the door clicks shut and the world narrows to darkness and heat.
you're pressed against the wall, coats brushing your shoulders, the musty smell of old fabric and someone's perfume mixing with the sharp, clean scent of him—his cologne, warm and woody, with something underneath that's just him, skin and sweat and the faint hint of mint from his gum. you can feel every contour of his body through the dim light seeping under the door: the broad line of his shoulders, the hard plane of his chest, the way his thighs bracket yours because there's no room to stand anywhere else.
satoru’s breath is shallow, controlled, hitting your cheek in warm puffs. he's holding himself rigid, arms at his sides like he's afraid to touch you. you can see the outline of his jaw, tight, the way his throat moves when he swallows.
outside, someone starts counting. "seven minutes, lovebirds!" a cheer, a laugh, then the bass drops again, muffled but still vibrating through the floor.
neither of you moves.
your heart is hammering, loud in your ears. you feel shy, suddenly, the way you always do around him—the quiet guy with the bright blue eyes who never says much, who you've had a crush on since that first english class when he sat next to you and asked to borrow a pen. you've never done anything like this before. your hands are clammy, your stomach twisting with nerves and something else, something warm and urgent pooling low in your belly.
he shifts, trying to find a more comfortable position, and his hip brushes against yours. the contact is electric, and you both freeze.
"we don't have to do anything," satoru says, his voice low, almost rough. "just wait it out."
you should say okay. you should stay still and let the seven minutes pass in awkward silence, then slip out and pretend it never happened.
but the darkness feels safe, and the alcohol is a warm hum in your blood, and you can feel the heat radiating off him, feel the tension in his body like a coiled spring. you want to see what happens when that spring snaps.
your hand lifts, trembling a little, and you place it flat against his chest. he goes absolutely still. his heart is pounding under your palm, fast and rabbit-quick, and the revelation makes you bolder.
"what are you doing?" his voice is careful, controlled, but there's a crack in it, a wobble that gives him away.
"i don't know," you whisper, and it's the truth. your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, a loose black tee, soft from washing. you can feel the warmth of his skin through it. "i just… want to touch you."
he doesn't say no.
you take that as permission. your hand slides down his chest, over the hard ridges of his stomach, and he sucks in a sharp breath when you reach the waistband of his jeans. you pause there, your fingers resting on the button, and you look up at him—or where you think his face is, in the dark.
"is this okay?" you ask, and your voice is barely a whisper, shy and hopeful all at once.
he doesn't answer for a long moment. you can hear his breathing, ragged now, and when he finally speaks, his voice is strained. "…yeah."
that single word is all you need.
you undo the button with clumsy fingers, the metal click loud in the small space, then pull down the zipper. the sound is rough, intimate. he's already hard, you can see the shape of him straining against his boxers, and your mouth goes dry.
you hesitate, your fingers hovering over the waistband of his boxers. he's so still, like he's holding his breath, waiting. you can feel the heat of his arousal through the thin cotton, and your own body responds, a pulse of warmth between your legs, your thighs pressing together instinctively.
you hook your fingers under the elastic and pull down.
his cock springs free, thick and hot, and you wrap your hand around it without thinking. the feeling of him in your palm—heavy, velvety, twitching at your touch—makes you gasp softly. he makes a sound too, a choked, desperate noise that he cuts off immediately, his jaw clenching so hard you can hear his teeth grind.
you stroke him, slow, experimental, learning the shape of him. he's long, with a slight curve, and the skin is smooth over iron hardness. your thumb brushes over the tip, and it's already wet, slick with pre-cum that beads and smears under your touch.
"fuck," he breathes, the word punched out of him.
you do it again, a deliberate circle of your thumb around the head, and his hips jerk involuntarily. he slams his hand against the wall beside your head, a dull thud that makes you flinch, but you don't stop. your grip tightens, and you pump him slowly, from base to tip, feeling every ridge and vein.
his forehead drops to your shoulder. his breath is hot and uneven against your neck, and you can feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles are locked, fighting against the pleasure. his free hand is fisted at his side, knuckles white.
"you feel so good," you murmur, and it's true. the weight of him in your hand, the way he responds to every touch, the sounds he's trying to suppress—it's intoxicating. your own arousal is building, a damp heat between your thighs, and you press your legs together, trying to ease the ache.
he doesn't answer, but his hips start moving, tiny, aborted thrusts into your grip. he's trying to hold still, you can feel it, but his body is betraying him. each movement is shallow, desperate, seeking more friction.
"just let go," you whisper, your lips brushing his ear. "no one can hear us."
that's a lie, and you both know it. the walls are thin, and the party is right outside. but the risk seems to undo him further. a low moan escapes his throat, muffled against your shoulder, and his hips pick up speed, fucking into your hand with more urgency.
you match satoru’s rhythm, your strokes steady and firm, twisting your wrist at the top the way you've read about. his cock is slick now, coated in pre-cum, and the sound of it—wet, obscene—fills the closet. you can smell it too, the salty, musky scent of his arousal, mixing with your own.
"please," he says, and the word is broken, almost a whimper. "please, i—"
"please what?" you ask, and your voice is soft, teasing, even though your heart is racing. you're getting wetter by the second, a slick heat spreading through your underwear, and you shift your weight, pressing your thighs together harder.
he groans, a sound of pure frustration. "i don't know. just—don't stop. please don't stop."
you don't.
you speed up, your hand moving faster, your grip tighter. the pre-cum is everywhere now, making a mess of your fingers, his stomach, his boxers. you can feel his balls tightening against your wrist, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. he's biting his lip, trying to stay quiet, but every few seconds a whimper escapes, high and needy, completely at odds with his usual quiet demeanor.
you want to hear more.
you slow down, just barely, and he makes a sound of protest, his hips chasing your hand. you stop completely, your fingers still wrapped around his cock, and he lets out a shaky, frustrated breath.
"why did you stop?" he asks, and his voice is wrecked, vulnerable.
"i want you to tell me what you want," you say, and your own voice trembles. you're shy, still, but the power you hold over him—over this big, tense, controlled man—is heady. your pussy is throbbing, wet and empty, and you squeeze your thighs together, trying to relieve the pressure.
he swallows audibly. "i want… i want you to touch me. please. i need…"
"you need what?"
"i need to come," he chokes out, and the admission seems to cost him something. his hand comes up, finding your waist, gripping the fabric of your shirt like he's holding on for dear life. "please. i can't—i've been thinking about you all night. watching you across the room. and now you're here, and your hand is on me, and i—fuck."
the confession makes your breath catch. you start moving again, slow and deliberate, and he moans, long and low, his hips bucking into your grip.
"you've been thinking about me?" you ask, and you hate how breathless you sound.
"yes," he hisses. "all night. wondering what it would feel like. if you'd be gentle or rough. if you'd let me touch you back."
his words paint a picture, and you feel a rush of heat between your legs, your clit aching with need. you press your thighs together harder, but it's not enough. you need something, anything.
