your voice too close to the mic and his voice muffled through the plaster, the two of you listing stupid things that barely count as anything.
Still, your fingers hesitates over the stop button.
On the other side of the wall, he shifts and the wall groans. “You alive over there? The light didn’t evaporate you when they turned back on, did they?”
You press stop. “Now how does that make any sense?”
You pick up the camera, thumb hovering over the saved clip. The thumbnail is dark and grainy, almost useless at first glance, but when you play the first second back, your own laugh cracks through the tiny speaker before you panic and mute it.
Your face warms.
Stupid.
So, so stupid. But you don’t delete it. Instead, you set the camera carefully on the counter and blow out your candle still burning against the window.
“Anyway, since the lights are back, I’m going to pretend to do my assignment now. Keyword pretend because I like to keep my goals realistic,” 4B says and the strange mood lifts and dissipates with the candle’s smoke.
“Good luck with that.”
“Good luck with your love thing.”
You look down at the camera again.
“Yeah,” you say, picking it up before you can change your mind. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
You pause. Then you tuck the camera against your chest and head out of the kitchen. “Nothing.”
Behind the wall, 4B laughs like he does not believe you at all, and you leave before he can ask.
You don’t remember when but sometime along the semester, you begin to enjoy waking up. You hadn’t grown a newfound appreciation for your alarm, no that was still a work in progress, but something about opening your eyes to start a new day no longer evoked a groan. Your next door neighbour did that for you instead.
One morning you were waking up to a quiet early morning and the next, you hear an alarm ring parallel to yours.
You hear it again this morning as you rub the sleep from your eyes as some anime opening plays, muffled by the distance. When you step into your kitchen, it’s louder, and you hear the soft padding of feet against floorboards as 4B wakes.
“Morning,” he’ll mumble, voice rough from sleep, just as he did now.
“Good morning,” you’ll say back and hope he doesn’t hear the smile in your voice.
He’ll grunt in acknowledgement, heading for his bathroom which you’ve come to realise shares a wall with your bedroom. You’ll get started on packing a lunch to take to campus while he takes his sweet time getting ready. You wake far too early for him, after all.
You’ll pause on your way out, just as you did now, tilting your head slightly to listen. If he hears your door open, he’ll call out, “Good luck with your classes!” and if he doesn’t, water too loud or too immersed in something else, you’ll say, “See you later!”
It’s a routine you’ve come to love.
Sometimes when he hears you sigh coming back from campus, you’ll hear him close his fridge and fall into his couch. “Grey's Anatomy?” he’ll ask loudly and you’ll laugh softly, hand already reaching to grab your remote despite your drowsiness.
You tell yourself it isn’t a big deal. Plenty of people have neighbours and plenty of people talk to said neighbours. Plenty of people probably know the exact sound of their neighbour’s footsteps in the morning, the difference between their sleepy voice and their smug voice, the exact pause before they say something annoying just to get you to react.
Probably.
Still, the thought follows you out of your apartment and all the way to campus, sitting somewhere uncomfortable behind your ribs. It’s there when you catch yourself slowing down near the front steps because someone ahead of you laughs a little too loud and, for one stupid second, you think it might be him. It is there when you buy coffee and almost order an extra pastry because 4B once mentioned he loves sugary things first thing in the morning and frankly any other time of the day.
It is there when you realise, with a kind of quiet horror, that you might actually like him.
Recognising the telltale signs that you’re about to spiral, you decide to at least try and prevent it by taking a walk and touching grass. Unfortunately, you forget that there are evil forces against you because when you step into the main courtyard on campus on your way out, you immediately find yourself in hell.
Like, actual hell. Like there’s a frat car wash happening in the middle of the campus kind of hell.
A row of cars lines the curb beside the courtyard, soapy water running down the pavement in bright, bubbly streams. Someone has set up a folding table with a cardboard sign that reads SIG KAP CHARITY CAR WASH in marker thick enough to be seen from across the street. A group of people have already crowded around the main attraction snapping away and laughing, the men scattered around yelling over each other as they try and organise the mess. There’s a JBL speaker playing Cbat and other such EDM trap that has you wondering if you’ve walked yourself into a rave.
And standing in the middle of it all, shirtless and holding a sponge as flexes for his groupies, is Gojo Satoru.
He’s hot. There’s really no polite way around it. His hair is damp from the spray of the hose, white strands pushed messily off his forehead and curling slightly at the ends. Water runs in thin lines down his throat, over the sharp cut of his collarbones, then lower and lower, disappearing along the hard planes of his stomach and tapering down into droplets that catch the sun on his abs.
Your eyes follow a line of water that continues further down which is definitely a mistake.
A deeply human mistake, but still a mistake nonetheless because it means you get an unwillingly thorough look at the narrow dip of his waist, the low-slung band of his shorts, the way his abdomen tightens when he twists the sponge out over the hood of a car.
You shake your head, rattling any more indecent thoughts from your head. Sure, fine, he’s hot as fuck. But who is genuinely stupid enough to get seduced into donating money because some guy with abs and wet hair smiles at them whilst simultaneously wiping bird shit off a windscreen?
A group passes by the table and drops a note into the donation jar.
You stare. Okay, nevermind. Apparently some people really will. Still, it has absolutely nothing to do with you. You don’t have a car, you don’t carry cash on you, and you don’t want to entertain a bunch of frat guys especially after all you’ve learnt this year. So, you adjust the strap of your tote higher on your shoulder and keep walking.
“Hey, you in the band shirt!”
Your foot catches slightly on the uneven pavement, and you make an embarrassing gesture getting back on two feet. Blind panic and something warmer, something more traitorous, jolts through you like a beam of lightning.
No.
No, because that voice—
You’ve barely rationalised anything before your head is whipping so fast over your shoulder you think you’ve given yourself a cramp. It’s instinctive more than anything, a kind of desperate hope for something indescribable, heart leaping up to your throat at the thought that a voice behind a wall has suddenly become attached to a body.
And what a body.
Gojo jogs toward you, shirtless and damp and unfairly attractive under the sun, towel bouncing against his neck with each step. There is soap clinging to his hands, water sliding down the firm line of his chest, one hand running through his hair as he shakes it of loose droplets.
He comes to a stop in front of you, grin already loaded. You don’t even flinch when he flicks water onto your face accidentally.
“Band shirt! Running away already?” he asks. “I didn’t even pitch you yet.”
Gojo Satoru just spoke with 4B’s voice.
Your 4B. Except he’s no longer a faceless voice in the dark. He is Gojo Satoru. He is shirtless in front of you. He is looking at you like he’s waiting for an answer.
“You cryin’? he asks, head tilting slightly as he glances at the droplets on your cheek. “Is the sun getting to you? We have buckets of water back there if you want to dunk yourself. Or maybe you want to dunk me and live vicariously through that? I noticed you staring.”
You force your mouth to move. “I don’t have a car.”
Unfortunately, the voice that comes out is wrong. It’s too high like you’ve swallowed your own throat and replaced it with someone doing customer service over the phone.
Gojo blinks.
You clear your throat. “I mean, I don’t have a car,” you repeat, lower this time.
Great, now you sound like you’re about to rob him.
His smile twitches, one eyebrow raising slowly as he regards you.
“Right,” he says, slowly. “No car. I think I got it the first time. What about a bike? We can wipe down the seat or something.”
You shake your head.
“Scooter? Skateboard?”
“No.”
“How do you get around?”
“Feet.”
He looks down and you suddenly feel self-conscious of your shoe choice.
“We don’t typically offer pedicures but I could make an exception for you,” Gojo says with a wide grin. “Or we could give your shoes a good scrub.”
“I don’t have anything for you to wash.”
“What? Don’t tell me you’re attached to that layer of grime you have on them.”
You’re so offended you temporarily blink of your stupor to splutter. “They’re not that dirty! They’re just well-loved!”
“They’re clearly crying out for some divine intervention. Lucky for you, I might as well be the second coming of Jesus.”
You scoff. “No way. Maybe I like them ugly, okay?”
Gojo’s grin widens. “So you admit they’re ugly.”
You hate that he catches it so quickly. You hate even more that your heart picks up like a trapped hummingbird beneath your skin.
Behind him, someone whistles. “Satoru, stop flirting and actually help!”
“I’m not flirting,” he calls back without looking away from you. “I’m recruiting customers!”
He lowers his voice so it’s just for you. “You are planning on being a customer, aren’t you?”
You scoff. “Is this what the whole pitch is? Bullying people’s shoes until they donate?”
“No, that was just tailored marketing.” He leans slightly closer, lowering his voice like he’s about to reveal a conspiracy. “The real pitch is much more moving.”
“Okay,” you say, because apparently you’ve lost the will to survive. “Go on then.”
Gojo flashes you another smile, or maybe he hasn’t stopped smiling not even once throughout this entire encounter, and steps back, pressing one wet hand dramatically to his bare chest. He adopts a pitiful expression as he gazes at you. “Every year, hundreds of cars on this campus are forced to suffer through bird shit, pollen, and the mysterious sticky stuff that appears under trees for reasons science refuses to explain.”
You grimace.
He continues, undeterred. “For just five dollars, you can help one of these poor vehicles experience dignity again.”
“I don’t have five dollars.”
“For just three dollars—”
“No cash.”
“For one encouraging word—”
“Not happening.”
“—you can support a hardworking student athlete in his fight against grime,” he finishes calmly.
“I think you just want to be shirtless,” you say what’s been on your mind the entire time, letting yourself steal another glimpse of his chest. Is it just your imagination but did he just flex his pecs at you?
He looks down at himself like he has only just remembered the state he is in. “This? It’s a uniform. Works wonders for pulling in interest.” He gestures vaguely over his shoulder where another person has just dropped money into the donation jar without taking her eyes off his back. “See? The system works.”
“How are you so blatantly shameless?”
He shrugs. “Shame only slows you down.”
Gojo steps slightly to the side when someone passes behind him with a bucket, and the movement brings him just close enough for you to catch the clean, cozy smell of soap and sunscreen underneath the damp heat of him. The towel around his neck drips onto his chest and a bead of water slips from his collarbone, trailing lower.
Your eyes follow it again. Good lord. When you force your gaze back up, he’s watching you smugly.
“So,” he says, voice dropping a little, “should I put you down as morally opposed to charity, or just immune to my charm?”
“Those are the only options?”
“Hey, I’m open to feedback. If you have a complaint, I’m all ears.”
“Add a financially unavailable option.”
“Okay.” He nods gravely. “Morally opposed, charm-resistant, and broke.”
“I didn’t say broke.” You cut yourself off when you realise you’ve spent too long arguing with him when you had been so determined to walk away moments before. “Forget it, I’m walking away.”
Gojo laughs and steps directly into your path, head tilting as he studies you like he’s trying to place a song from the first few seconds.
“You have quite the mouth on you,” he says, and something foreboding settles in your gut. “What’s your name, band shirt?”
Something about his voice tricks you into almost answering, perhaps because 4B has spent weeks training a response out of you. He says something stupid, you respond with something worse, and you fall into conversation that way. But while they sound the same you force yourself to remember this isn’t 4B through the wall.
You have only one goal here: get out before he starts connecting ‘band shirt’ to ‘familiar voice’ that becomes ‘girl through the wall’ because then you’ll have to move apartments and potentially countries. So, you straighten your shoulders, lift your chin, and speak in the blandest tone you can manage.
“No,” you say. “Short for none of your business.”
“That’s a terrible name,” Gojo says, nose scrunching up. “What did you do to your parents to deserve that? It’s going to look quite hurtful on the donation receipt.”
“I’m not donating,” you say, already looking for the cleanest route around him. “So thankfully, your admin concerns are none of my concern. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
“You won’t donate, you won’t volunteer, and you won’t give me your name,” he says, still watching you too closely. “But you’ll stand here and argue with me.”
“That’s because you seem like the type who needs things explained slowly,” you quip back. “And besides, you’re in my way.”
His gaze flicks briefly to the open space beside him. You both look at it.
Then he looks back at you, smile unbearably smug. “Am I?”
You hate him because he is right, and because the longer you stand here, the more his voice settles into place with his face, and the more impossible it becomes to separate Gojo Satoru from 4B. You can feel it happening in real time, the two versions of him overlapping until the faceless boy through the wall starts becoming this shirtless jerk with wet hair and water dripping down his chest.
“You’re very intense about names,” you say, forcing your voice into that same bland, too-flat register. “Maybe work on that before the next person you corner.”
“Relax,” he says, voice dipping into something smoother. “I’m just saying, if a girl insults me this much, I feel like I should at least know what to call her.”
“Band shirt is working fine for you. And if it’s not going on a donation receipt then I don’t see why you really need it.”
“Can I guess?” he asks instead, already leaning forward like the idea has thrilled him.
“Absolutely not.” You take a step to the side, causing him to promptly mirror you. “Dude, quit it.”
“Sorry, sorry,” he says, immediately stepping back with both hands raised to showcase his harmlessness though it’s ruined by his smile. “Got excited. You’re so nonchalant and mysterious it just draws me in, you know? Come on, I’ll leave you alone if you just give me a name, your real name.”
“No.”
“Okay, not a real one,” he concedes far too quickly. “Just so I have something to call you in my head when you’re already running through it so much.”
“I’m not giving you a fake name either.”
“That’s so much worse,” he says, sounding wounded. “Now you’re not even trusting me with a lie? I’m shirtless for charity, band shirt, I’m vulnerable.”
“Vulnerably harassing a stranger for her name in the middle of campus?”
“Stranger feels harsh.” His smile shifts a little, still playful yes, but the focus underneath it becomes visible. “You don’t exactly feel like a stranger.”
You need to get out here right now.
You tighten your hold on your tote bag and start walking, not caring where your dirty shoes led you, not caring if it even led you back to that God forsaken carwash. Gojo doesn’t give up, trailing after you and eating up the distance you try to place with his long legs, body facing yours even as you speed walk.
“Do I know you?”
“No,” you say. “We don’t know each other.”
“But it feels like we know each other.”
“We? There’s no we. Maybe you’ve seen me in passing but it’s not something to obsess over. Okay, bye.”
“Possible,” he says, nodding solemnly. “I do have a wide reach. I’m trying to expand it, actually, which is why I need your name.”
You pass the front of the carwash table once more and someone at the front turns, practically jumping on the spot upon seeing Gojo. He ignores them, still drilling holes into the side of your face.
“First initial?”
“N. For No.”
“Last initial?”
“O.”
“Does it have an A in it?”