"you can touch me," you whisper, and it's an invitation, shy but sincere.
his hand slides from your waist, down your hip, over your thigh. he hesitates, his fingers resting on the hem of your skirt. "like this?" he asks, and his voice is almost reverent.
you nod, even though he can barely see you.
his hand slips under your skirt, his fingers warm and calloused against the bare skin of your thigh. he moves higher, slowly, giving you time to stop him. when he reaches the damp cotton of your underwear, he stops, his breath catching.
"you're wet," he says, and there's wonder in his voice.
you feel your face heat, but you don't pull away. "yeah. because of you."
he makes a sound, something between a groan and a whimper, and his fingers press against you through the fabric, finding the spot where you're most sensitive. you gasp, your hips bucking, and your grip on his cock tightens involuntarily. he hisses, thrusting into your hand, and the dual sensations—his touch on your pussy, your hand on his cock—fill the closet with a symphony of wet sounds and stifled moans.
he rubs you through the fabric, circling your clit, and your knees nearly buckle. you lean into him, your forehead resting against his chest, your hand still moving on his cock. his breath is ragged in your hair, and you can feel his heart pounding against your cheek.
"i want to feel you," he murmurs, and his fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, pulling them aside. the cool air hits your wet folds, and then his fingers are there, sliding through your slickness, finding your entrance. he pushes one finger in, slowly, and you gasp, your fingers digging into his shoulder.
"oh, god," you breathe.
"you feel incredible," he says, and his voice is strained, like he's barely holding on. he pushes deeper, curling his finger, and stars burst behind your eyes. your rhythm on his cock falters, but you keep moving, driven by instinct.
he adds a second finger, stretching you, and you whimper, your hips meeting his hand. the sound of it—the wet, squelching noise of his fingers inside you—mixes with the wet sound of your hand on his cock, and it's filthy, depraved, everything you didn't know you needed.
"i'm close," he warns, his voice cracking. "i'm so close, i—"
"come for me," you say, and it's almost a plea. "i want to feel it."
he does.
his body goes rigid, a shudder wracking through him, and he buries his face in your neck, a long, broken moan vibrating against your skin. his cock pulses in your hand, hot ropes of cum spilling over your fingers, dripping down your wrist, staining his shirt and yours. he keeps thrusting into your grip, riding out the wave, and you keep stroking him through it, soft and slow, until he's trembling and spent.
his fingers are still inside you, and you're so close yourself, teetering on the edge. he seems to sense it, because he curls his fingers again, pressing against that spot, and you cry out, your hips bucking. your orgasm crashes over you, sudden and intense, your thighs clamping around his hand as you shudder against him.
for a long moment, there's only breathing, heavy and tangled, and the sticky mess between you. his cum is cooling on your hand, your own wetness coating his fingers, and you feel a strange, shy intimacy, like you've shared something you can't take back.
outside, the seven minutes are up. someone knocks on the door. "time's up, you two!"
you pull apart, clumsy and slow, fixing your clothes in the dark. he zips his jeans, and you wipe your hand on your skirt, feeling the dampness of your own arousal between your legs.
the door swings open, light flooding in. yuki is there, grinning, but her smile falters when she sees your faces—flushed, messy, eyes dark with leftover hunger.
neither of you says a word.
satoru brushes past you, out of the closet, but his hand catches yours for a split second, his fingers brushing yours. a whisper of a touch, a promise.
you follow him out, your heart racing, your body still humming.
ㅤꨄ︎ Nanami catches his pregnant wife ransacking the kitchen at 3am. (Fluff)
Nanami lazily rubs his tired eyes as he sits up on his bed, sheets pooling at his lap. He looked at the time. 3:23 am. Why is he awake at an ungodly hour?
His light haze is interrupted by what sounds like a raccoon rummaging through the pantry downstairs and the loud rustling of wrappers. He looks at the spot on your side of the bed where you should be. Empty, of course.
He swings his long legs over the bed and pads downstairs, his bare feet quiet against the cool wooden boards. The rustling of plastic, the thudding of cabinet doors, and soft chewing get louder as he approaches the kitchen.
He squints as he tries to make out the round figure in the dark shadows of the kitchen; the thin stream of moonlight through the kitchen’s small window faintly outlines your face.
“Honey, what the hell are you doing this late?” He flicks the light on, both of your faces scrunching up by the sudden brightness of the room after a long period of only darkness.
He sees his wife, you, standing by the fridge in his old dark blue button-up long-sleeve shirt big enough to cover your pregnant belly, a cold half-eaten pizza in one hand, while the other holds half a ham sandwich. His gaze pans to the cluttered counter laid with a slice of bread with Nutella slapped on it, a half-eaten bag of Doritos, a ham package, an empty soda can, a bitten apple, and an old pizza box. No signs of anything balanced, nutritional, or healthy, maybe the apple counts.
He rubs his sleepy face and rakes a hand through his sleep-ruffled hair.
“What am I going to do with you?” He shuffles closer to where you are, squinting at your cheeks puffed with food.
“I was hungry!” You mumbled, unbothered under his scrutinizing stare.
Nanami grimaces at the random bits of food that fly out of your mouth. He knows that your pregnancy cravings have been cranked up to the max since entering your 2nd trimester, but he’s still unused to you eating the house of stock just because you feel a little hunger.
“Sweetheart, you’re eating all of this right now? Do you know what time it is?” It’s like he’s scolding a child. Well, he could call this practice for future reference.
You close the fridge sheepishly and swallow.
“I didn’t want to wake you, and I didn’t want to cook anything, so I just ate whatever came to mind.” Your explanation makes him sigh, but you know he’s really not irritated. He just wishes you had woken him up even at this late hour if it meant providing you with something healthier than whatever junk you’re eating now.
“You should’ve woken me up,”
He grabs the Dorito bag, the old pizza box, and everything else on the counter and dumps it all in the trash. He doesn’t dare to grab the food already in your hands; he knows better than to anger a pregnant lady.
“You know I don’t mind cooking for you.” He grabs a pot and a pan. If you’re hungry, he’s going to feed you at least right.
“What are you doing?” You ask, confused.
“Making you something proper.” He grabs some ingredients from the fridge and the pantry shelves. The smell of eggs and veggies fills your nose.
You sit down by the counter, still eating the last of your sandwich and pizza. You watch his broad shoulders shift and strain under his thin sleep shirt. He’s such a sight for sore eyes. What could be more attractive than your caring, unbelievably sexy husband cooking you a meal without being asked at 3 in the morning?
He whisks the eggs and pours them into the buttered pan. He dumps the veggies and folds them into a perfect tamagoyaki. Basic but tasty, way better than what you were eating before.
“Here, eat up,” he places the freshly cooked food and crosses his arms, watching you pick up the chopsticks on the plate and eagerly stuffing your mouth.