“Do you know when to quit?”
“Is that a yes?”
“No.”
“No, it doesn’t or no, you won’t tell me? Or secret third option, No as in No your name.” He clicks his tongue like you’re the one being difficult. “See, this is getting really confusing. You could solve this entire problem by telling me your real name.”
You keep walking for a few more steps but it’s getting harder to pretend you don’t have a golden retriever trailing after your every step, and word, especially when he’s shirtless and a microcelebrity on campus.
“Look,” you say, stopping and turning to give him a piece of your mind. “I don’t know you, you don’t know me, so this has been deeply unnecessary. Let’s just leave it at that okay?”
His smile softens as he also stops, looking at you. “Then tell me your name and we can fix that.”
For one stupid, horrifying second, you almost do. His voice dips around his words, warm and familiar, and your brain gives you 4B through the wall saying morning, 4A, soft with sleep, and suddenly your name feels like something dangerously close to being handed over.
His hand lifts, reaching for your wrist at your hesitation but hovers short of actually touching, eyes holding yours for permission.
Then someone calls, “Satoru!”
His face twists, mouth opening like he is ready to spit out another excuse, when a towel hits him square in the back of his head.
He jolts, hand leaving the space between you to grab at the towel before it falls. “What the fuck?”
You both look over in the direction of the carwash.
Sukuna stands by the donation table with another towel hanging from one hand, looking like he would rather be dragged behind one of the cars than be there voluntarily. He is also shirtless, because can you even see a guy with his shirt on in a fifty metre radius around you? Water drips from the ends of his pink hair, sliding down the hard line of his neck and over his chest, his skin still shining from whatever girl had convinced him to stand under the hose for a photo.
“Oi,” Sukuna calls, lifting the towel like he might throw it again. “Are you done begging, or should we put a bowl out for you too?”
Gojo’s expression immediately collapses into offence. “I’m not begging. I told you I was networking! You’re really cramping my style.”
“Whatever you want to call it.” Sukuna jerks his chin toward the cars. “Get back here. Some girl paid ten dollars because you promised to write her name in soap on the windshield.”
Gojo ruffles a hand through his hair and you catch a glimpse of his undercut before he groans, ducking his head. “Shit! I forgot I said that. Can’t you take one for the team, Sukuna?”
“She asked for you.”
The imaginary campus-wide fanbase turns out to be true, you think mournfully.
A few people around the table laugh, and Gojo turns just enough to argue back, towel clutched in one hand, wet hair sticking messily to the back of his neck. You take the sight of his back muscles as a sign to leave. So before he can turn back around, you step away.
Then another step. Then several more, fast enough that your tote bumps against your hip and your grimy shoes slap loudly against the wet pavement. It’s not running, because running would imply guilt, and you are innocent of everything except being cursed.
“Band shirt,” Gojo calls behind you and because it’s not your name, you don’t turn around.
You especially don’t turn around when Gojo’s half-groan, half-laugh follows you across the courtyard, short yet familiar enough to make your stomach twist.
4B is Gojo Satoru.
Gojo Satoru is 4B.
Someone needs to take down the Etsy website.
You never do wear that band shirt again.
Not that it mattered much because you also don’t really go outside for a week, not if you could help it. You want to call it locking in because the midterms are coming up but in the brief moments when you allow yourself the truth, you admit it’s because you’re preventing any chance of running into Gojo again.
It’s difficult to do that when he’s your neighbour. Or, well, when 4B is your neighbour.
That distinction becomes very important to you. Gojo Satoru is someone you saw shirtless in the middle of campus using charity as an excuse to flex obscenely at the general public moving through their day. Gojo Satoru has wet hair, a stupid grin, and is highly dangerous because he has a face and a body and a set of eyes that pins you down,
4B is a voice through the wall. 4B is his alarm going off too loudly in the morning, all groans and curses as he heaves himself from the warmth of his bed. 4B is ranting about the latest anime he’s watched, whispering through plaster when it gets late, knocking twice against the wall when he wants your attention but isn’t sure if you’re in.
So you let yourself have it. You avoid Gojo, and you keep talking to 4B.
After a while, there aren’t many problems with having Gojo as your next door neighbour. Sure, he can get loud during phone calls with his friends but you quickly forgive him when he gives sheepish apologies and dials down his volume. And sure, his alarm is loud but after that initial morning when you grilled him on the cheerful tune, he had changed it to something more appropriate.
The way he laughs is loud, the way he sings as he cooks is loud, the way he says your unit number is loud, all bright like he’s been waiting to catch you the moment you step into your apartment.
It seems Gojo can’t help but be loud. In every aspect.
You wonder if you should bring it up.
It really was unfortunate that your bedroom and his bathroom shared a wall. Whoever constructed this building many, many years ago must not have planned it out too well and simply settled for fitting rooms of different apartments together like tetris. And because of this, his bathroom ends up right next to your head when you sleep.
You also gather that his shower is pressed against the said wall that you share with him, if his groans are any indication.
You should probably bring it up.
But how does one even bring up such a conversation? Hey neighbour! Not that I’ve been listening but I can hear you jerk off in the shower. Could you stop?
In his defence, you relent, rolling over and pressing your pillow against your ears, he was trying to be subtle about it. You appreciate that he wasn’t doing it in his room since that would certainly turn you off from whatever you’re eating in your kitchen next to him. But if he believes the rush of water is enough to muffle his moans, he’s sorely mistaken.
You roll onto your other side, shuffling when even this position isn’t comfortable. Your thin sheets are tangled around your legs and you’re desperately trying to focus on the book you’re reading on your phone. But who are you kidding, your thumb has been frozen on the same paragraph for the past five minutes, mind a million miles away.
There’s a thud of something being placed down on the tiled floor, a slight rustle. And then, a low, breathy groan—so faint you could almost convince yourself you imagined it.
But you definitely did not.
You breath catches as you place your phone down and stare at the ceiling as if that will make the sounds stop. It never works. You tell yourself to just roll over again, put in your airpods and drown it out. You’ve done it before, you can do it again.
But your hand is already drifting down, sliding over your stomach, fingers brushing the waistband of your shorts.
The first stroke is unintentional, a simple slow press through cotton just to feel something. But then you hear him again, a sharper exhale, a whispered word you can’t quite make out, and your hips shift, pressing your palm harder against your cunt.
Fuck.
You close your eyes and instead of the dark of your room, you see steam. A shower, his shower, the one right on the other side of this wall.
You don’t want to think about Gojo like this so you settle instead on your 4B. All you know is the sound of his footsteps in the hallway, the messy scrawl of his handwriting, the sound of his door opening and closing, the low rumble of his laugh when he teases you. It’s deep and a little rough around the edges. You’ve built a version of him from the sound alone, and right now, that’s more than enough.
Fingers tracing the outline of your clit through the fabric, circles so light they’re barely there, you let your mind wander.
You imagine stepping into that shower. The air is thick and wet, fogging up the glass. He’s already under the spray, back to you, water streaming down his shoulders. You don;t want to see his face, but you can see the way his muscles shift as he turns his head ever so slightly, giving you the slightest glimpse of his side profile before the steam whisks it away.
It would be foolish to hesitate. You slide your hands around his waist from behind, palms flat against his stomach, and he laughs, the vibrations meeting your chest.
“Fuck,” he breathes, voice deeper, lower with him so close to you. “Look at you, giving me a helping hand, hm?”
“Shut up,” you’d probably mumble against his shoulder blade, fingers already trailing lower, through the thatch of hair at the base of his cock. “You’re always so loud.”
He’d be hard already, and you can feel the heat of him, the slight twitch as your fingertips brush the underside of his shaft.
“No, I don’t think that’s right,” he says. “Because you’ve been listening, haven’t you? All those nights wrapped up all pretty in your blankets, thinking you can get away with using me to feel good, thinking you’re an angel for trying not to listen. But you know exactly what I sound like when I’m close, don’t you?”
Your breath hitches as you wrap your hand around him, and he groans, deep and guttural, exactly the sound that’s coming through the wall right now. Your hand moves in time with the fantasy, slow strokes, thumb pressing into the slick tip, and he leans back into you, letting his head fall against your shoulder.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your ear. “Such a good girl. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you to touch me. Wanted to feel your hand on my cock for so fucking long, angel.”
“Since when?”
You stroke him faster, twisting your wrist the way you imagine he does, and his breathing turns ragged.
“Since the moment you opened that pretty mouth and told me off. Fuck—faster, angel. Just like that, don’t stop. Your hand feels so perfect.”
Your own fingers press harder against your clit through your shorts, and you let out a tiny whimper you hope he can’t hear through the wall. Maybe he can, maybe he really does know exactly what you’ve been doing. That thought makes you even wetter, a choked gasp escaping.
In the fantasy, his body tenses. His hand comes up to cover yours, pressing your grip tighter around him.
“I’m gonna cum,” he says, voice strained. “I’m gonna paint the tiles with it, and you’re gonna watch. You’re gonna listen to me fall apart because of you. And then—fuck—then I’m gonna fuck you.”
His hips jerk forward, and you feel the hot pulse of his release against your hand, the way he shudders and moans your name (which he doesn’t know, but you give it to him anyway, a whispered invention). His cum slicks the inside of your fingers, and you keep stroking until he pushes your hand away with an overstimulated whimper that might be your own.
He turns around.
You still don’t see his face, just the broad outline of his chest you saw during the carwash incident, the water catching in the hollow of his collarbone. He pushes you back against the cool tile with one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding down your stomach, between your legs.
“My turn,” he purrs. “I’m gonna fuck you right here, in my shower, where you can hear every sound I make. And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you? Gonna be an angel for me and let me use this pussy like I’ve been dreaming about.”
You nod, mouth open, and he sinks two fingers into you without warning.
The gasp that escapes your lips is real. “Gojo—!”
“Nuh uh, pretty,” he coos in your ear. “Call me Satoru. C’mon, say my name, angel.”
You shake your head against your pillow, back arching. “That’s—that would be weird.”
He slows down, taking his time with you, dragging his fingers against your gummy walls before sliding over that spot that makes you see stars, chuckling when you gasp. “I’m making you feel this good and you’re still talking back? Gonna need to fuck that attitude out of you.”
You bite your lip hard. “Satoru…”
He stills, before he presses down hard. “Hm? What was that?”
“Satoru!”
His voice is a rough, airy thing in your ear. “That’s it, pretty, you’re doing so good for me.”
Your own fingers mimic the motion, pushing inside yourself while your thumb circles your clit. You can hear him through the wall—a wet, rhythmic sound, faster now, and a string of words you catch in fragments. “Yeah… that’s it… take it…”
You imagine his cock,thick, already half-hard again from the feel of you, sliding between your thighs. He lifts your leg, hooks it over his arm, and presses the head against your entrance.
“Look at me,” he says, and you try, but his face is a blur of heat and water, just shadows and the gleam of wet skin. “Look at me while I fuck you. I want you to remember this.”
He pushes in slow, and you feel the stretch in your fantasy and in your own body as your fingers sink deeper. You bite your lip to keep from moaning out loud.
“Shit, you’re so tight,” he groans, his forehead pressing against yours. “You feel that? That’s my cock filling you up. That’s what you get for listening in, for touching yourself to the sound of me cumming.”
He sets a hard rhythm, the slapping of wet skin echoing off the shower walls. Your fantasy-self clings to him, nails digging into his back, and he keeps talking, his voice ragged and dirty, exactly what you need.
“That’s it, it feels so fucking good, huh? Bet you love this, love that you didn’t know what I looked like but you know the sound of my balls slapping against your ass. You’re such a fucking slut for it. Is it hotter now that you know who I am? Open your mouth and tell me, Y/N.”
You whimper, hand curling into the sheets. “I—I can’t. You’ll hear.”
“I know, I know, you’re trying so hard to be quiet for me,” he mumbles, so soft and understanding even as he drives into you. “But I’m going to need to hear you, okay? Need to hear how much you want this.”
Your fingers move faster, matching the pace in your head. Your breathing is ragged now, little moans falling from your lips that you can’t hold back. You don’t care if he hears, and maybe if you’re slightly truthful, you hope he does. “Oh god, Satoru, it feels so good!”
In the fantasy, he’s close again. You can feel it in the way his thrusts lose rhythm, in the way his grip tightens on your hip.
“I’m gonna cum inside you,” he growls, and it’s a question and a statement all at once. “You want that? Want to feel my cum dripping down your thigh?”
“Yes,” you whisper out loud, into your empty room.
He buries himself deep, and the fantasy explodes in a rush of heat and words: “Fuckfuckfuck—take it—take my cum, you dirty little thing—gonna fill you up so full—”
You climax with a gasp, your back arching off the mattress, your fingers pressing hard against your clit as waves of pleasure roll through you. You hear yourself moan, a high, broken sound, and you don’t care.
The sounds from his side of the wall change.
There’s a final, shuddering groan and the squeak of a hand against tile. And then silence, broken only by the rush of water from a showerhead.
You lie there, panting, hand still between your legs, your skin flushed and damp. You can almost smell the steam, almost feel the ghost of his fantasy-body pressed against yours.
The shower turns off and you climb out of bed, running away to the living room.
You’re not a freak. You can’t be.
You’re a kind, virtuous person who knows no sin, who is gracious and angelic and trustworthy and not someone who listens in on her neighbour jerking it in his shower. That’s simply not who you are and not something you’d ever do.
Despite this obvious fact, your brain tells you otherwise. And when you are at war with yourself, what else is there to do but consult your friends?
You find Shoko outside the campus cafe, sitting at one of the metal tables with an iced coffee and her laptop open, clacking away with a frown. The chair opposite her is empty though not welcomingly. It’s buried under her tote bag, a packet of cigarettes jutting out that would have her girlfriend at her throat if she saw.
You walk over, tuck the box further into her bag and under her jumper, before putting her bag on the ground. “You’re smoking again?”
“Hi,” Shoko says, looking up briefly before slumping down over her laptop. “Just to get the edge off. Midterms are coming around and I’m already feeling the effects.”
You nod, stealing her drink and taking a long sip. She looks at you again, squinting.
“You don’t look as bad as I thought you would.”
“What does that mean?”
“Isn’t that film of yours due next Friday? Where’s the panic and stress? Also, that’s my coffee you whore.”
You take one last long sip and slide it back over. “I have bigger fish to fry. But shit, Shoko, you look completely under it already. We can call off girls’ talk for another day, I promise it’s not that serious.”