“Aw, thank you, Ken. You didn’t have to,” your eyes sting with tears. It surprises me how easily your mood can shift from hungry to happy to sad. You feel bad for waking him up and making him take you.
Nanami shakes his head, walking over to where you sat and wrapping his strong arms around you. He presses a kiss on the side of your head. He smells like his sandalwood shaving cream and cologne.
“Don’t cry, my love. I don’t mind doing anything for you as long as you’re content.” He kisses your leftover tears away, his eyes full of love for the mother of his little girl, Sachiko, and the light of his life.
You sniffle, beaming under his affection.
“Don’t you have work in the morning, Ken? I shouldn’t be waking you up this late.”
He shakes his head, his large hand trailing down to rest on the curve of your belly. He feels a small nudge barely there, but still enough to make his heart flutter. His palm’s warmth seeps through the cotton of the button-up, grounding you instantly.
“That doesn’t matter right now. You and the baby are more important to me than anything else right now.”
“You don’t mind me keeping you up late even though you have work?”
He shakes his head, his hands now coming up to cup your cheeks. You melt and lean into his touch, watery eyes blinking up at him.
“I don’t care if I lose sleep. Do you think I’d rather be asleep than taking care of you right now?” His voice is low and warm, comforting your guilt-clouded head.
You slowly move your head, no, letting his thumb wipe away stray tears.
“No… know you love doting on me,”
“Good. I want you to wake me anytime if you need anything. Promise you’ll do that for me?”
“I promise.” His shoulders relax at your promise. He presses a slow kiss on your forehead before pulling back to meet your eyes again.
“I love you,” he murmurs, only quiet enough for you to hear.
You giggle softly, grinning playfully.
“No way. I love you more.”
(In a perfect world I’m nanami’s happy pampered wife.)
Nanami is losing his mind. Three dates in, and she's still calling him "Nanami"—or worse, "sir"—while using first names with everyone else from waiters to coworkers. He starts orchestrating increasingly desperate schemes to hear "Kento" cross her lips just once, but she remains stubbornly, devastatingly formal.
There is a sound he is dying to hear, and it is killing him slowly.
Three dates. Three official, documented, calendar-worthy dates outside the fluorescent-lit halls of Jujutsu Technical College where you still—still, after three dates, after he has kissed you goodnight at your door, after he has held your hand across restaurant tables, after he has memorized the exact cadence of your laugh—call him Nanami.
Or worse. Sir.
Or worse still, with that professional precision that makes him want to scream into the void, Mr. Nanami.
"Nanami," you say now, approaching his desk at 4:47 PM, your shadow falling across his paperwork. "The mission report needs your signature."
He looks up. You are smiling, casual, your elbow resting on the partition, your hair escaping its clip in a way that makes his fingers twitch. Three dates, and you are still standing three feet away. Three dates, and you still use the same tone you use for Gojo, for Ijichi, for the mailman who delivers packages to the lobby.
"Of course," he says, and his voice sounds strange in his own ears—tight, desperate, disguised as professional.
You lean over his desk to point at the line, and your sleeve brushes his hand, and he stops breathing. You smell like the cheap coffee from the break room and something else, something you, and he wants to bury his face in your neck and beg. Just beg. Say it. My name. The one my mother gave me. The one I stopped hearing when my father died. The one that only exists now in government documents and the mouths of strangers. Say it like you mean it. Say it like I'm yours.
"Here," you say, tapping the paper. "Nanami."
He signs. His hand shakes. You do not notice.
The first scheme is pathetic. He knows it is pathetic even as he orchestrates it, standing in the convenience store at 9 PM, staring at the refrigerated case like it holds the secrets of the universe.
Date four. Technically date four, though he has stopped counting because numbers imply progress and there has been none. You still call him Nanami. You called the waiter by his first name after reading his nametag once. You call your coworkers by nicknames he does not know the origins of. You are informal with everyone. Everyone except him.
He buys water. Two bottles. He does not need two bottles. He buys them because the plan has formed, desperate and humiliating, and he cannot stop now.
You meet him outside. You are wearing the blue sweater he likes, the one that makes your eyes look like the ocean at dawn, and he forgets his own name, let alone his plan to make you say it.
"Nanami," you greet, falling into step beside him.
His heart sinks. Then: determination.
"I need to show you something," he says, and his voice is too loud, too casual, a performance of nonchalance he has never perfected. He reaches for his wallet. His hands tremble. He extracts his driver's license and holds it out to you, invented excuse ready on his tongue—I think the photo looks terrible, do you agree, is my hair really that color, what do you think—but when you take it, when your fingers brush his and you look down at the small plastic card, he loses all capacity for speech.
You study it. He studies you. The streetlight catches your eyelashes, the curve of your cheek, the way your mouth moves as you read silently.
"Kento Nanami," you murmur, and his knees actually weaken, actually threaten to buckle, because there it is, there it is, the sound of his name in your mouth, the K and the en and the to, the three syllables he has been craving like oxygen, like water, like grace.
But then you look up, hand back the license, smile. "You were right. The photo is terrible. Your hair looks much better now, Nanami."
Nanami.
He takes the license. He puts it away. He walks beside you in silence, screaming internally, wondering if you are doing this deliberately, if this is torture, if you know that you have tasted his name and returned to the formal distance and he is left starving, starving, with the ghost of Kento hanging between you like smoke.
The second scheme involves the restaurant.
He chooses it specifically because he knows the owner, because he has arranged in advance, because he is losing his mind and dignity is a luxury he can no longer afford. You arrive together. You are beautiful. You are always beautiful. He cannot focus on the menu because he is watching your mouth, waiting, hoping.
The waiter arrives. Young. Enthusiastic. Part of the plan.
"Good evening," the waiter says, smiling. "Table for two under… Kento?"
He watches your face. He watches your mouth form the shape of recognition, the slight nod, the casual acceptance. Yes, that's us. Kento.
You do not repeat it. You do not look at him and say Kento, that's you, that's your name, I know that now, I will use it. You simply follow the waiter, sliding into the booth, unfolding your napkin, asking about the specials.
"Nanami," you say, looking at the wine list. "Do you prefer red or white?"
He orders whiskey. He drinks it too fast. He spends the entire meal inventing reasons to touch you—your hand, your shoulder, your knee beneath the table—hoping that proximity will breed intimacy, that intimacy will collapse the distance of formality. You let him touch you. You smile. You call him Nanami with every sentence, with every glance, with every shared laugh, and he feels himself fracturing, coming apart at the seams, held together only by the desperate hope that someday, someday, you will break.
The third scheme is accidental. Or rather, he tells himself it is accidental, though he has been carrying his phone like a weapon for days, waiting for the opportunity.
You are at his apartment. Date five, though who is counting anymore, certainly not him, certainly not the man who has started keeping a tally in his mind of how many times you have said his surname versus how many times you have said his given name (the ratio is devastating, the ratio is infinity to zero).
You are looking at his bookshelf, running your fingers along spines, and he sees his chance.
"I should save your number," he says, casual, so casual, holding out his phone. "Properly. What do you have me saved as?"
He holds his breath. He holds his entire life in suspension. Tell me, he thinks. Tell me you have me as Kento. Tell me you whisper it to yourself when you are alone. Tell me you practice it. Tell me you want to say it but you are scared, tell me you are waiting for permission, tell me—
"Nanami," you say, not looking up from the books. "Just Nanami. With a work emoji."
A work emoji.
He takes his phone back. He saves your number with shaking hands. He adds a heart emoji. He deletes it. He adds it again. He puts the phone down and goes to the kitchen and leans against the refrigerator and wonders if it is possible to die from wanting.
When he returns, you are holding a photo album he forgot to hide. Childhood photos. His mother. His father. The funeral.
"Kento," you say, reading the inscription on the back of a photograph, and he freezes, freezes, because there it is again, accidental, unmeant, just you reading words not addressing him, but still—still—the sound of his name in your mouth, the K and the en and the to, and he wants to fall to his knees, he wants to beg you to read every document he owns, every book in his library, every word ever written that contains those five letters in that order.
"Nanami?" you ask, looking up, concerned by his expression.
He realizes he is staring. He realizes he has tears in his eyes. He realizes he is in love with you, desperately, terminally, completely in love, and you will not call him by his first name.
"Nothing," he lies. "Just… memories."
The fourth scheme involves a phone call that is not a scheme at all, that is just cruel coincidence, that is the universe laughing at him.
You are at his apartment again. You are cooking. He is watching, hypnotized by the way you move, the efficiency of your hands, the casual intimacy of being in his space, using his stove, wearing his spare shirt because you spilled something on yours.
His phone rings.
He ignores it. He is ignoring everything that is not you.
It rings again. And again.
"Nanami," you say, laughing, "aren't you going to get that? It might be important."
Nanami. Nanami. Nanami.
"It can wait," he says, but you are already reaching for it, already looking at the screen, and he sees the moment you read the name, the moment you see the characters, the moment you know.
"Kento," you say, holding out the phone. "It's for you. Someone named… Kento?"
His heart stops. Actually stops. Then restarts at double speed, triple, a drum solo, a war cry.
"That's…" he starts, reaching for the phone, his hand brushing yours, his mind white noise and static. "That's… me. That's my name. That's…"
But you are already turning back to the stove, already casual, already moving on. "You should answer, Nanami. You're being rude."
Nanami.
He answers the phone. It is a wrong number. He does not hear a word they say. He stands in his kitchen, phone pressed to his ear, watching you stir something that smells like heaven, and he thinks: You said it. You said it. You said it and you didn't even notice. You said it like it was nothing. You said it like it didn't change everything. You said it and walked away.
He ends the call. He sets the phone down. He stands behind you at the stove and wraps his arms around your waist and buries his face in your hair and breathes, just breathes, trying to memorize the exact moment, the exact temperature of the room, the exact configuration of atoms that allowed you to say his name and mean him.
"Nanami?" you ask, surprised by the embrace.
He squeezes tighter. He does not correct you. He is beyond correction. He is in the desert, and you have shown him water, and he is dying of thirst, and you are calling him Mr. Nanami from across an ocean.
The fifth scheme is not a scheme. It is surrender.
He stops trying. He accepts his fate. He is Nanami to you, will always be Nanami, Mr. Nanami, Sir, the colleague, the date, the almost-lover who cannot cross the final inch into intimacy because you will not let him have his name.
He takes you to bed. Not like that—though he wants to, God he wants to— but actually to bed, to sleep, because it is late and you are tired and he is desperate for any proximity you will allow. You wear his shirt. You look like you belong there. You look like you have always belonged there.
He lies beside you, rigid, terrified, ecstatic. You are here. In his bed. Breathing his air. He can hear your heartbeat, or he imagines he can, and he lies on his back staring at the ceiling and wondering if this is happiness or if happiness requires you to whisper Kento in the dark.
You shift. You roll toward him in your sleep, seeking warmth, and your hand finds his chest, and your leg tangles with his, and he stops breathing entirely.
"Mm," you murmur, a sound of contentment, of safety, of trust.
He dares to touch your hair. He dares to press his lips to your forehead. He dares to hope.
You settle closer. Your breath ghosts against his neck. He feels the shape of your mouth moving against his skin, forming words he cannot hear, dreams he cannot share.
Then, soft as prayer, barely a breath, you whisper:
"Kento."
He short-circuits.
His body, which has survived cursed spirit attacks, which has endured bone breaks and blood loss and the particular horror of Gojo Satoru's friendship, simply fails. His vision whites out. His muscles seize. He rolls—actually rolls—off the bed and hits the floor with a thud that should wake the dead, that should certainly wake you, but you are drifting deeper, you are smiling in your sleep, you have no idea you have just destroyed him.
He lies on the floor, staring at the ceiling, his heart a bomb in his chest.
Kento.
You said it. You said it. Not reading, not repeating, not addressing a stranger. You said it in your sleep, unguarded, unconscious, true. You said it like it belonged to you. You said it like you had been saying it forever, like you were keeping it secret, like it was a name you whispered to yourself when you were alone.
He scrambles up. He is on his knees beside the bed. He is touching your shoulder, your face, his hands shaking so violently he can barely control them.
"Again," he begs, his voice broken, raw, wrecked. "Please. Again. Say it again. Please, I'm begging you, say it again, say my name, please—"
You murmur something unintelligible. You shift away from his touch, seeking comfort, seeking sleep.
"Please," he whispers, tears in his eyes, his forehead pressed to the mattress beside your head. "Please. I need to hear it. I need to know you know it. I need you to say it like you mean it. Please. Kento. Say Kento. Please."
But you are gone. Deep in dreams where he cannot follow. Smiling at something he cannot see.
He stays there, kneeling, destroyed, rebuilt, destroyed again. He stays until his knees ache and his back screams and the sun begins to rise, painting the room in gold that catches your eyelashes, your cheekbones, the peaceful curve of your mouth.
You wake to find him watching you with an expression you cannot read—devastated, triumphant, desperate, in love.
"Nanami?" you ask, confused by his intensity, by his tears, by the way he reaches for your hand and kisses your palm with reverence that borders on religious ecstasy.
"Nothing," he lies, because he cannot tell you, because if he tells you he heard you say it, you might stop. You might retreat back into formality. You might remember that you are not supposed to be this intimate, this close, this his.
But later, when you are dressing, when you are gathering your things, when you pause at his door and look back at him with that expression he cannot decipher, you open your mouth and hesitate.
He stops breathing. He stops existing. He waits.
"Thank you," you say finally. "For last night. Kento."
You say it. You look at him and you say it. Kento.