“Not that serious?” Shoko scoffs, hitting enter before closing her laptop. “You triple-texted last night at 3 a.m. not making any sense at all. What happened? Did Naoya text you again? You didn’t unblock him, did you?”
“What? No! It’s…” you groan, covering your face. “It’s worse. It’s so much worse. I think I’m at the edge of the abyss staring down. Like whatever I do here on out will either make or break me.”
“Okay,” she replies slowly, clearly not expecting your response. “And who is this about exactly?”
You wonder if you can tell her the truth. Hey Shoko, you might decide to start with, I’ve been crushing on the voice of my neighbour for the last month who I just found out is Satoru, you know your friend? Also, I’ve been listening to him jerk it for a while now and I have an inkling that he knows.
Instead of any of this, you whisper, “Satoru.”
She flinches as if you’ve slapped her. “What?”
Your finger comes up to point before you stop yourself, realising it was impolite to point, but your gaze is far too telling. She hesitates, taking in your horrified expression before looking over her shoulder to find Gojo stepping into sight, head turning about as if searching for something.
You almost delude yourself into thinking that when his gaze stops at your table, his eyes light up because he’s looking at you. You almost delude yourself into thinking that he’s making his way to your table. You almost delude yourself into thinking the smile he wears is for you.
Only one of these things is true because the moment you see him, you’ve pulled your hoodie up until it’s almost flopping back over your eyes, leaning back and tucking your chin in.
Gojo saunters up to your table and stops just beside Shoko. Your friend groans, dropping her head into her hands.
“He’s right behind me, isn’t he?”
Not wanting to speak, you only shrug uselessly. Gojo doesn’t even spare you a glance, whining as he tugs on her sleeve to grab her attention.
“Come on, Shoko, I’ve been trying to text you for hours now. Ignoring me isn’t going to make me disappear, you know.”
“I know now,” she mumbles before yanking her arm away from his touch. “Okay, out with it, Gojo. I refuse to be seen in public with you so let’s get this over with.”
“I need your help with something.” When Shoko only stares, unimpressed and not surprised, he presses on. “It’ll be quick, I swear! And it isn’t about the pre lab questions this time, I promise. I’m cashing in that one favour you owe me from last year.”
“What favour?”
“Me hosting a party that got you and Utahime together.”
Shoko shoots him a withering look. “That wasn’t a favour, we just happened to meet at your party. You didn’t even know her back then.”
Gojo grins, and for a moment, you get lost in it. It would be so easy to tell him now and have that smile directed at you with recognition instead of casual politeness. You don’t think he’s doing it on purpose, but you feel yourself getting smaller as he keeps talking to Shoko and only Shoko, sitting there silently as if being quiet and sipping at Shoko’s coffee might excuse your lack of presence.
Shoko rolls her eyes, turning to look at you. “Sorry, Y/N. We’ll talk after I’m done dealing with this kid.”
You wave her off stiffly and she narrows her eyes at you, sensing something off when you don’t say anything. Gojo seems to notice you then, looking over at you briefly. He tilts his head at you before Shoko’s voice pulls him back.
“So? What do you want?”
“I need help finding someone.”
You choke on your drink, hastily wiping at your chin when they both turn to look at you, a range of concern across both their faces. You wave them off dismissively, making small sounds to clear your throat as they continue.
“For revenge or…?”
He hums, seriously considering her quip. “Maybe the opposite?”
She narrows her eyes at that. “I don’t know everyone on campus. How are you so confident you can come to me for this?”
“Because you’re doing the same degree as her and you’re a girl and so is the person I’m trying to find.”
There's still liquid in your throat and it’s getting harder for Gojo to pretend like his friend’s friend isn’t slowly dying from across the table. He lifts his eyes to study you, taking in the way you’re clearing your throat, struggling to keep quiet, and he sighs.
“Hey, breathe through your nose.”
You finally look up at him, the hood obscuring most of your vision though you still try to shoot him a look as if to say, oh no, really? and he smirks at that.
“I'm serious, just breathe for a second. Through your nose, come on. It’ll get rid of that coughing fit.”
You close your mouth with effort and take a deep, shaky breath in. It goes in smoothly though the urge to cough still persists and you have to concentrate to not relapse.
Gojo pushes your iced coffee closer to you, wiping his wet hand on Shoko’s sleeve after despite her protest. You take it gratefully, taking in a few sips before clearing your throat.
Realising you couldn’t get out of this without speaking at least once, you lower your voice as much as you can and mumble, “Thanks.”
Gojo hums, accepting it easily, but his eyes linger on you for half a second too long before he turns back to Shoko. “She's someone in your course doing cardiovascular physiology. She has a lab on Tuesday and morning tutorials on Friday."
You don’t miss the way Shoko has been staring bullets into you though her eyes flicker over to Gojo every once in a while. “A lab on Tuesday, you say.” And there’s something in her tone that has you looking up frantically.
Gojo doesn’t seem to notice, nodding instead. “She usually comes back late, at around 5:20? Which means her classes end around 5 p.m.”
“5 p.m,” she repeats, her eyes never straying.
You try to shake your head as subtly as possible.
“She has the prettiest voice you’ve ever heard and the softest laugh when she finds something amusing. But then when she finds something funny, like really funny, her laugh is super loud and bright and it’s honestly cool the way she doesn’t seem to care.”
You kick Shoko’s foot under the table and she barely winces, realisation or something similar dawning on her.
“I don’t need to know any of that, that won’t help.” Her lips quirk upwards slightly. “And why are we looking for this girl, Gojo?”
He pouts at her words. “I’m looking for my neighbour.”
Shoko makes a gesture as if to ask if he’s serious. “Just go knock on her door? You literally know where she lives. That’s probably more than I could ever tell you.”
“You don’t get it,” he says, tutting, wagging his fingers even. “We have this thing going on and I don’t want to ruin her trust by camping outside her door, for example. So instead, I’ll just conveniently come across her on campus because somehow our timetables seem to line up.”
Shoko stares at him blankly. “So stalking.”
“Don’t be so crude, Shoko. It’s not stalking if I’m being emotionally considerate about it.” He leans forward slightly, hands on the table, and for a moment his voice loses some of its usual shine. “I don’t want to scare her off, okay? I know where she lives, but that feels like cheating. If you know her, ask her first. Ask if she’s okay with me knowing, or if she wants me to stay clueless and suffer with dignity.”
Shoko’s expression barely changes. “You don’t do anything with dignity.”
“I could start for her,” he says, then seems to realise what he’s admitted because he looks away with a small, helpless laugh. “Look, I know it sounds stupid, but I like talking to her. I like not knowing too much. I like that she can hang up on me by walking away from the wall whenever she wants. If I just knock on her door, then I’ve taken that choice from her.”
For once, Shoko doesn’t interrupt.
Gojo rubs at the back of his neck, grin returning but weaker this time, more embarrassed than smug. “But also, I’m going a little crazy. Call me pathetic, but sometimes she says something and I forget what my own point was. She’s mean in this really specific way, and funny, and then every now and then she’ll be nice like she didn’t mean to, and it fully ruins me. So yeah, I want to know who she is. I just don’t want to find out in a way that makes her regret talking to me.”
You kick her foot again.
“And what happens if you do find her?” she asks, rubbing the toe of her shoe against the floor like you have injured her beyond repair. “You’re going to walk up and say, hi, I’ve been listening to you through the wall for weeks and I reverse-engineered your timetable?”
Gojo makes a face. “No, obviously not. I have charm. I’ll make her fall for me first.”
You stand with a start, slamming your hands on the table, knocking your empty cup over. You hastily pick it up, shooting Shoko as many SOS signals as it’ll take for her to follow your lead. She lets out a slight laugh, especially after seeing Gojo’s bewildered face, and stands, albeit slowly.
“I think I have an idea of who you’re looking for.”
“You do?” Gojo says, eyes wide and smile hopeful.
“I have a feeling.” Her eyes leave yours after a pause, moving to shove her laptop into her bag. “But I’m going to need to confirm it before I tell you. Wouldn’t want to drag an innocent into your life.”
He nods quickly and you mournfully think that he looks like a puppy. You didn’t need that imagery, especially not right now. You tune out the rest of their conversation though it mainly consisted of Gojo demanding more details and Shoko shooting him down firmly. When you have your tote over your shoulder, Shoko tilts her head towards the door.
You all but run out. Vaguely, you hear Gojo ask, “What’s up with her?”
“Boy problems,” Shoko says before she catches up to you and the two of you walk out.
“Where are we going?”
You look over your shoulder, heart only settling when you don’t catch any glimpse of white hair. “Away.”
“Oh, so now you feel like talking.”
“Please, Shoko. Please.”
She laughs, loose and unrestrained. “Want to tell me what that was all about? Gojo looking for some Cinderella and you looking like you’re about to choke to death?”
You spin around, hands coming up to hold her still by the shoulders. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s exactly that. Shoko, stop looking at me like that, I’m going to freak out.”
“Okay, okay.” Her hands come up to wrap loosely around your wrists, not pushing you off, just holding you there. “Take a breath. He doesn’t know.”
“He almost knows.”
“I’m pretty sure he only suspects something,” she corrects. “Those are two very different things. And if you really don’t want him to know then I’ll tell him that. He might seem a little clueless in areas such as personal space, but he’s not a complete jerk. He’ll respect that.”
You let go of her shoulders slowly, though your hands stay half-raised between you like you might need to grab her again if she starts looking too entertained. “He was describing me.”
“He was describing his neighbour,” Shoko says, softer now. “You are only panicking because you know that’s you.”
“That does not make me feel better.”
“It should a little.” She tilts her head, cigarette-less and serious in a way you rarely get from her before noon. “Look, if he wanted to corner you, he could’ve knocked on your door. He literally knows where you live. But he didn’t. He came to me because, in his own stupid Gojo way, he’s trying not to scare you.”
“That’s the complete issue,” you sigh, folding your arms tighter across your chest. “The issue is that he’s Gojo, the exact kind of guy I said I was done with. I know what these kinds of guys are like, hell, I dated the textbook example of one.”
Shoko’s expression softens and in the silence, something bubbles up.
“4B wasn’t that,” you say, voice smaller than you mean for it to be. “4B was just mine.”
The second it leaves your mouth, your face warms. Mercifully, Shoko doesn’t pounce on it and instead nods slowly, looking away from you.
“I get that,” she says and when you glance at her, she repeats herself. “I do, you’re not crazy. But Gojo being in a frat doesn’t automatically make him Naoya variant 2.0.”
“I know that,” you grumble.
“Do you?” Shoko bumps her shoulder against yours. “You don’t have to trust him just because he’s 4B. You also don’t have to punish him just because he looks like the kind of guy who would have ruined your life last semester.”
“So what am I supposed to do?” you ask.
“For now? Nothing. You don’t have to suddenly jump out and introduce yourself, but you also don’t have to shut up and ghost him forever. See for yourself what kind of guy Gojo really is now that you know both sides to him.”
Sometimes, Shoko’s rationality surprises you and you find yourself nodding along to her words, a small, dawning hope struggling out of its shell inside your heart. Just as you’re about to thank her profusely for her wise words, she opens her mouth and says, “You should come to Utahime’s this weekend.”
“Uh.” You blink. “What?”
“It’s a small party, like actually small,” she says before you can look horrified. “Not a frat thing. It’ll just be a few of Utahime’s close friends, some drinks and food, you know. I haven’t seen you come out of your apartment for an entire week, Y/N, it’s setting off alarm bells. You’re hot. Funny. Maybe you’ll meet someone there that doesn’t remind you of Gojo or Naoya.”
“Oh my God,” you say slowly, disgusted. “Why are those two people my only options right now? You’re right, I need to go out.”
“I’m sure you didn’t mean it,” Shoko says with sympathy before groaning. “Can I say ‘I told you so’ yet or are you still spiralling? Because I told you so, I told you to stay away from Gojo but lookie here, who’s scouring the campus for even a whiff of you?”
You glare at her. “Not helping, Shoko.”
Shoko bumps her shoulder against yours. “You can tell him when you’re ready. Or let him figure it out slowly if you want to be annoying about it.”
You shove her shoulder back in return, and she laughs, and for a few steps, it almost feels like a normal afternoon. Like you are just two girls walking across campus, talking about weekend plans, not one girl trying to outrun the consequences of accidentally falling for her neighbour through a wall.
Then Shoko tilts her head toward the bus stop. “So. Do you want to go back to your apartment or not?”
You think of the wall, of 4B’s—Gojo’s—voice slipping through it, probably asking why you were so quiet this morning, probably making some stupid comment about your sleep schedule, probably having no idea that your whole life has just rearranged itself around his face.
You sigh.
“Unfortuntely,” you say. “I live there.”
Gojo wonders if he has an addictive personality.
Or maybe it’s just you.
But when it’s just him alone in his mind, hands running through his hair to try and catch every last runaway thought about you, he allows himself the truth. It’s probably just you.
And the kicker is that he was only 90% certain you even existed. Suguru was the one who planted the idea in his head, that the physics had finally fucked him over and he was hallucinating the voice of a sweet, snarky girl, If he hadn’t collected your sticky notes over the last few months, that statistic might have even fallen to a good 38% and even then he wouldn’t be too sure if it was the twisted humour of his friends or if he genuinely had his own Wattpad neighbours-to-lovers arc.
He sighs and leans back into his chair, feeling it give way under the motion with a creak. He wonders, as he so often does these days, if you heard it. His body stills and he waits for an indication that you might be home, a soft chuckle, an exasperated sigh, or his favourite, that soft way you say his name (read: unit number).
When it doesn’t come, he slumps.
Fuck, he was so far gone.
It’s not like this is new to him, the wanting. Gojo wants things all the time. He wants the last pudding cup from the convenience store, wants Suguru to stop pretending he’s above gossip when he’s the nosiest person alive, wants Shoko to stop stealing his lighters despite the fact that he doesn’t smoke because he needs them to light up his birthday candles. He wants good grades with minimal effort and attention when he enters a room and for his hair to sit right without having to do anything about it.
He also wants you.
Gojo’s phone buzzes against his desk and he only looks at it because he’s desperate from his own thoughts. Though he immediately regrets this when Utahime’s name lights up on his screen.
utahime: party this weekend
show up or dont
idc
He snorts.
gojo: woww dont get too excited inviting me im basically suffocating in ur enthusiasm
its chill though if u dont want me there
i wont go ive got plans anyway
Another notification drops down after he hits send.
shoko: do NOT come to utahime’s this weekend
that was a mistake
DO NOT COME
Gojo freezes, eyes blinking at the message. He taps it, opening up his chat history with her that consists of many, many time stamps and read receipts, and very slowly, something that critical thinking sparks behind his blue eyes.