Then you blush—actually blush, pink spreading across your cheeks like sunrise—and you flee, closing the door behind you, leaving him standing in his apartment with his name ringing in his ears and his heart in pieces on the floor and the devastating knowledge that you know exactly what you are doing, you have always known, and you were just waiting for him to break first.
He slides down the wall. He sits on the floor. He presses his hands to his face and laughs, cries, screams into the empty room.
A Makeout Session with Sukuna Warnings: smut, sukuna x reader, making out, teasing, dirty talk, possessive sukuna, needy reader, heavy kissing, no plot just vibes, sukuna being a menace
a/n: today’s contribution to the Sukuna agenda, hope you enjoy!
You’re tangled together on the bed, kissing like neither of you can get enough.
You lie on your back, your body angled toward Sukuna’s. He’s stretched out on his side facing you, one leg extended while the other is bent comfortably. One arm is tucked beneath your neck, using the pillows to keep you close, while his other hand rests possessively against your breast.
Neither of you has even bothered taking off your shoes yet.
Your dress has ridden up during the make-out session, wrinkled around your hips, revealing how bare you are beneath it, while Sukuna is still wearing his jeans and leather jacket. Everything happened too fast for either of you to care.
Your fingers weave into the hair at the nape of his neck, gently tugging whenever he kisses you harder. Each pull earns a low hum of approval from him.
Sukuna pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark, focused entirely on your face. Your lips are swollen from kissing, your breathing uneven.
The sight seems to amuse him.
A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth before he leans in again, capturing your lips in another slow kiss.
You melt into it immediately.
His hand drifts beneath the neckline of your dress to finally touch the skin of your breast, and your breath catches. A soft sound escapes you before you can stop it, making Sukuna’s grin widen against your mouth.
The reaction only encourages him. He takes his time, enjoying every little response he manages to pull from you. Meanwhile, your grip tightens in his hair, unconsciously trying to pull him even closer.
Sukuna lets out a quiet laugh between kisses.
The sound sends a wave of embarrassment through you.
“You’re very desperate, aren’t you?” he murmurs, amusement dripping from every word.
The teasing only makes your face grow hotter.
The kisses grow increasingly messy, filled with shared breaths, wandering tongues, and barely restrained desperation. The hand resting against your chest certainly isn’t helping the heat building deep inside you.
Eventually, Sukuna slides his hand away.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
His fingers trail down your side, gliding over your ribs before settling against your waist. The lingering touch makes your stomach tighten in anticipation.
By the time his hand finally reaches where you’ve been craving it most, you’re already breathless.
Sukuna slips his hand beneath the fabric of your panties and moves down to your folds and immediately feels the evidence of what he’s been doing to you.
A low chuckle rumbles from his chest.
“Fuck baby,” he mutters against your lips. “You’re soaked.”
The comment only earns him a needy whimper from you as you pull him closer, unwilling to break the kiss for even a second.
His touch remains frustratingly slow.
His ring and middle fingers move lazily up and down between your folds , making small circles on your clit as he reaches up taking his time as though he has all the patience in the world.
Your legs instinctively press together around his hand, trying to keep him exactly where you want him.
You feel yourself getting even wetter; how is that possible?
He continues at his own pace, moving his fingers slowly, stimulating your clit and your entrance completely unhurried, enjoying the way your body responds.
Every small movement seems calculated to draw another reaction from you, and judging by the smug look on his face, he’s enjoying every second of it.
You hate how easily he can read you.
Sukuna lets out a quiet laugh, clearly amused by your growing impatience. Meanwhile, your heart pounds harder with every passing second, caught somewhere between embarrassment and anticipation.
The bastard is taking his time on purpose.
Sukuna suddenly pulls his hand away from your soaked core, and a frustrated sound escapes you—something between a moan and a whimper.
The sudden absence of his hand leaves you completely undone.
Immediately, you pull back from the kiss, trying to create a little distance, placing your hands against his broad chest to gently push him back. It’s a useless effort; he keeps leaning in, heavy and relentless, devouring your lips in deep, possessive kisses. Only when you push harder, desperate for air, does he finally break the kiss, tilting his head to look down at you.
A pout instantly forms on your lips.
“Why did you stop?” you complain, your voice small and pathetic in a way that makes Sukuna’s grin widen.
There it is.
That infuriating, amused smile.
The one that always appears whenever he knows he’s getting exactly the reaction he wanted.
A low laugh leaves him.
Then he leans forward and presses a quick kiss to your lips.
“I wanted to taste you.”
You blink.
For a second, you don’t understand what he means.
Then your eyes follow the movement of his hand.
The same hand that had been buried between your thighs just seconds ago.
Realization hits instantly.
Heat rushes to your face.
Without breaking eye contact, Sukuna brings his slick fingers to his lips. He slides two of them deep into his mouth, his throat moving as he slowly, deliberately sucks them clean, tasting every drop of the sweet, needy mess you made for him.
His gaze never leaves yours.
Not for a second.
The gesture is slow, deliberate, and completely shameless.
Your breath catches.
The sheer visual makes your core throb. Your thighs violently clamp together, a full-body shiver running down your spine.
He slowly drags his fingers out, his tongue darting out to lick a stray drop from the corner of his mouth.
A satisfied look crosses his face.
“You’re sweet today,” Sukuna rasps, his eyes darkening with a dangerous hunger.
The comment only makes your cheeks burn hotter.
He doesn't give you time to answer. He leans down and crashes his lips back onto yours, forcing his tongue into your mouth. He kisses you filthy, making you taste your own sweetness mixed with his hot saliva. It’s intoxicating, intimate, and utterly overwhelming.
His hand drifts lazily along your thigh, fingers tracing absent-minded patterns against your skin.
When he finally pulls back, there’s still amusement dancing in his eyes.
“So,” he murmurs, thumb brushing lightly against your leg, “What do you want first? My tongue down there, or are you ready to let me stretch you out?”
You don’t even notice when he slips out onto the balcony.
You’re too busy curled up on his bed, scrolling mindlessly, one of his hoodies drowning you, sleeves covering your hands. The door’s cracked open just enough to let the night air in, cool and soft, and there’s that faint smell you always associate with him. Smoke.
You wrinkle your nose a little. “Gross,” you mutter to yourself, even though he’s not in the room to hear it.
A minute later, the door slides open properly. Sukuna steps back in like nothing happened, hair a little messy from the breeze, shirt hanging loose, cigarette already gone. He looks at you sprawled across his bed and just… pauses for a second. Like he always does.
“You’re gonna wreck the sleeves,” he says, nodding at his hoodie, eyes flicking to the way you absentmindedly pick at the loose threads.
You don’t even look up. “Good. Then you can’t take it back.”
He huffs, low and amused, walking over. “Wasn’t planning to.”
You finally glance at him. He’s standing right at the edge of the bed now, looking down at you with that same lazy expression, but there’s something a little softer underneath it.
“You smell,” you say bluntly.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, leaning closer.
“Like cigarettes,” you add, scrunching your nose. “It’s ugly.”
“Ugly,” he repeats, like he’s testing the word.
Before you can say anything else, his hand comes up, tilting your chin just slightly. You blink, confused for half a second– and then he kisses you. It’s quick at first. soft snd familiar.
Then he exhales.
Warm breath, laced with smoke, slips into your mouth before you even realise what he’s doing. Your eyes widen, instinctively pulling back, coughing lightly as you push at his chest.
“Sukuna–!” you choke out, half laughing, half scandalised. “What the hell was that?!”
He’s already grinning. Not big, just that stupid, smug curve of his lips. “You said I smelled,” he shrugs. “Thought I’d share.”
“You’re disgusting!” you smack his arm, sitting up properly now. “That is so– ugh!” But you’re laughing. He notices, making his hand slide to the back of your neck, pulling you back in before you can complain again. This time, the kiss is slower. No tricks. Just him.
You hesitate for a second… then melt. Because of course you do.
When he pulls away, your forehead bumps lightly against his, and you can still faintly taste it, mixed with him, and it’s annoying how it’s not even that bad anymore. You narrow your eyes. “You did that on purpose.”
“Obviously.”
“I hate you.”
“Mm.” He brushes his thumb over your cheek, casual. “Still kissed me.”
You go quiet for a second, trying to think of a comeback. Nothing comes. He watches you struggle, amused, then flicks your forehead lightly. “Dumbass.”
“Shut up,” you mumble, grabbing his shirt and tugging him down onto the bed with you. He lets himself fall, arm wrapping around you automatically like it’s second nature. You bury your face into his chest, muttering, “If I get lung cancer, I’m blaming you.”
He snorts, resting his chin on your head.
“You’ll live.”
A pause.
“…don’t do that again,” you add.
Another pause. “Maybe.”
You pinch his side.
He groans. “Alright, alright– fuck– fine.”
You smile into his shirt. Five minutes later, you tilt your head up and kiss him first anyway.
a/n: this was made a whiiiilllleeee back. idk if it's my lack of sleep or if this actually sounds choppy😭
𝓖.𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 🌷♡ ͏͏ is fighting demons while you hump his thigh in your sleep.
♡. 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽𝓽𝓱𝓻𝓸𝓫. older clanhead!satoru :: age gap (40s/20s) :: arranged marriage :: smut :: wet dreams :: satoru's fighting a losing battle
⊹ ꒰ 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎 ꒱ ⊹
"Are you scared I'll pop your hip if you let me bounce on it?"
You chirped one day during breakfast.
He choked up his mouthful of rice. Hacked with tears in his eyes while you had the audacity to rub smooth circles on his back. Hellish minx with your hands softer than heaven.
Satoru was the strongest, and you tested all forty four years of that strength.
"You are actually going to kill me," he grunted, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
Your eyes glimmered. "You've got a hefty life insurance, rightttt?"
Never in his life had it been so hard to fight a smile. You were something else. A demon and a doe, placed into his scarred hands.
You were all he was looking for and everything that he shouldn't want, even three months into your marriage.
Every day, you chipped away at a new section of his sanity. Made his slowly failing hormones surge and erect. Ahem, in more ways than one.
It was the way you spoke to him. Silk and smooth.
The way you batted those bratty, bambi eyes at him.
The way you flaunted that pretty body of yours. Teases of skin with your kimono dipped below your shoulder. Or the towel you'd prance around in the room with, agonisingly slowly as you went about your morning routine.
Yeah. Satoru had accepted that he was married to a crazy girl. A young girl. Who looked like she was a second closer every day to jumping his bones and giving him more wrinkles in his thighs.
To say he didn't fantasise about it would be a lie. Satoru thought about the things he could do to your soft, tender body more times than he'd like to admit.
Were you all big talk? Would you crumble the second his worn hands slipped between your thighs?
Would you be able to take him at all?
Guess that's a thought that'll remain just that. A thought. A guilty fantasy he'll condemn himself for until the day he closes his eyes.
After much whining and those puppy eyes that his infinity had no chance against, he loosened up enough to cuddle you. Hold you through the night when you curled into him and tucked yourself under his chin like a cat. You sure were as mischievous as one.
But in your sleep, without those damning eyes and pretty smiles, Satoru could admire you without the threat of a vein popping. Or a stroke. Or a heart attack.
The tender slopes of your face. The gentleness of your brows. The softness of your lips. Angelic. You were angelic.
Well, when you weren't trying to hump his thigh.
Somewhere in the dead of dawn. On a day the gods decided to test his every ounce of patience, Satoru awoke to the softest, sweetest sound.
A moan.
Groggily, his eyes fluttered open. Halfway through a stir when he heard it again—
"toru."
His stare shot down. Hands already on your waist and a scold rising to his tongue.
Only to see that you were fast asleep.
Brows twitched in a small pinch. Face blotched in the darkness. Lips parted. Your fingers curled into him while your hips rolled in a stuttered rhythm.
He took a breath. Then two. Three. Enough for him to catch up to what was happening.
You were dreaming.
"Mm. . . Satoruuuu."
Worse, you were dreaming about him.
Stewing in guilty pleasure, Satoru watched for a selfish moment. Your scrunched up face. Your hips rutting on his haphazardly.
His breath lodged in his throat.
A damp spot bloomed on his thigh.
Fuck.
He grit his teeth. Summoned all his strength. Squeezed his eyes shut and said every affirmation under the sun.
I will not touch my wife who's half my age.
I will not help her horny dream self.
I will not drive myself crazy with her sweet moans.
I will not be tempted by her little wet pussy on my— NO.
He gulped. Hard. Glaring to the ceiling as he fought off demons while you humped him like a rabbit in heat.
Eventually, he found the strength to grip your waist. To stop you. More importantly, the strength to not pull you over his crotch and grind up into that sweet cunt.
Your moans stirred into whimpers. Stirred into shudders. Your bucking hips slowing until they laid motionless.
Peace.
Or well, as much peace as he could have with a heavy, hot throb between his thighs.
This was a comic. Fucking. Joke.
There you were. Sleeping soundly with a content smile on your face. Like your wetness wasn't smeared on his thigh and you weren't humping the hell out of his leg just a moment afo. Looking as beautiful as you were damning.
Fuck. He was gonna lose his mind.
Sucking in a breath, Satoru slowly unwinded his limbs from yours. Slipping away before he broke all of his vows. Not tonight. Not ever.
Even through the ice cold shower, he was staring at his pulsing erection. Refusing to go down. Standing high at attention.
He almost wanted to slap it.
Slap himself.
Slap whatever divine force brought him here. Strung him between all of his morals, and his sweet young wife.
"Toru?" Your petal voice called out.
He groaned. Slumping his head against the tiles. Oh yeah. You were gonna give him a stroke.
⊹₊。꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱₊˚⊹ you shy?