Do not come, said so blunt and immediate and so suspiciously timed right after Utahime’s invitation as if Shoko had decided his presence would cause a problem.
A problem for who?
Gojo’s mouth parts. Then, slowly, his grin spreads. His thumb quickly swipes out to re enter the chat with Utahime and glides across the keyboard.
gojo: actually ykw
wouldn’t miss it for the world <3
utahime: wait im uninviting u
gojo?
i said u cant come
dont leave me on read you dick
Gojo laughs, turning off his phone.
He turns his head toward the wall, still grinning like an idiot, thriving off the single crumb he’s been graciously fed after days of searching for you.
“You going to Utahime’s this weekend, 4A?” he asks softly, knowing you are not there to answer.
The wall says nothing but Gojo’s grin doesn’t fade.
“That’s okay,” he murmurs, phone warm in his hand. “I’ll find out.”
There are two possible explanations for your current situation. Either Shoko is a liar (completely and utterly plausible) or her girlfriend has around 50 close friends. You don’t put it past Utahime either but at least Utahime did you a favour and made sure not to invite anyone from TDP so you settle for shooting Shoko a withering glare.
Music thrums through the floorboards, bass rattling the soles of your shoes as you tap your feet subconsciously against the beat. It’s loud, too loud for talking unless you enjoy shouting directly into someone’s ear, though no one seems to mind. Certainly not Shoko as she leans close to Utahime, mouth brushing against her ear, eyes half lidded as she practically has her on her lap.
You roll your eyes, feeling slightly sour.
Shoko notices your bitter look and acknowledges it with a slight chuckle, taking your cup of orange juice and switching it with hers. “Loosen up!” She yells over the music.
Without many other options, you take the drink and cup your hand around your ear as if you can’t hear her, just to piss her off.
Utahime snickers when your friend swats you away, her hand comfortably wrapped around Shoko’s. The sight of a happy couple sickens you and when Shoko yells for you to “go find someone to make out with!” you do decide to stand up and leave, though not because of her words, obviously.
You’re just getting air, maybe a refill. And maybe putting at least one wall between yourself and Shoko’s terrible, smug, in-love face.
The rest of the apartment is no better. Utahime’s place is bigger than yours, of course, because some people get exposed brick and large windows while others get mysterious ceiling stains and a neighbour loud enough to seep into your own personal life.
Bodies crowd every available inch of space. Someone is sitting on the arm of the couch with a drink in one hand and someone else sprawled across their lap, fingers pushed into their hair. A group by the kitchen is screaming the lyrics to the song currently playing and there’s two girls taking photos in the hallway mirror, swaying together, cheek to cheek.
You’re halfway through to the kitchen when you see him. For a second, your brain doesn’t even attach a name to the sight. It only registers white hair, too tall, black shirt, one hand loose around a red cup as he leans against the wall near the hallway.
Then your stomach drops.
Gojo.
The thought arrives with immediate, unreasonable betrayal.
What the fuck? Didn’t Utahime promise you she wouldn’t invite any frat guys?
Not that you care. You absolutely do not. Gojo Satoru could attend every party in the city and you would remain unaffected, obviously. It is just the principle of the thing. You had been promised a Gojo-free environment, and there he is, laughing at something one of the girls around him says, head tilted down so he can hear her better over the music.
There are three that you see, maybe four. It’s hard to count when they keep shifting, hair shining under the cheap coloured lights, shoulders angled toward him like flowers reaching for the sun.
It would be easier to be angry, to roll your eyes and hate him in the clean, uncomplicated way you usually do. Instead, something dull and familiar settles under your ribs.
You turn away before he can look your way.
The drink in your hand is half-empty and you make it fully empty in one long swallow, grimacing only after it burns the way down and cursing Shoko’s name in your head. Someone near the kitchen cheers for no reason and you suddenly decide that if the universe wants to be annoying, if that stupid Etsy witch wants to fuck with you that bad, you might as well ruin yourself first.
By the time Shoko finds you again, you have acquired another drink. And then another, and then even more. She squints at you with the vague concern of someone who knows your limits better than you do but you’re already being dragged toward the cleared space in the living room by one of Utahime’s pretty friends, and the music there is cathartic.
So you stop thinking. For the first time all night, you let yourself move without checking who is watching. Your drink is gone, your cheeks are warm, and the room is soft and bright, all coloured light and laughing mouths and hands in the air. There is no assignment, no terrible apartment, no faceless neighbour slipping into your life through the poor insulation, no Gojo leaning against a wall with half the party orbiting him. The houseparty is bumping, the ladies look good, the alcohol is flowing. There is much pain in the world, but not in this room.
Then an arm slides around your waist. It’s muscled, warm, steady in the way it wraps around you, the scent of something masculine and fresh entering your peripherals.
For one stupid, glittering second, you let yourself hope. It’s only the alcohol, probably. The music, even, the heat of the room or the betrayal of coloured lights making everyone look better than they are.
But the arm is firm around you, and the body behind you is tall, and when he leans in, his breath skims close to your ear.
Maybe.
The thought is so sweet it makes you dizzy and you almost lean into the hope.
“Having fun?”
Your stomach drops so fast the whole room seems to go with it. You turn, and Naoya’s ugly face is looking down at you. What the fuck is he doing here? Oh, you are so having a word with Utahime about this.
And okay, Naoya isn’t actually ugly, not in a way that has anything to do with his features. What’s really ugly is his expression, the entitlement in his smile and the slow drag of his eyes over you like he’s appraising something he believes is his.
His mouth curls and all at once, the music goes thin and static-y.
You shove him away and stumble a few steps at your own strength. “Don’t touch me.”
Naoya lets his hand fall, but not before making a show of it, palms lifting like you are the unreasonable one. “Relax. I was just saying hi.”
“Okay, well you’ve said your hi. Now leave.”
He laughs, eyes dropping to your mouth, then back up again. “You’re still so dramatic. I forgot how much effort it takes to talk to you when you’re like this.”
You step back, but the floor tilts slightly beneath you. Fuck, too much alcohol, too much heat. There’s too many bodies pressing around the living room, none of them paying enough attention as you try to place distance between you and your ex. Your shoulder knocks against someone behind you and you mumble a sorry without taking your eyes off Naoya.
He notices the stumble and his grin sharpens. “You’re drunk. Haven’t learnt how to control yourself in this kind of places yet, have you? It’s cute.”
He leans closer, voice lowering as if the two of you are sharing something intimate. “Did you dress up for someone tonight?”
Your face twists. “As if it’s any of your fucking business anymore, Zenin.”
“No, I’m serious.” HIs eyes flick over you again, slower this time, and your skin crawls. “Don’t tell me you’re still pissed about being blacklisted. Sometimes things happen to teach you a lesson, you know? Looks like you’ve learnt to finally put more effort into what you’re wearing again. You should be thanking me.”
“I am not doing this with you.” You try to sound confident but you both hear the pathetic slur to your words.
“You’re not doing much of anything,” he says. “You’re just dancing around hoping some desperate fucker takes pity on you and notices.”
“Fuck off, Naoya.”
His expression hardens, that little thread of irritation pulling tight because you did not blush, did not smile, did not give him even a crumb of the reaction he came looking for. “You know, this is exactly why people get so tired of you. You make everything so fucking difficult. I’m trying to be nice, and you’re acting like I cornered you in a damn alleyway.”
“You put your hands on me!”
“An arm, Y/N. I put my arm around you,” he corrects, like you’re the one being embarrassing. “Don’t make it sound so ugly.”
“Well, it felt ugly.”
For a moment, you think he might finally drop the act. But then his mouth curves again, albeit thinner and meaner at the edges.
“Come on,” he says, taking a step closer and the crowd seems to bunch in to prevent you from leaving. “Don’t be like that. We know each other, don’t we? You don’t have to do the whole untouchable thing with me.”
The alcohol is making everything lag a second behind. The music, the lights, the heat under your skin now sickening, the disgust rising sharp and sour in your throat. You know what he’s doing, you know it so clearly it almost sobers you. That glint in his eyes as he shamelessly trails his gaze down your face and between your tits, the way his hand is already lifting to grope you, how his voice has softened to be more convincing.
You take another step back.
“I said leave.”
Naoya laughs. “You’re seriously going to act like you weren’t leaning back into me a second ago?”
“I thought you were someone else.” The words are out before you can catch them and shove them back down.
His expression drops in a way that’s almost satisfying, if not for the fact that it twists into something worryingly familiar seconds later. You hate that your stomach sinks. You hate that, even now, some stupid trained part of you expects the punishment that comes after disappointing him.
Naoya leans in again, close enough that you can smell the alcohol on his breath under whatever expensive cologne he sprayed on himself. “So what was the plan? Get drunk enough that you could pretend it was an accident when you went home with someone?”
Your fingers curl into a fist by your sides. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”
“Like what?” he asks, eyes wide with fake innocence. “I’m just saying, you’re the one dancing around like you want attention looking like that. You can’t get mad when someone gives it to you.”
“Move,” you hiss.
He doesn’t. Instead, he says, “You always do shit like this. You act so above everything it’s a surprise you haven’t been humbled yet. Is that going to have to be my job now too?”
“You don’t know anything about me anymore.”
“Don’t get such a big head,” he sneers. “You’re still so easy to read. Still so fucking pathetic. Still need to feel someone’s attention on you, need to feel wanted, just so damn needy all the time.”
Your hand comes up so fast that you know the weight in which it’ll strike across Naoya’s face will give you the nicest, most satisfying crack.
But before you can bring it down against his stupid fucking face, someone grabs your wrist and gently redirects it. It takes you a moment to register what just happened. Someone had cut cleanly into the space Naoya had taken from you, still holding your wrist behind his back, and you blink at the grey shirt until you look up and see white hair.
“Is there a problem?” Gojo’s voice is light enough that, for a strange second, it almost sounds like he’s walked into the wrong conversation.
Something imperceptible flashes across Naoya’s face, something easily missed if you didn’t know his every tell.
“Not your business, Gojo.”
“Oh,” Gojo says, “don’t be like that. It looked fun over here. What were you guys talking about?”
You don’t care for this passive aggressive approach of his. You yank at your arm. “I was about to slap him.”
Gojo glances back at you.
You’re too drunk and too angry and too humiliated to care that his face is suddenly closer than expected, all pale hair and blue eyes and a mouth pressed into a thin line. You tug again, uselessly.
“I’m serious,” you insist. “Let me slap him.”
Naoya scoffs and takes a step back like he has other things on his agenda than to be publicly embarrassed. “This is insane. You’re both insane. Whatever, I’m done here anyway, what a fucking turn off.”
He turns to walk away, one hand running through his piss-coloured hair.
Gojo’s other hand snaps out so fast you barely catch the motion. One second, Naoya is tilted to walk forward and the next, Gojo has his wrist caught in one hand, fingers locked around him with an ease that makes Naoya’s whole body jerk to a stop.
Naoya suddenly hisses. There’s a thin red line where one of Gojo’s rings has bitten too hard into the skin. Despite this, Gojo does not give him the time of day. Instead, he looks at you.
“Hm,” he says, tone casual, as if you have asked him whether he wants another drink. “I hear you, band shirt, but there’s an issue. If you slap him, you might get into trouble.”
“I don’t care.”
“He’s the president of—”
You squeeze his arm holding yours. “I don’t care. He’s never been slapped before in his life and it’s obvious. He needs to be slapped, Satoru, he deserves this.”
Gojo pauses. Then, very seriously, he starts to nod slowly, “I suppose that does make a lot of sense.”
Naoya jerks against his grip. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Gojo’s hand only tightens, short nails digging into the skin, though he still doesn’t look away from you, not even when you whip your gaze over to your ex, wishing that looks could indeed kill.
How did you ever date a guy like him? You stare at Naoya, at his ugly, furious, blotchy-red face, at the way he keeps looking around like there should be someone here to save him from the consequences of his own mouth. He keeps tugging and pulling but Gojo effortlessly keeps him there.
“But it looks like you just got your nails done,” Gojo ponders. “And you could hurt yourself.”
“It has to be me, Satoru.”
Gojo’s eyes soften at that and he finally smiles, voice going lower. “I know.”
Then he shifts, letting go of your wrist. For a second, you think he’s going to tell you not to do it after all, that he is going to be sensible in ways that severely go against his reputation. Instead, he lifts his free hand between you, palm up.
“Okay,” he says. “Then don’t hurt yourself doing it.”
You blink. “What?”
“If you’re going to do it, then do it properly,” he says, still speaking to you like Naoya is not standing there trying to pull free. “No weird wrist thing, And don’t throw your whole body into it just to put more force behind it. It’ll just make you fall over because you’re a little drunk and unsteady. You’ve gotta plant your feet.”
Naoya laughs, no humour behind it. “Gojo, are you serious?”
Gojo ignores him. “Also,” he adds, glancing at his own hand, “now that I think about it, rings might help.”
He holds your gaze for a little longer before offering you a kind smile and lowering his hand to you, fingers pointing towards you.
“Are you sure?” you ask, gaze flickering up to his face then to his rings. “They might get bloody.”
“It’s okay, just take your pick. I can always clean them. This chance might not come again for you,” he tells you in a similarly soft tone.
You reach out and take the one from his pinky finger because any other ring might be a size too big, and slide it onto your middle finger.
Naoya’s face pales.
“Don’t be fucking stupid,” he snaps, trying again to wrench his wrist free. “You’re going to let her hit me?”
Gojo finally looks at him. The smile he gives Naoya is bright enough to be mistaken for friendly. “Hey, man, it’s none of my business.”
The ring is still a little too loose, the metal heavy and cold against your skin, and your hand trembles once before you curl it into a fist and open it again.
Gojo notices and his attention is back on you. His voice drops just enough for only you to catch it again. “You sure?”
You look at him, then past him, at Naoya’s pale, furious face. “Yes.”
Gojo studies you for half a second longer, something soft passing through his expression before it disappears beneath a bright, almost cheerful smile.
“Okay!” he says. “Then first, plant those feet and let your shoulders relax a little. If you hit him like that, it’ll go through your wrist, and then you’ll be mad tomorrow because he got your hand and your mood.”
You nod and adjust.
Naoya jerks in grip. “No, wait—”
Gojo doesn’t look at him. “You don’t need a big wind-up. It’ll be painful even if you don’t hit hard so no pressure.”
“Hey,” Naoya snaps, voice pitching higher. “Someone get him off me.”
“But I want to hurt him,” you say to Gojo.
“You will,” Gojo says, very simply. “But you don’t have to hurt yourself to do it. You’re doing this for you, remember? To get it off your chest.”
Naoya tries to laugh. It comes out wrong. “Come on, man. I said I’m sorry. Tell her to stop being dramatic.”
Gojo tilts his head at you, as if listening to a distant appliance hum. “Do you hear something?”
You stare at him, cocking your head in a mirror of his own gesture. “The music?”
“No.” He waves his question away. “Something annoying. Anyway. Hand open, shoulders down and feet on the ground. You’ve got this.”
You do as he says and then turn to look at Naoya.
For months, he had made you feel like every reaction you had was too much, too loud or too needy, too embarrassing, too difficult to love. He had taught you how to swallow anger until it sat heavy in your stomach and called that maturity. He had always walked away with his shoulders up because you were always the one trying not to make a scene.
And now, you’re finally going to leave a mark on him.
You slap him.
The sound cracks across the room, sharp enough to split cleanly through the music. Naoya’s head snaps to the side at the force of it, mouth open, but finally, finally, nothing leaves it.
Your palm burns immediately, a bright sting rushing up your arm and the ring presses back into your finger, cold against the heat of your skin. It hurts a little. But it hurts so good.
Gojo lets go of Naoya at once. Your ex stumbles back, one hand flying to his cheek, eyes wide with shock. “You fucking—”
“Holy shit!” Gojo says loudly. “Is that Naoya from TDP? Dude, what are you doing here, do you even know Utahime?”
Naoya’s face drops slightly in confusion. “What?”
Gojo’s voice carries easily over the music now. “No, seriously. Aren’t you the guy that one post was made about in the group chat? I wouldn’t have come to a party when you haven’t even said anything about the allegations.”
The crowd surrounding you instantly starts murmuring amongst themselves, shooting Naoya dirty looks.
Naoya grits his teeth, anger flooding his face all over again. “I didn’t—”
“It’s weird, I really don’t think Utahime would have invited you.”
“I was invited.”
“By who?”
Naoya opens his mouth but nothing comes out fast enough.
A girl by the couch scoffs. “Utahime would never invite him.”
“Yeah, didn’t she literally say not to let him in?”
“How did he get inside?”
Someone near you nods along to his words, and a girl wraps her arms around you, running her hand up and down your side. It could have so easily gone wrong, Naoya yelling something about being hurt and suddenly you became the problem. The drunk girl, the angry ex seeking vengeance. The one who slapped someone in the middle of the party.
But now everyone is looking at him. And Naoya seems to realise this too because his eyes dart around the room, searching for sympathy and finding none.
“Creep,” someone mutters.
“Get him out,” another voice says.
Naoya points toward Gojo, furious and scared in a way you have never seen before. “He’s lying. She’s drunk and she’s always been—”
“Ugh, spare me, I know you were creeping around me too!”
Gojo doesn’t stick around for the aftermath and you don’t either, his hand closing around your other hand to gently tug you through the growing crowd, his broad back guiding the way.
It’s nice, you realise, which is a stupid thing to immediately think of next after slapping your ex-boyfriend in the middle of a party. Still, it is.
The way he moves through the room without dragging you behind him, the way people part for him easily, but he keeps glancing back anyway, like he’s making sure you’re still there and not swallowed by the music and body and the roaring awareness of what you’ve just done. His hand is warm around yours, loose enough that you could pull away if you wanted to, firm enough that you don’t have to think too hard about where you’re going.
You let yourself follow. Past the kitchen, past the hallway mirror, past two girls whispering near the wall, both of them looking over your shoulder toward where Naoya had disappeared, their expression twisted with disgust.
The noise dulls a little near the back of the house. The music still reaches here, bass-heavy and insistent, but the air feels cooler, less packed with breath and perfume. Just before the back door, Gojo stops.
You nearly bump into him and he chuckles, turning around.
“Careful.” He looks you up and down not unpleasantly. “How’s the hand?”
“It’s fine,” you say automatically. Then you pause, looking down.
His ring is still sitting crooked on your middle finger, too loose and faintly warm now from your skin. Your palm is red and your fingers tingle but the slap keeps replaying in your head in satisfying flashes: the crack of it, Naoya’s face turning, and any regret you might have felt dissipates.
“Okay, it might sting a little.”
Gojo’s expression softens. “Let me see it.”
You lift your other hand not in his, and he reaches out to take it, a sharp thrill running up your arm when he makes contact. He turns your hand over carefully, fingers light and ticklish against your palm as he inspects it. For a moment, you wonder about this gentleness that he shows you, how sharply it contrasts with the way he had held Naoya hard enough to draw blood.
His fingers move over your palm with careful attention, thumb brushing beneath the base of your fingers, moving down to the sensitive skin of your wrist and making you shiver. The hallway is too warm and too cold at once, music pulsing behind you in dull waves, but all you can really feel is the shape of his hand around yours and the ridiculous, traitorous flutter under your ribs.
“You’ll live,” he says eventually, fingers splaying over your wrist and forearm before dropping. “And you’re staring.”
You blink when you process that he’s looking right into your eyes, his lips quirked into a small smile as he watches you.
“Thanks for helping me slap my ex.”
He shrugs. “It’s no problem, band shirt. I think my ring did the bulk of everything.”
You look down at your hand and notice that he’s right. The silver sits crooked on your finger, too loose and too pretty, catching the hallway light like it has any right to look innocent after drawing blood across Naoya’s cheek. Thank you, pretty silver ring, for your service. May your efforts haunt him for at least a few business days.
Gojo lowers his hand under yours again and for a second, you think that he’s going to ask for it back. Instead, he lifts your hand slowly such that you have the chance to pull away. His eyes stay on yours until the last moment, before he lowers his mouth and presses a soft kiss to the ring.
Technically, it’s his ring and not your hand he kissed. Still, the warmth of his breath brushes your skin, and something bright and winged breaks loose in your stomach. Your fingers twitch once in his hold as your breath catches. His lashes lower into the kiss, before he opens his eyes again and looks up at you through them.
He smiles at you cheekily.
“Can’t run away from me now, can you?” he asks, lowering your hand just enough to comfortably interlace his own fingers with yours. “I never did give you my name that one time before but it’s Gojo Satoru, though it looks like you already know. Come sit with me.”
‘Me’ ends up being him, and also his friends. Which is not as awkward as you thought it would be, mostly because the second Gojo opens the back door, Utahime and Shoko both sit up from where they’ve been lounging together on an outdoor chair like two cats disturbed mid-nap. Their fingers point at you at the exact same time.
“You!”
“With him?”
“Hi guys.” You drop your hand from his under the piercing gaze of your friends. “How’s the party?”
Gojo doesn’t say anything, only stepping around you with that easy, unbothered smile of his, and joining a conversation with some guys standing around the bonfire.
Utahime’s backyard has been transformed into something of a cozy hangout spot. Cheap fairylights hang crooked from the overhead roof, blinking out of sink, and a few mismatched outdoor chairs and beanbags sit in a loose circle around a low table cluttered with cups, jackets, and a neat stack of cards. There’s a small lit fire further out, but you drag your eyes away from its company to focus on the people you do know.
Shoko shuffles closer to her girlfriend, patting the space next to her which you gratefully take. “Hold on, so did you find someone to make out with after all? And was it…?”
You quickly look back at Gojo who is now talking quietly with someone you don’t know, the long-haired boy nodding in serious thought at whatever is leaving his mouth. His eyes slide to you and when they meet yours, you flinch, looking away.
“No! That’s not—God, my head is killing me. I didn’t make out with anyone, okay? I’m not here to find someone to hook up with.”
“Why are you here then?”
“You threatened me to come.” You point out.
“Well, you weren’t going to not come, that’s not in the cards.” Shoko presses you another cup into your hands and, because you have yet to learn your lesson from earlier, you take a trusting sip.
You almost choke out the battery acid when it hits your tongue, covering your mouth with your arm as you glare at your friends. “Oh, ew, Shoko. Seriously? Can’t you make something good for once? Your jungle juice is always so ass.”
“That’s how you know it works. Tongue loosened up yet? Why did you just walk out with Gojo? What’s going on between you two? Does he know now?”
You lean back into the seat at Shoko’s interrogation, and take another deep chug of Shoko’s disgusting drink. “Before you grill me, I have to grill you. Want to tell me what Naoya is doing at your party, Utahime?”
Utahime blinks. “Naoya is at my party?”
“Was,” you correct yourself. “I think he got the message after I slapped him that he shouldn’t be here.”
“You slapped him?” Utahime sits up with a bright smile. “Oh my God, tell me you got that on video! To clear my name though, I definitely did not invite him. He must have snuck in or something.”
“Well, basically everyone saw so I’m sure there’s a video on someone’s story by now.” You look back at Gojo now standing with just one other guy. “Satoru just happened to be there at the right place and time to help. That’s it.”
When your friends don’t immediately press for more questions, you turn back and find them whispering and giggling to each other. When they feel your suspicious gaze, Shoko looks up. “Sorry, yes, right. Gojo saved you.”
Utahime clears her throat suddenly. “Wait, shut up. Three o’clock.”
You stiffen when a weight presses against you, someone’s body dropping into the narrow gap between you and the armrest.
You instinctively shuffle closer to Shoko to make room, though there is not enough room to make. Your thigh presses ages his, shoulder brushing against yours, and his arm slides along the back of the chair, not quite touching your neck, but close enough that your skin tingles.
Shoko mutters, “This chair is clearly only meant for three.”
“I’d hate to think you don’t want me here,” Gojo says cheerfully. “What are we talking about? Me?”
“Your head is so far up your ass you only ever think of yourself,” Utahime grumbles.
You freeze, unsure where your limbs should go when you’re pressed up to the person behind the faceless voice in your walls. Admittedly, this realisation comes a little late. You should have armed your walled defenses the moment Gojo had grabbed your wrist and pulled you behind him, should have simply walked away after slapping Naoya (that was a non-negotiable, canon event) instead of letting him drag you back where you’re now trapped. Because he doesn’t know you’re her. And right now when you’re drunk and unsteady on your feet and thoughts? This might be the worst possible time for him to find out.
“That over there is Suguru,” Gojo suddenly leans in to say, breath ghosting the shell of your ear. His voice sends shivers down your neck and along your spine, every sensation suddenly all too much. The fabric that isn’t your own grazing high on your thigh, his hair tickling your cheek, his feet nudging yours slightly so you can move over just a little bit more for him.
“That’s Kento, with the frown and beside him is Yuu, without the frown. And those, on the table, are my Digimon cards. Who the fuck brought them out here?”
Haibara laughs. “Geto did! We were playing truth or dare with them!”
“You’re lucky that’s my dupe deck or I’d end this friendship right here and now,” Gojo says, an easy grin on his face as if he wasn’t pressing up against you, his chest warm and hard against your side, your elbow awkwardly jutting into him.
Your hand flexes around the cup, and the ring shifts slightly on your finger. Gojo’s gaze drops to it for half a second, a private little smile cutting across his mouth before he looks back at the table.
“We heard about what happened inside,” Geto says. “Are you okay?”
Would it be too late to suddenly go mute? If you’re able to recognise Gojo by his voice, then the chances of him putting name to face with the girl next door and you is also very high. Though, considering the way he isn’t immediately pulling you aside to ask if you are indeed the voice in his walls, you want to believe that he has yet to figure out your identity.
So no, it isn’t too late to go mute.
You nod in response to Geto’s question and flash him a smile, hoping none of it comes off as rude.
Gojo hums beside you, the vibration travelling through your bodies. He leans down to speak into your ear, a conversation just for you. “Not much for words? What happened to all the snark earlier?”
You stall for time by taking a long sip of Shoko’s concoction, the sting temporarily skyrocketing to the top of your concerns. This may or may not be a bad idea because now that you’re seated, all the previous drinks sloshing around in your stomach and this adding sip burning down your throat, you feel the world tip a little. You probably can’t deflect this question, not when he asks like this, so you settle for something else.
Clearing your throat, you try for a lower octave than usual. “I only talk to the people that deserve it,” you say, then let out a small huff at how ridiculous you sound.
The grin he shoots you is all confidence and self-assurance, leaning in a fraction closer. “How would you know if you’ve never given me a chance?”
“It’s pointless, I already know what you’re like.” Maybe it’s the bonfire or the drink in your hand but you are getting really warm. You take another long sip.
“We talked for ten minutes max the other day, I highly doubt that,” he cocks his head at you. “Do I know you from somewhere else?”
You hum. “Maybe.”
“I think I would remember someone like you.”
That causes you to raise an eyebrow, letting his casual flirt roll off you.
“Flattery,” you start, poking his chest. You let him catch your hand in his, holding it there against his heart, “won’t get you anywhere especially when it’s empty.”
“Who said it was empty? Besides, I know I wouldn’t forget such a pretty girl.”
“Oh, you would. You are.” You laugh again, finding the inside joke hilarious. “Try a little harder to remember, hm Satoru?”
The challenge makes his eyes glow just like you knew they would, always have known from the moment when a wall still separated the two of you and he had laughed at your provoking, all dark and not humourous at all.
“Maybe if you gave me a name.”
You’re not quite ready to hear his name from your lips just yet so you only shake your head, wagging your finger at him playfully. “Where’s the fun in that?”
“I’m usually a patient man and I’m all for the chase,” he starts, fingers inching closer, brushing hair from the back of your neck as he leans in, “but you’ve left me high and dry for so long.”
His words go in one ear and out the other, your breath hitching at the slightest touch. Despite yourself, you gulp and taste the bitter alcohol in your mouth. You feel it too, warmth pooling in your gut and making your head spin.
“I’m not an easy person,” you whisper, eyes flickering down to his lips and you bite your own, the rush of all your fantasies suddenly overwhelming you. In all other them, you’ve never once imagined his lips on yours, not until now. And you don’t doubt that after this, you'll be thinking of them often.
“Trust me,” he chuckles. “You’re not easy, you’re stubborn as hell and you always give me a hard time.”
As if sensing your temptation, Gojo’s eyes trace the way your teeth dig into your lip, watching the pull before you release it, red and slightly jutted out. It makes him want to sink his teeth into your bottom lip and lick the marks it leaves behind.