˖ 𑣲 feed back and reblogs are always appreciated my girliees <333
art cred @/hunnismokah
shy!sukuna who looks like everything but shy.
with his inked arms, hands, neck, wrists and his pierced lips and eyebrows…. everyone on the campus could hardly picture him as shy. and it was even more hard when everyone on the campus know his weird relationsip with Gojo Satoru—the loud, cocky frat boy who couldn’t take a single hint if it was carved into his forehead.
you'd see them around campus constantly. Gojo running his mouth, throwing his arm over sukuna's shoulder like they were the bestest friend ever. all while sukuna was beside him, looking two seconds away from homicide. and if Gojo pushed it too far, just a little too far, people would see sukuna's hand grab him by the collar, slam him back against a wall, tattooed fingers fisted tight while he hissed something sharp and so low only Gojo could hear his threat.
shy!sukuna didn't do talking to fill the blank space. he could give a fuck less to what people thought about him. being shy didn’t mean insecure. he had no need to parade confidence to prove anything nor was he searching for any social approval. no wait, let me correct that, he wasn't seeking the approval of people who had no bearing on his life, not even remotely. only one opinion mattered to him... Uraume's opinion.
Uraume was the only person who somehow got past the scowls and silence. Uraume who he actually spoke to in full sentences. And, also Uraume was the only person on this earth to pull a subtle smile from his mouth.
so what was your surprise when you're in front of a 6 feet something, tattooed to hell shy sukuna. he's very red in the face and fidgeting with his own fingers. your brain stalls for a second. because this is the same guy who you saw once strangling Gojo behind the library.. and all you did was ask for his coffee order. your fingers hover over the touchscreen register, waiting. he shifts his weight from one feet to the other, extremely aware of the full college cafeteria looking at him right now.
shy!sukuna truly truly can't bring his crimson eyes to meet yours. he's trying, painfully trying, to remember what Uraume told him to get—but the harder he tries, the more his brain is reduced to mush.
shy!sukuna's getting more and more nervous as he feels all those fuckass pair of eyes riving on him. including yours. and you're sooo incredible pretty he's about to combust right in front of you. he groans under his breath, dragging a big, veined hand through his unusual pastel-pink hair.. “h-huh. just… wait,” he mumbles in a hoarse slow voice. “callin' that dumbie.” he yanks his phone out, thumbs moving fast, calling Uraume like his life depends on it. and it does
shy!sukuna is sure he's about to kill them. three rings and still no answer, he dares looks down at your eyes who's scrutinizing him like he's the biggest mystery you've ever encountered. you look like you're trying to solve him right there and here. but god, you didn’t even mean to stare that much, it’s just… confusing. seeing him like this.
he curses, jaw ticking, when the call drops to voicemail.
“gonna kill 'em,” he mumbles—meant for no one’s ears. but of course—
“excuse me?” you blink, leaning a little closer.
“n-no! not you—huh, i meant—fuck,” shy!sukuna's face burns.
Pairing: chef!boyfriend!sukuna x fem!reader Warnings: Chef Sukuna, Boyfriend Sukuna, Established Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Baking Together, Sukuna Can Cook, Soft Sukuna (Reluctantly), Food Play, Frosting, Teasing, Mutual Attraction, Sexual Tension, Finger Sucking, Praise, Dirty Talk, Mutual Desire, Kitchen Shenanigans, Reader Insert, Fem!Reader, Explicit Sexual Content Synopsis: Sukuna agrees to bake a cake with you. Everything is going perfectly until you do something completely innocent. Unfortunately, Sukuna takes it very, very badly. Divider: @chateaubarnes
It’s late, and you’re craving something sweet.
Normally, you would’ve settled for whatever snacks were hiding in the pantry, but tonight felt different. Maybe it was the cozy atmosphere, maybe it was the fact that your boyfriend happened to be an annoyingly talented baker.
So naturally, you suggested making a cake.
More specifically, you suggested using one of those boxed cake mixes that only take a few minutes to throw together.
The look Sukuna gave you afterward was enough to make you regret opening your mouth.
“You’re joking.”
“What?”
“That boxed crap?”
You rolled your eyes, “It tastes fine.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“It does.”
“It tastes like processed shit.”
And that was the end of that argument.
Because now, instead of spending twenty minutes making a cake, you were standing in the kitchen making one completely from scratch.
According to Sukuna, it was the only acceptable option.
The kitchen glowed with warm golden light. A few candles flickered lazily on the counter, casting soft shadows across the room. The smell of vanilla, sugar, and butter lingered in the air, growing sweeter with every ingredient added to the bowls between you.
Everything felt comfortable.
Domestic.
The kind of moment that made time seem slower.
Sukuna had already laid out every ingredient with almost military precision before you even arrived.
Of course he had.
He was currently working on the frosting while you handled the cake batter under his watchful supervision.
Or, as he liked to call it, making sure you didn’t ruin it.
“You’re hovering.”
“I’m supervising.”
“You’re hovering.”
“You’re lucky I’m here.”
You laughed under your breath.
Despite his attitude, you knew he secretly enjoyed moments like this just as much as you did.
Maybe even more.
Finally, after a few minutes, you finished mixing everything together.
Proud of yourself, you lifted the bowl toward him.
“Done.”
You grinned.
“How’d I do?”
Sukuna looked up from where he was whisking the frosting.
For a moment, he said nothing.
His crimson eyes moved from your face to the bowl.
Then back to the bowl.
His head tilted slightly.
His brows narrowed.
The same look.
The terrifying one.
The one he gave the cooks at the restaurant whenever he inspected a dish.
You immediately felt less confident.
“Why are you looking at it like that?”
“Quiet.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
Sukuna ignored you completely.
His attention remained fixed on the batter as though he were evaluating a life-or-death decision.
The silence stretched just long enough to make you nervous.
Then, finally—“It’s good.”
You blinked, “that’s it?”
“It’s good,” he repeated. “You did it right.”
And just like that, your entire mood improved.
Your smile widened immediately.
You couldn’t help it.
Something about earning praise from Sukuna always felt unfairly satisfying.
Especially when it came to cooking.
Maybe it was because compliments from him were rare.
Maybe it was because you knew he genuinely meant them when he gave them.
Or maybe it was because he was such a perfectionist that hearing “good job” from him felt like receiving a five-star review from the harshest critic alive.
Whatever the reason, you found yourself smiling like an idiot.
Sukuna glanced at you from the corner of his eye.
“What?” you asked immediately.
“Nothing.”
You narrowed your eyes suspiciously, “Then why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because you’re smiling.”
“Because you complimented me.”
“You’re easy.”
His voice was dismissive, but you didn’t miss the faint amusement hiding underneath it.
And honestly?
You’d take that as another compliment.
Sukuna returns his attention to the mixer, finishing the frosting while you pour the cake batter into the pan. You tap it lightly against the counter a few times, smoothing the surface before carrying it over to the oven.
“How long?” you ask, already reaching for the timer.