Your breath hitches. He leans in slightly, looking up to search your face and wait to see if you’ll pull back. When you don’t, when he accepts whatever look is in eyes, he leans forward more. The anticipation builds and morphs into budding frustration when he continues to play this game of chicken, giving you countless moments to pull away if needed even when you’ve shown no sign of stopping.
Shoko clears her throat and you jump, accidentally crushing your solo cup. The liquid bursts up and flows down your wrist and into your lap.
“Shit!” you curse, immediately jumping up and pulling the fabric away from your skin.
Gojo quickly follows, one hand hovering on your lower back in case you tip back.
“Oh, fuck,” Shoko says. “You okay?”
“Yeah, it’s just super sticky.” You wince, accepting the tissues Nanami hands you though they do little good. “Ew, it’s, like, sticking to my skin.”
Utahime speaks up, watching you from over the rim of her cup. “There’s a bathroom down the corridor. Gojo knows where it is, he can show you.”
“And maybe the two of you can make out there instead of right in front of us,” Geto says offhandedly, though his cup can’t completely hide his grin. The people around the table giggle at his words, Shoko probably the loudest.
You blush, immediately going to deny his accusations but Gojo beats you to it.
“Shoko and Utahime are one second away from eating each other’s faces off but no one says anything about that!”
“That’s because this is my party, Gojo.”
“Yeah, well it was my party that got you two together,” Gojo shoots back childishly.
Everyone laughs again, chattering as they descend into the topic of other inside jokes, playing word association as they leap from memory to memory. There’s a sense of belonging that oozes from everyone as they lean into one another and talk and gossip. You might have appreciated this moment more, enjoyed the fact that they’re allowing you into this intimate moment, if not for the sudden blossoming warmth inside you. Before you can really think about it, you tug on Gojo’s shirt.
He immediately leans down, angling his ear to you. “Hm?”
“Take me to the bathroom?”
Gojo stiffens, eyes flickering to your face then down your body. He bites his lip hard to focus, ignoring the temptation to let his mind wander at your innocent words. They had to be innocent, right? You, who was now looking up at him through your lashes with a pout playing on your lips, one hand tugging on the hem of his shirt, thumb rolling over the fabric slowly. You who was fidgeting ever so slightly, thighs rubbing together due to the cold.
“Yeah,” he says suddenly, all humour gone. “Let’s go.”
Someone cheers behind you as Gojo helps you up and opens the back door for you, though neither of you seem to care. He doesn’t bother with answering greetings, only smiling shortly as you pass familiar people, something more impatient when he guides you than before.
He leads you down a corridor and into a dark room, closing the door behind you. Your heart leaps to your throat until he turns on the light, and you wince at the brightness.
“Sorry, pretty. Should’ve warned you,” Gojo says, only looking vaguely apologetic as he leans against the closed door, one hand still on the knob like he’s giving you a chance to back out.
He watches you carefully, tracing the line of your jaw, the slightest twitch of your brow and then, his favourite part, the flush climbing your cheeks. “The bathroom should be safer than a spare room. Who knows who is in there doing what.”
You hesitate. “You didn’t have to follow me in.”
“No?” He tilts his head, eyes roaming over you before settling smugly on your face. “You’re still holding onto my shirt. Maybe let go if you want to sound convincing.”
You shiver, letting go immediately and stepping back closer to the sink. You open your mouth to say something, a stupid excuse perhaps, but he beats you to it.
“You cold?”
“What?”
“Earlier.” His eyes fall to your legs. “You were fidgeting. Thought maybe you were cold. Call me a desperate guy if you want, but don’t ask a guy to take you somewhere private while looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
Gojo pushes off the door and you take a step back instinctively. “Like you wanted me to misunderstand you.”
You hesitate, looking around the bathroom. He seems to notice, and stops immediately, eyes softening. “Hey, I’m not going to do anything you don’t want. Just shove me away and I’ll go, I promise.”
“It’s not that,” you bite your lip.
“Then what is it, pretty?”
“You talk too much. You’re too loud,” you manage to say, warm despite the chill of the drink on you. “Always have been.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He takes one step closer. “Then make me shut up.”
Your back meets the sink before you realise you have moved, the contrast of cold porcelain against your overheated skin making you gasp. He’s on you in an instant, hands roaming down your side until they’re gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.
“You’re so tense,” he murmurs against your neck. “You have no idea I’ve been watching you all night, do you? That little skirt? This tiny little top?”
He slaps your tits and you jolt, looking up at him in surprise to which he only grins down at you. You can’t seem to form a coherent thought, not when there’s alcohol swimming in your veins and turning your limbs to jelly, mind to fog. Still, you manage to say, “Did you just slap my boob?”
“Don’t act like you didn’t like it. If I shove my hand down your skirt, am I going to find you wet, pretty?”
His knee nudges between your thighs, spreading them open as he steps closer.
“You are so gross—” you start, but he cuts you off with his mouth on yours.
The kiss is brutal and demanding all at once. His tongue slides against yours, tasting of expensive liquor and something sweet, or maybe that’s just your taste and he’s shoving it back against your mouth. One hand leaves your hip to fist in your hair, tilting your head back.
He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips down your throat, sucking hard at the pulse point. “Don’t lie to me. I know you’ve wanted this since the first time I heard you. You have quite the perverted streak to you, don’t you?”
Your breath hitches. His hand slides down, palm flat against your stomach, then lower. He doesn't bother with the fabric of your panties, just pushes them aside and drags his fingers through your slick folds.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “You’re soaked. And you're gonna tell me you weren't dreaming about this? Getting yourself off to the thought of me touching you like this?”
His middle finger sinks into you without warning. You cry out, a sound that would be embarrassing if you had any sense left. But all you can feel is the stretch, the fullness, the way your body clenches around him desperately.
“That's it,” he coos, tone shifting to something truly mocking. “You’re really feeling it now, aren’t you?”
He adds a second finger, fucking them into you with a rhythm that has your knees buckling. His thumb circles your clit in lazy, torturous circles. You're already so close, the buildup of tension from hours of dancing, of drinking, of watching him across the room, it all crashes toward a peak.
“Please,” you whimper.
“Please what? Use your words, pretty.”
“Please fuck me,” you manage to gasp, fantasy and reality crashing together in a dizzying mess.
He pulls his fingers out abruptly, and you groan at the loss. But then you hear the sound of his belt unbuckling, the zipper of his pants, and your mouth waters. He takes himself in hand, strokes once, twice, and then the blunt head of his cock presses against your entrance.
“Look at me,” he commands.
You force your eyes open. His are dark, pupils blown wide, a little furrow between his brows.
“Are you with me?” he asks, brushing your hair out of your eyes.
You nod, rutting forward pathetically.
“Come on, pretty, I need to hear you say it.”
“I’m here!” you choke out, gasping. “Please, I want this, I promise I—I want you. Satoru, please.”
He groans, the tip of his cock pressing forward beyond that little ring of resistance, swearing at the involuntary thrust. “Okay, okay, I’ve got you.”
He noses into your temple, inhaling deeply, one thumb holding you open as he presses in and groans, filthy and depraved.
“Fuck—you’re so tight,” he gasps, cock stuttering through until he’s buried deep.
The sensation of being stretched wide open on his cock makes you tense, before a ragged, grateful cry escapes your swollen lips. You can barely breathe through your nose, head spinning with pleasure.
“Oh god, oh my god!” you cry out, head thrown back.
“Shh,” he hisses against your ear, his breath hot and sweet. His cock rams into you—a thick, punishing rhythm he picks up easily—and every thrust pushes your back against the sink. “You gotta stay quiet, angel. We don't want anyone hearin’ how much of a slut you are, do we?”
But of course, all good things have to come to an end because through the hazy pleasure, you hear a grating voice.
“Hey! Y/N! I know you're in there!” You can recognise Naoya’s voice anywhere even, it seems, when you’re being fucked for every inch of your life.
Gojo’s hand closes around your mouth as he looks at you, grunting softly with every thrust. He pulls out briefly and you whine until he turns you around and presses you up against the cold tiles, driving up into you like he never left. His rhythm doesn’t falter, if anything, he pounds harder.
“Mm-mm,” you try to say, shaking your head, panic rising. He doesn't stop. He slams into you and your body jolts, your forehead knocking against the tile.
“I said I know you're in there!” Naoya's voice is slurred, angry. He kicks the door. “Open the fuck up! We need to talk!”
Gojo’s hand slides off your mouth though not enough to leave completely. It’s just his palm moving, his fingers hooking into the corner of your lips, prying your mouth open. Two of them slip inside, salty with your own slick, and he pushes them back until you're gagging.
“Answer him,” Gojo whispers, his lips brushing your ear. “Go on. Tell him you’re busy.”
You can’t. His fingers are deep in your throat. You gag, tears springing to your eyes, and he just laughs, low and dark.
“Oh, right. You can't talk with my fingers in your mouth, can you?” He pulls them out, slick and wet, and wraps them around your jaw, tilting your face toward the door. “Try again. Use your words.”
“Naoya,” you choke out, your voice wrecked, breathless. “I’m—I’m fine. Just—”
“Just what?” Gojo thrusts, hard, and your sentence crumbles into a gasp. His cock sinks so deep you feel it in your stomach. “Just getting fucked stupid? Tell him the truth.”
There’s a beat of silence. You can picture Naoya on the other side of the door, his fists clenched, his jaw tight. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, certainly enraged.
“You’re lying. I can hear you breathing. Open the fucking door.”
Gojo’s hips slow. He pulls almost all the way out, leaving just the tip, and then drives forward in one smooth, devastating motion. You cry out, quickly muffled by your own hand.
“Don't make me break this door down,” Naoya warns.
Gojo chuckles, right in your ear. “He sounds mad. Poor guy. You really do know how to pick ‘em, don’t you?” He leans closer, his chest pressing against your back, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “But you’re not his anymore, are you? You're mine. For tonight, anyway.”
He fucks you slow now, deep and deliberate, his cock dragging along every inch of your walls. You feel every ridge, every vein and your legs tremble in the delicious drag.
“Tell him,” Gojo whispers, “that you’re busy. That you don’t have time for him anymore. ‘Cause he’s nothing to you now, right? Tell me he’s nothing to you.”
You swallow, wanting nothing more than to open your mouth and babble about how incredible it is to get railed in a bathroom, how brainless Gojo’s cock is making you but you have to be good, he’s waiting for you. So instead, you manage to say, “Naoya, leave me—ngh—alone!”
Naoya growls at the closed door before him, even going so far as to stomp his feet like a petulant kid. “Fine! Fucking fine, Y/N! But I promise you, you’ll regret this! I’ll make sure you do!”
Sure, you think, eyes rolling back, as if your Etsy witch can touch me anymore when Gojo is fucking me. You slump forward, relief flooding you when you hear his footsteps retreating, but Gojo doesn’t let you rest. He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back, and resumes his brutal pace.
“Good girl,” he purrs. His voice is different now, softer, honeyed and almost affectionate. “Such a good fucking girl. You did so well. You listened. You obeyed.” He kisses your shoulder, open-mouthed, wet. “See? I knew you could be good for me.”
The whiplash is dizzying and it only makes you arch more, something inevitable and delicious approaching in the far distance.
“That's right,” he murmurs, still fucking you deep and slow. “You took that so well. Pretended you weren’t getting your tight little cunt stuffed while your ex was right outside. That takes skill, pretty. You’re so fucking perfect for me.”
His hand snakes around your front, fingers finding your clit. He rubs slow, tight circles, and your hips buck.
“Bet you've been practicing, haven't you?” His voice is a low, knowing drawl. “All those nights you thought nobody was listening. Thought nobody could hear you moaning. But weren’t you the one to tell me? The walls are thin as shit, angel.”
He’s ramming into you now, fast and rough again, his words spilling out between each thrust and all you can do is be a ragdoll in his hold.
“You'd lie in bed, late at night, fingers in your pussy, listening to me stroke my cock. I’d hear you. The wet sounds. The little ‘oh, yes’s. And I’d think... fuck, I need to have that. I need to feel that cunt clench around me.”
You're dizzy, overwhelmed. His hand on your clit, his cock in your cunt, his words in your brain, it’s all too much.
“Did you think I didn’t recognize you at the party tonight? The girl with the needy little moans?” He bites your earlobe, hard enough to sting. “I’ve been waiting for an excuse to corner you. And then you showed up drunk and sad, with that asshole on your heels, and I knew tonight was the night.”
He’s watching you in the mirror and you catch his reflection. His eyes are dark, lips parted, face flushed. He’s absolutely beautiful.
“I'm gonna fill you up,” he growls. “Gonna pump my cum so deep inside you it leaks out for days. And when you walk past my door tomorrow, you're gonna know. You’re gonna remember this. You’re gonna touch yourself to the memory, and I’ll be right there, on the other side of the wall, stroking myself to the sound of you coming undone.”
His hips slam into you. Once, twice, three times. You feel the pressure building, the coil in your belly tightening to the point of pain.
“Satoru—” you gasp, hands fumbling for purchase on the wall.
“I know, angel, I know. Cum for me,” he demands. “Wanna finally feel you cum on my cock—fuck.”
You shatter. Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave, your cunt clenching around him, your body shaking. You cry out his name—Satoru—and he follows a second later, buried to the hilt, his cum hot and thick inside you.
He holds you there, both of you breathing hard, sweat-slick and sticky. Then he pulls out slowly, watching his cum drip down your thigh.
“Good girl,” he says again, his voice a warm, approving caress. He turns you around, cups your face in his hands, and kisses you, soft, tender, unhurried. “You did so well, pretty. So, so good for me.”
Your knees are weak and he notices, turning you and pressing you to his chest to keep you upright. He continues to whisper in your ear as your senses return to you, and when you finally lift a hand to gently push at his chest, he lets you, eyes immediately flickering down to your eyes.
“Still with me?”
You nod, before you fall forward into his arms.
When your body breaks down alcohol, it converts the ethanol into acetate, a process that produces a lot of NADH from NAD⁺. The imbalance of the NADH⁺ ratio leads to the feelings of weakness and grogginess that come from a horrible night out.
You wake now, approximately ninety percent NADH and ten percent regret.
For a while, you refuse to move. You only stare at your ceiling, blinking slowly at the familiar crack in the paint above your head, the soft grey light pressing through the curtains, the horrible cotton-dry feeling your tongue against the top of your mouth.
How the fuck did you get home?
Your own bed, in most cases, the preferred place to wake up after all. It’s safe, it’s familiar, and most importantly, it’s yours. But the last thing you remember is not collapsing into the warmth and security of your own bed. The last thing you recall comes in fragments: Utahime’s party, Gojo’s hands on your body, the bathroom light flickering too bright overhead, the sink cold behind you and his voice low in your ear.
And then nothing. You suppose there are brief pieces after that, blurry and soft around the edges. Glimpses of a car window, someone cursing under their breath, the sound of your keys jingling and the vague sensation of being carried. That one must have been a drunken hallucination because it’s humiliating and therefore cannot be the truth.
You fumble for your phone which is not beside your pillow where you usually place it after your nightly doomscroll before bed, but placed neatly on your bedside table. There’s a few texts from friends on your lock screen, but there’s only one person you want to text.
shoko: alive?
actually don’t answer if you’re dead
if you’re alive though please drink some water and let me know that you’re ok
You laugh softly. Why did you jump to conclusions so quick? Of course it was Shoko that took you home! Who knew her upper body strength was so good that she managed to carry you into your own bed after a night of drinking.
you: im alive!!
thank u so much for taking me home btw
i owe u :3
She quickly reacts to your message with a heart before the typing indicator appears.
shoko: i didn’t take u home (?)
gojo did obv
he WHAT? is probably what you’re thinking but please remember to breathe and drink some water before you crash out
You are, in fact, thinking he what?And because Shoko accurately called you out on that, you decide to follow through on the rest of her advice. You turn your head and stop a sticky note stuck to the glass of water beside your head, bright yellow and neat as a warning label.
water is important when you’re recovering from a hangover! — satoru
Then, a little to the left, attached to a packet of painkillers,
because i know your head probably feels like shit rn — still me
“Oh my god,” you whisper, unsure whether to laugh or to run away.
You do neither because your head really does hurt like a motherfucker, and take the painkillers along with a generous gulping or two of water. The cool liquid does little against the parched nature of your throat, but when you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, you feel alive enough to venture out of your bed.
There’s a sticky note on the ground next to a pair of slippers you swore you had separated, one in the kitchen one somewhere in the living room.
the ground is cold! wear slippers! — forever urs :3
“Forever yours?” you repeat aloud, voice wrecked with sleep and dehydration even as you shove your toes in.
There’s another note on the back of your bedroom door.
no matter what u see in the mirror remember you’re beautiful! — shrek to ur fiona?
You open your bedroom door and make your slow, regretful way to the bathroom where you lay your tired eyes on your puffy face. You have definitely seen better days. There’s another note stuck to your mirror.
face wash is on the left toothbrush is on the right if you use the face wash as toothpaste, that’s between you and god — not your doctor
Huffing out a sound that might be amusement, you pick up your toothbrush and ensure you squeeze toothpaste onto its bristles. The toothpaste is minty and makes your eyes water slightly, but by the time you rinse your mouth, you feel one step closer to not feeling like the undead.
There’s another note stuck to the towel rack.
if ur eyes are puffy, put a cold compress over them! — still not a doctor
From the bathroom back to your room for a change of clothes and even on your way to the kitchen, you’re guided by a series of sticky notes.
clean clothes! i didn’t look through your drawers dw — feminist
welcome to the kitchen! huge milestone for you — ur biggest fan
water already boiled in here so when you wake up to reboil it it’ll take less time — the kettle knower
drink real water first before the coffee !! seriously don’t put coffee in me just yet — mug
soup inside on the second shelf :3 not homemade so don’t get too excited i’m handsome, not magical i couldn’t have it both ways — :(
in the microwave for two minutes with lid half on! take it out when it’s boiling — the soup sipper
You finally feel alive enough to laugh, embarrassingly loud in the quiet of your kitchen. You stand there in your slippers, teeth brushed, face washed, and dressed in clothes when any other time you might have still been under the covers.
The apartment feels full of him. A note when you open your utensil drawer for a spoon, a note sitting on top of a coffee pod conveniently placed on your counter, a note against the body of a vase you’ve placed on your dining table to feel more homey.
eat slowly, you get hiccups when you rush!
The notes take you away from your drying rack when you’ve finished the store-bought soup and washed your spoon, taking you to your living room. Your camera sits on your coffee table, a sticky stuck on the surface that reads: “turn me on ><”
You roll your eyes but do so, lifting it up and framing the sorry state of your living room before hitting the record button. The first shot captures just how many sticky notes litter the surface of almost every object, the words telling you a funny joke or reminding you to put something back. You take your time walking through all of them, his handwriting everywhere, his name everywhere (except when he decides to write down a silly nickname).
Satoru.
Satoru.
Satoru.
Then, you find the last one on your front door.
if you’re overwhelmed, you don’t have to open this today. if you’re angry at me, just yell at me through the wall :( if you’re okay, i’d like to see you — satoru
And then, before you can think it through, you reach forward and open your door.
Gojo stands in the hallway, a bouquet of flowers clutched in both hands like he’s praying. His eyes light up when you open your door and he moves forward instinctively. He’s so close that the toe of one sock is nearly edging over the threshold of your apartment.
You let out a short scream.
He startles just as badly, eyes going wide as he reaches forward on instinct to steady you, and your camera slips from your hand.
“Oh—”
It hits the floor before either of you can grab it, bouncing once, then sliding sideways across the carpet until it knocks gently against the leg of your couch. The camera keeps recording from there, tilted on its side. It catches the lower half of your open door, Gojo’s socked feet in the hallway, your bare feet on the carpet, and the hem of your sweater falling over your shorts.
“Are you okay?” he asks in a rush.
“What are you doing standing right in front of my door, you creep?” you shoot back, one hand pressed to your chest. “Were you standing there the entire time?”
“I was trying to be romantic.” He shoves the bouquet toward you, panic making his voice crack at the edges. “I literally got you flowers!”
You take them automatically, bewildered by the weight of roses in your hands. “Thank you? Is that why you’ve littered all over my apartment?”
His face falls. “Was that not cute?”
You blink. “Cute?”
“Did you not think it was cute?” he asks, suddenly horrified. “Because I thought it was cute. I mean, not in a weird way. Well, maybe a little weird. But intentional weird. Charming weird.”
“The sticky notes?”
He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Look, I’ve never done anything like this before, okay? This whole romance thing is seriously above me, I have no idea how I’m meant to ask you this without scaring you away.”
You stare at him for a long while before laughing. The sound pulls from your throat loud and bright that it almost hurts with an incoming headache, but it’s so funny you just can’t stop. “I knew you had no experience with women. I called it all along, didn’t I?”
“Please, this and that are completely unrelated.” His shoulders seem to relax at your laugh, and he finally cracks a smile, running a hand through his hair. “You never were going to make it easy for me, were you?”
“Easy? When you’ve just left forty sticky notes in my apartment and then lurked outside my door?”
His smile trembles, trying to stay bright, but the nerves are still there beneath it. You can see them now that you know to look. The way his fingers flex at his side, the way his eyes keep flickering from your face to the threshold like he is measuring the exact line he is not allowed to cross.
“I wasn’t lurking,” he says, quieter. “I was waiting.”
Your fingers tighten around the bouquet.
Gojo looks down at it, then back at you. “I wanted to knock earlier, but I thought if you woke up and saw me before you were ready, you’d panic.”
“Please, I wouldn’t have panicked.”
“You literally panicked ten seconds ago.”
“Touche.” You look at him for a short while before glancing down at your slippered-feet. “I’m still scared, honestly. I think I’ve been cursed in every possible aspect of love. That’s why when I heard your voice all the way back during that carwash event, I didn’t want you to know it was me. It would break what we had going on through the wall and I liked that. It felt like something I could just keep to myself. And then I found out you were Satoru and it was obvious you weren’t just mine anymore.”
Gojo lets you talk, lets you call him Gojo again without saying a single word until you finish. Then he says, “Were you disappointed?”
“No,” you say immediately. “It wasn’t like that.”
He smiles then, head tilting to the side. “Then I can be just Satoru. Just your Satoru, if that helps.”
It’s so stupidly cheesy that you have to scoff, even as your cheeks warm.
“I’m serious,” he chuckles along with you, stepping a little closer. “I liked being 4B. I liked that you knew me when I was just some guy through the wall that you liked talking to. I liked talking to you through blackouts and through shitty phone calls. I liked what we had too. Have, if you’ll let me.”
“Are you asking me out?”
He huffs, a weary smirk on his face. “Isn’t it obvious?”
Instead of answering him, you shove the bouquet of flowers back into his chest, watching as his brows furrow in confusion, before you’re reaching forward to cup his face and kiss him.
In one suspended second, Gojo simply stands there doing absolutely nothing. He freezes so completely beneath your hands that, if you risked opening your eyes, you might find his bright blue ones staring back at you. His lips are still against yours, the rest of him gone rigid, roses crushed between his chest and yours, fingers locked around the stems not quite sure what else to do.
You almost pull back.
But then, in a rush of movement, the bouquet is gone.
He throws it blindly into your apartment with a kind of urgent, graceless force that makes several roses scatter across your carpet. Before you can laugh, his arms are around you.
One arm wraps around your waist, pulling you close enough you half tread on his feet, other hand coming up to cradle the side of your face, warm and shaking just slightly. Nothing in the world has ever felt so right.
There’s too much smiling in the kiss, and your noses are pressed awkwardly for the kiss to be smooth but then he tilts his head and gets it right.
You kiss him until your lungs begin to object and then slowly, you pull away. Gojo follows you for half a second before he catches himself, eyes opening slowly. His pupils are blown wide, hair a mess, and his mouth is parted without anything clever coming out of it.
“So,” he licks his lips, eyes flickering down for a moment. “Is that a yes?”
From the floor, your camera continues recording from its crooked angle. It captures none of it neatly, not your face and not his, not the way his thumb brushes your cheek. It catches the fall of the roses, the way your bodies draw the other in in a rush, the stumbling as he walks you back into your apartment and you both disappear from the frame in a fit of giggles and whispered words.
“Yes, Satoru,” you laugh, letting him guide you further into your apartment. “It’s a yes.”
Later, when you edit the film, you leave the shot in. It isn’t as graceful as it could be nor will it win an Oscar in cinematography, but for your love assignment, you decide that this will do.
a/n: oh my GOD this is another draft that i started writing in 2023 (?) and is affectionately known by my friends and i as the jorkin' it fic <3 b99!au fic coming next !! not that i don't love the other fics i've written but it's definitely my favourite wip so i hope you all love that one too! thank you so much for reading until the very end and i hope u enjoyed :3
Tropes~ She fell first, he fell harder, forced relationship?
Synopsis~ Satoru Gojo lays his net. You plot and break.
Gojo Masterlist
Tw/Cw~ Mentions of war, ww2, ptsd, sexism, internalized misogyny, dark themes, toxic family dynamics, obsessive love.
Author's Note~ Happy Fourth of July!! This is my present to y'all.
Divider by @/chrisssiren
Sweat curdles in your clenched hands. Mable sits across from you, hair glossy and thick, eyes shining like dark gems in the warm lamplight. Satoru Gojo sits beside her. Their thighs are touching, you realize with a cold clenching sensation. Thigh to thigh, they sit how your aunt arranged them, like a meal. Perfectly balanced and decorated with greenery.
Your aunt and uncle’s American style townhouse has shed its mourning. The gold star still glints in the window and Mable dresses in dark colours. But she has left black and turned to navy, dark reds, and purples. A far cry from the pastels of yester year, but it is lighter.
You look out of place in the curated perfection of your aunt’s home. But how else was one supposed to look after a day working at the factory? The factory. You would have to quite soon, but what came next? You had no husband, or anywhere to go.
You smile at them. God, you probably look awful. “How do you do, Mr. Gojo - Mable.”
He rises, lanky legs unfurling. “Aren’t we old friends? Where did Mr.Gojo come from?” He asks a light chuckle emanating from him.
“If you say so, you must be correct,” you say, tucking your hat under your arm. His smile wavers and behind it. . .
Let them be right, was something you had learned at a very young age. No one likes to be wrong, and who’s gonna take up for a girl with no momma and daddy?
Mable laughs softly. She says your name as soft as caress and as cutting as glass. “Is so funny, isn’t she Toru?” She tilts her head, letting her eyelashes cast shadows on her cheeks. “Why when we were in pinafores, we would all just laugh and laugh at the things she had to say.”
You smile and laugh. Because that is the role life has given you. To be the adoring audience of the beautiful and talented.
Satoru’s white teeth flash at Mable. “She is.” He looks at you from the corner of his eye. Blue, God, his eyes are blue. “Do you want to know what she said to me when she first saw me?”
Mable’s eyes dart to you. You feel something cold welling up in your stomach.
He chuckles, leaning back, long fingers resting on his thighs. Satoru tilts his head back like he’s reminiscing about a moment that changed his life, instead of two awkward minutes on a crowded street while music blared and the city celebrated. The cold in your stomach spreads up to your throat.
“She said,” he takes a breath, letting his silence surround the room. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
You had not said that. Why would he -
Mable laughs, throwing her head back. Somehow her hand lands on his chest. She doesn’t notice the way he tenses up and his eyes go blank for a split second, but you do. He laughs a second later. The sharp trill of a child that has won something. Then you laugh. What else can you do?
A few days later, it repeats itself. Satoru Gojo sitting beside Mable, across from your uncle, while you sit beside your aunt. Her perfume, a musky French concoction chokes you. It’s perfect really. Mable, a young war widow, will marry the returned soldier who has always loved her. She will have a second chance, marry a man that has just inherited a fortune. Really, it could have been right out of a novel. At your other side sits the man you will marry. He is alright, with softish eyes and tanned forearms. His name is Joe and he is your escape. You had been let go from the factory, with the returning men they had no use for you. You knew twenty years you owed your aunt, so you did your duty and managed to capture a man. It had taken a while, but you had been going steady with Joe for a few weeks, so you were sure he was going to pop the question at any time now.
Supper passes slowly. Between your aunt’s perfume and Joe, you feel as though you can’t take a breath. Joe senses the tension, and suggests the two of you go on a walk, while Mable, Satoru, and your aunt and uncle sit in the sitting room. You agree.
The muggy July air washes over you like a baptism. While the music of grass hoppers blares like a choir. Joe and you set off in warm twilight.
The windows you pass are bright and the city is alive. You pass along the streets. If it wasn’t for Joe’s heavy foot steps, you would almost feel like a dead spector passing through a very alive city. You are alive, aren’t you?
Joe pulls you onto a bench, slightly hidden in between two magnolia trees. You sit beside at his insistent urging. Well, it’s a hand applying pressure to your lower back. But you know what insistence feels like.
He murmurs in your ear. He says you are pretty. You hate pretty. He says he thinks it’s natural, how he believes in total liberation. How shame shouldn’t exist. Shame? How could you live without shame? Shame made you, gave you milk and rocked you to sleep. Joe's hand creeps up and down your back. You wish he would stop, but when your mouth moves the words choke and die in your throat. His lips are on your own. It is hot and wet, like a child’s sticky fingers jammed into your mouth.
His hands slip lower. You can’t do it. You can’t go through with it. Your aunt’s words well up in your head - I didn’t raise no hussy. Yes, that is what you’d be if you went through with it, wouldn’t you?
You stand up, pushing his insisting hands away. “I can’t do this - just don’t. . .”
Joe stands too, his softish eyes have turned to hate or embarrassment, you can’t tell. You don’t remember what he says, because you are running. You run, lights blurring around you.
You only stop when you reach a bus stop. You get on and off and on and off, until all you feel is the city pulsing. Shame can’t reach you if you keep moving.
It is night when you reach the Sultan’s Palace. Legend has it that the brother of the Ottoman Sultan fled to the city, bringing his haram and fortune. You remember hearing that they partied day and night, until one night the house was silent. A passerby saw the blood pouring from the house. And it was later discovered that the haram had been slaughtered while the sultan’s brother had been buried alive. You glance reflexively at the gates. No blood.
You think of the poor sultan’s brother, buried alive, just because he wanted to live. To live. To be alive. I want to live. I don’t just want a husband I tolerate. You wanted to win something - someone. You had to win.
When you get to the house, you decide to enter a side door, the one off the back porch. You hear the low rumble of voices. You hear your name in your aunt’s mouth.
“She’ll be marrying that Joe Williams boy soon, and you won’t have to think even a second about her.”
You hear Satoru Gojo’s voice and Mable’s breathy life and your uncle’s heavy breath. But none of it registers. All you see is Satoru’s bright unblinking eye through the door frame. You could almost swear that he is looking straight at you.
“I don’t know about that girl,” your aunt trails off. “Well.”
It is at that moment you decide you will have Satoru Gojo. Or if you can’t have him, Mable was not going to have him either.
A tug of war begins between you and Mable. Really you doubt Mable even registers you as a rival. But you are. You listen to him, remember things about him, you talk with him in the quiet moments when Mable leaves the room. You are losing the war. You know this. You see the pressure building between them, so you become desperate. You steal a moment with Satoru on the back porch.
Lightning bugs blink like little fairies dancing a jig. And the air smells wet and damp. Satoru gazes down at you, a smile on his pink lips. Before you can begin, Mable comes out. Maybe it is the way you are standing, maybe it is something in your eyes, but she freezes. Something ripples, but soon the beautiful mask is there like it never left. You step away from Satoru. The war is lost.
That night you hear your door creak open. You set your cream down on your vanity. You don’t bother turning around. You can see Mable standing in the doorway. Neither of you speak as she makes her away across your bedroom. Your bed barely screeches when she sits on it.
“Why?”
“Why what?” You reply, still looking at her through the mirror.
“You have never been happy with everything my parents have done for you. What I have done for you.” She takes a breath. “And now you take my chance at happiness.”
Her face is so serene looking for the pain in her words. “When I lost John I thought I could never live again. But then Satoru came back.” Silence except for the chirping crickets outside your window. “He made me laugh . . . He made me feel as though I had another chance at bliss.”
Tears drip down her cheeks. You faintly wonder how she still looks good while crying.
“But then you - I saw how he looked at you,” she says. You move your head in surprise. How had he looked at you?
She stands. “You’ve always done this - wanted what was mine. I don’t know why I. . .”
Satoru doesn’t come back to the house. Well, he does but he isn’t entertained. You see him across the street - lingering, or cruising by in his automobile. You can feel his eyes too. They never leave you.
You also feel the pressure ramping up in the house. You know what they think of you. You know what will happen, you can feel it. So you leave, packing a small carpet bag. You have nowhere to go, but you must do it.
You walk because you are reluctant to spend any money on a bus. A storm is blowing in off of the coast, salty water and rain drops flurry around you. That is when you hear it. An automobile pulls in behind you. Satoru Gojo opens the door, his white hair blending into the storm.
“Need a ride?”
Your skirt sticks to your thighs. You shift uncomfortably on the leather seat.
“You have a place to stay?” He asks, driving slowly through the storm. You shake your head no, before remembering he can’t see you.
“I don’t.”
“I’ll put you up at a hotel tonight,” he says, turning onto a narrow street.
What about tomorrow? Wells up but you never ask it. But it does not matter. Satoru answers without you having to say a word.
“We’ll get married in the morning, and then we can drive up North. My uncle left me his house. You’ll like it, it’s huge.”
You aren't sure if you like huge. You aren’t sure about marriage. But you have no options, and it is so easy. It is so easy to have him take the lead and decide for you.
You are married in your best dress, a lilac hand me down. You are pretty, or at least that is what the court clerk says beaming at you. Satoru looks dashing. Like a hero. You are married on a misty morning. You are married.
You climb into his automobile, holding the bouquet of day lilies tight in your gloves. Satoru gets in a few moments later after shutting your door. He starts the engine and lights a cigarette.
You watch, fascinated, as the cigarette is slowly devoured by the flame. He looks at you with that empty look he gets sometimes. Then he glances out the car window as rain drops start trickling down the window.
“Storms here,” he murmurs. You wish he would close his eyes, you hate how bright they get when they are void of any emotion.
His fingers curl around your gloved hand. He looks at you, really looks at you. His eyes are full of something that looks a little like devotion.
Tropes~ One sided love, she fell first, he fell harder, forced relationship?
Synopsis~ The Honoured One crashes into the Pacific, Satoru is captured. Day and night he is tormented. The line between reality is blurred as he dreams of a girl and the stars of home. As the War ends he is sent back but home isn't quite home anymore. But there is you.
Previous Part
Tw/Cw~ War, WW2, period typical attitudes, dark themes, death, Pow camp, sexism, internalized misogyny.
Author's Note~ Gojo fights for the allies.
Divider by @/saradika-graphics
Mable’s officer died in the last few months of the war. It made her a widow, giving her a natural respect. In stores her purchases are already paid for, mysteriously, by the time she makes it to the counter. Old men and little boys trip over themselves to open doors for her. They had done it before, but now they did it with a frantic zeal. It’s disgusting really, what has Mable done but sit prettily at home?
For years you have worked in a factory but what credit do you - You stopped yourself. There was no use going down that route. You owed everything to Mable’s family.
Your aunt said your name, her accent dripping with honey. “Mable isn’t feeling well. Could you make her some chicken and dumplings?” Her cherry red lips were stretched into a smile that didn’t touch her eyes. You gave her the little girl smile she liked you to wear, all gums and wide eyes. And you nodded saying, “Yes ma’am.”
You had been at the factory since four in the morning, you got off at six, took the bus and walked part of the way, only to get home at six-forty. But Mable, beautiful Mable came first. The chicken and dumplings would just be for her. Your aunt’s supper consisted of a bowl of broth and a cigarette unless there was company. There rarely was since Mable’s husband’s death. Heavy black drapery covered the windows and the furniture in the company parlor. You made your way to the kitchen, every step heavier than the last.
You made the dough for the dumplings first, rolling it out, and cutting it in thick strips. Then you made the broth. There was no actual chicken left, but you did have some bones and canned stock. You chopped celery, each movement of the knife landing with a satisfying thwack. Your feet ached and you longed for a bath. To sink into the hot water, to wash away the grime and sweat of the day.
When it was done, you put it in a bowl on a tray to carry up to Mable. Your knees ached as you went up the winding staircase to Mable’s room on the second floor. You found her curled up in bed. She sat up when you reached the edge of her bed. She blinked, the whites of her eyes were a horrible reddish colour.
“Just set it on the vanity,” she drawled out, her voice slightly hoarse.
“Alright.” You didn’t look at her. You saw the perfume bottles and makeup canisters lined up on her vanity, the vases overflowing with flowers. If I sat home all day and entertained bored soldiers, I’d have that too. But you had never been called beautiful, or graceful, or stunning, like Mable had been since girlhood. Only pretty. Pretty is common, slightly above average, comfortable. Pretty isn’t the face men think of before they die or go off to war. Pretty is the girl men marry when they can’t achieve beautiful. Pretty is in the eyes of the beholder, while beautiful will always be universal.
She says your name. Something about the way she says your name feels like boney white hands around your neck. “Why do you hate me?”
You stopped, the tray clenched in your fingers. “Why would you say that?” You don’t recognize the voice leaving your body.
She laughs, false and beautiful. “The way you look at me.” She pauses and you can hear her shifting in the sheets. “Like you want to wear my skin.”
“Not everything is about you, Mable.”
You placed the tray on the vanity with a heavy thud. You walked to the door, still not looking at perfect Mable.
That night you sank into a bath that you had made, Amelia, the maid, had already gone home, so you had to pump the water and carry it upstairs yourself. You had rinsed and wiped off the visible dirt downstairs, so the bath would just clean what that hadn’t gotten. The water was warm. It would have been wise to use cold water, but you have never been able to do that. The day the city finally got air conditioning would be a relief. But the war had paused the manufacturing of air conditioners.
The water felt good. The soap you had made a few months before scented the air like magnolias. Combined with the scent of the old house and the damp city air, it brought you back to your younger days. You could remember being a teenager, in Mable’s hand me downs, following just outside the group while Mable and Satoru Gojo mesmerized the group of teenagers.
Satoru Gojo. You thought of him, his shockingly white hair, as white as snow. You had only seen snow once, when your uncle took the family skiing up North. Eyes as blue as a clear sky. He lived in your memory like a wintery northern god. You hoped he was still alive. But if he had been captured, you hoped he had died quickly. You had heard what they had done to those captured pilots. You winced. You couldn’t believe that he was alive. He burned too brightly to live a long life. Surely Satoru Gojo was dead at the bottom of the ocean.
A few months before, somewhere in the Pacific.
It had been a day like any other, the day Satoru Gojo crashed. He had been briefed with the other pilots and he was ready to engage the enemy. He remembered Gunny, his air gunner, a buck-toothed kid from the footheels of the Tennessee mountains, swaggering over to him. “You ready to take our lady dancing?” He said grinning. His accent always reminded Satoru of peanut brittle, sweet, bumpy, with a touch of coarseness.
“She’s been getting a lot of dancing,” Gojo responds, glancing up at his girl. The Honoured One, in all her caustic beauty glared down at him. God, she was beautiful. Painted on her side was a leggy woman sitting seductively. The woman looked suspiciously like the female version of Gojo. When the ground crew showed him the painting, grinning and snickering, he had laughed. He rather liked the rendition of himself on The Honoured One.
They take flight and he can feel his blood pumping. Earth passes away as he enters the heavens. He always feels alone until they fulfill the mission, even though he knows his crew is around him. Alone on earth, alone in the sky. But when has he not been alone? Even since he was a child, he has known he was different, that he wasn’t like the others. That heaven had mandated him a separate path.
It doesn’t take long before the enemy swarms upon him. Then the first engine goes out, then his tail is shot off. He can hear Gunny, he can hear the cussing, the roar of his engine. Then he is falling and all he can think about is Lucifer falling from Heaven. How did it go? Like lightning from heaven? Why couldn’t he remember it? Why did it matter? He was going to die - he was going to die?
The water cuts into his bones. He hears screaming - no, he is screaming. Something is wrong, his legs he thinks, they must be broken. Artillery hits the water. The bastards are still shooting at them, he realizes. A few minutes later, the shooting stops. The other airmen must have chased away the enemy fighter pilots. But then water is on fire - no, it's the spilled engine oil. And he hears more screaming, except this time it's not coming from him.
Only three of them are alive. Gunny died. Gunny is dead, he thinks numbly. The kid was heading back home in June. Happy goodnatured Gunny is dead. Gunny who had never looked at him differently because of his race. Gunny who had looked up to him. Three out of ten men are alive.
The inflatable boat they rest on does little to keep the water out. But it’s better than being in the water. They can see the sharks circling, feasting on their dead crewmates. They blister in the sun, dying of thirst. Hakari breaks down sobbing and drinks the salt water, Satoru and Whit try to stop him. He died two days later. Then it was only Whit and Satoru.
He does not remember what happened in the ensuing days. Maybe he cannot or will not face it. But he does remember her - the girl who gave him the stars. She sits at the edge of the boat too, so really there is three of them still.
When the enemy navy picks them up, it almost seems like heaven had sent them. It hadn't.
For a year he is formed again. His captors molding and breaking parts of Satoru he didn’t know existed. They were going to kill him two days after the war ended for an escape attempt. But by grace he is saved by the war ending.
It takes a few months for him to get home. He is about to leave the bus, when the driver, an older soldier (probably reserves) stops him. He stands ramrod straight, raising his hand in a sharp salute. Gojo copies his motion and salutes.
The old soldier breathes in smiling. “Welcome home, airman,” he says.
Something wet presses at the corner of Gojo's eyes. He nods. The lump in his throat won't allow him to speak.
He walks the streets, passing reuniting couples and families. The city is celebrating together. He distantly thinks of his great uncle. But he moves through the city alone. He stops at a few bars, his drinks are paid for, girls grin up at him. But he doesn't care. Nothing matters. Even if Star Girl herself walked up to him he wouldn't care.
Star Girl. That was her. He recognized her moving through the crowd. He pushes through the bodies until he reaches her.
He grins down at her. He couldn't let her see the man he's become. He has to be the hero she expects him to be.
“Long time no see.”
She gapes up at him. Good. He sees it now. He won’t be alone. He’ll have her. Satoru doesn’t care if she’s married or doesn’t remember him. She’s his.
The air smells like victory or piss and heady perfume the day you see Satoru Gojo alive. You had crept out of the house alone. Your aunt was too busy consoling Mable, and Mable was too grief stricken to join the city's celebration, and your uncle was all the way up North on a business trip. So you stand alone as you face him.He’s thinner but just as handsome as he had been before.
He says your name. “It’s me, I’m Satoru, I’ve come home.”
You give him a shy smile. What are you supposed to do? You aren’t Mable, you don’t know what to do with men. Satoru smiles back, but something in his smile makes you back away. Something in his eyes changes and you see a different man standing before you.