“Thirty-five minutes,” Sukuna replies without looking up. “Then we check on it.”
You set the timer and make your way back to the counter.
The frosting seems finished now.
Perfect, honestly.
Smooth, glossy, without a single lump in sight.
Sukuna switches off the mixer and pulls one of the blades free. Using his index finger, he gathers a bit of frosting from the metal. He brings it to his mouth, giving it a small taste, his expression immediately turning focused as he analyzes the flavor.
You watch him for a moment.
The furrow between his brows.
The slight narrowing of his eyes.
The way he always looks so serious when it comes to food.
“How is it?” you ask.
Sukuna glances at you.
Without a word, he extends his hand in your direction.
Offering you a taste.
In his mind, the gesture is simple. You’ll take a little frosting, try it, give your opinion.
Instead, you wrap your fingers around his wrist.
Sukuna’s brows lift slightly.
Before he can react, you bring his hand closer.
Your eyes lower to the frosting coating his finger.
Then you place it in your mouth.
The movement is innocent.
Casual.
Completely natural.
At least for you.
You close your lips around his finger, tasting the frosting before pulling away with a soft pop.
A thin strand of saliva stretches briefly before breaking.
You hum happily at the flavor.
“Mmm.”
The sound makes something unpleasantly warm settle low in Sukuna’s stomach.
You smile.
“It’s really good,” you say. “Sweet, but not too sweet.”
You grab a napkin from the counter, wiping the corner of your mouth.
Meanwhile, Sukuna remains completely still.
His finger still suspended in the air.
His brain struggling to catch up with what just happened.
You blink.
Confused.
“Was it bad?” you ask. “Do you think it needs more sugar? Or less—”
“No.”
The word comes out a little too quickly.
You stop talking.
Sukuna clears his throat.
“It’s fine.”
He turns back toward the bowl before you can get a good look at his face.
Because suddenly he feels his body way too hot.
You'd never done anything like this before.
It wasn’t as if you’d never had his cock in your mouth before.
But his finger?
Never.
And he never thought that a little finger sucking could turn him on so much.
And that’s fucking embarrassing.
The worst part is that you clearly have no idea what you just did to him.
You weren’t trying to tease him.
You weren’t trying to get a reaction.
You genuinely wanted to taste the frosting.
But the image refuses to leave his head.
The feeling of your lips around his finger.
The sound you made afterward.
The satisfied little smile.
Fuck.
“Check the cake,” Sukuna says.
His tone comes out rougher than intended.
You don’t seem to notice.
“Okay.”
You grab a fork and walk toward the oven.
The timer only has a few seconds left anyway.
Opening the door, you carefully poke the center of the cake.
When you pull the fork back out, it’s clean.
“It’s done!” you announce happily.
Sukuna exhales slowly through his nose.
Good.
Maybe focusing on decorating the cake will help him get his mind back where it belongs.
Unfortunately, the image of you sucking frosting off his finger has already decided to make itself comfortable in his head.
“Ryo, can you take it out? I feel like I’m gonna burn myself,” you say, using that voice.
The one Sukuna pretends doesn’t work on him.
It absolutely does.
Sukuna looks up and immediately finds you standing there with an innocent smile, oven mitts stretched out toward him.
His eyes narrow.
You smile wider.
He lets out an annoyed groan.
“Lazy.”
Even so, he takes them from you.
You help him put them on, trying not to laugh when he rolls his eyes at you.
A moment later, he bends down and carefully pulls the oven rack out.
The smell hits immediately.
Warm vanilla.
Butter.
Sugar.
The entire kitchen fills with it.
Sukuna lifts the cake from the oven and places it carefully on a heat-safe mat on the counter.
You follow after him, already rummaging through the drawers for the piping bags and spatulas.
God.
Cooking looks unfairly good on him.
By the time you turn around, he’s transferring the cake onto a rotating stand with the same level of concentration he gives everything else in the kitchen.
And honestly?
It should be illegal.
The way he works.
The confidence.
The precision.
The way his sleeves are rolled up, exposing his forearms.
The way he looks completely in control of every little thing around him.
You catch yourself staring.
Again.
A small smile pulls at your lips.
Sukuna notices immediately.
Of course he does.
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“That look.”
“What look?”
“The one where you stare at me like an idiot.”
You laugh.
“Tch.” Despite the dismissive sound, the corner of his mouth twitches slightly.
“Try to keep the frosting even and smooth,” he says, sliding the bowl toward you. “Don’t make a mess of it.”
“No promises.”
“That’s exactly what I’m worried about.”
You happily grab a spatula and scoop a generous amount of frosting onto the top of the cake.
Slowly, you begin spreading it across the surface while turning the stand with your other hand.
Sukuna leans against the counter and watches.
One hand rests on the countertop.
The other sits on his hip.
Part of him is watching because he genuinely wants you to enjoy yourself.
The other part is trying very hard to focus on literally anything except the image that keeps replaying in his head from earlier.
It isn’t working.
Not even a little.
So he settles for watching you decorate the cake.
You continue frosting it with far more enthusiasm than skill.
Every now and then, you steal a taste from the bowl.
Then another.
And another.
By the time you’re finished, frosting is everywhere.
On your fingers.
On your apron.
A streak across your forearm.
A little near your cheek.
And, somehow, all over your lips.
Sukuna lets out a short laugh.
You immediately look up.
“What?”
His amusement only grows.
“What is it?”
You glance down at the cake and spin the stand, inspecting your work.
“Does it look that bad?”
Instead of answering, Sukuna pushes himself off the counter and walks over.
A second later, his fingers are under your chin.
He turns your face toward him.
“There.”
His thumb brushes lightly near the corner of your mouth.
“You’ve got frosting everywhere.”
“Oh.”
Heat immediately creeps into your cheeks.
Embarrassing.
You try to avert your eyes, suddenly self-conscious, but he doesn't let you.
Sukuna leans in even closer, the scent of him suddenly overwhelming.
His thumb slowly slides up from your chin, tracing the curve of your bottom lip to wipe away a smear of the thick cream.
Without thinking much of it, he brings his thumb to his mouth.
His gaze locked onto yours as he slowly, deliberately sucks the sweetness from his skin.
The sweetness lingers on his tongue.
You watch the movement, suddenly aware of how close he’s standing.
Your breath hitches, a heavy blush spreading down your neck.
The kitchen feels warmer than before.
Or maybe it’s just him.
Sukuna notices the way your gaze lingers.
Not on his face.
On his mouth.
His eyes narrow slightly.
“You’re blushing.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You are.”
You hate that he’s right.
A smug look appears on his face.
The bastard.
You open your mouth to speak, but he cuts you off, his hand returns to your chin, running his wet thumb back over your lips.
“Hold still.”
You obey without thinking.
Sukuna studies your face for a moment.
He scoops up another thick dollop from the corner of your mouth, and this time, he applies a firm, unyielding pressure against your lower lip, forcing you open.
He isn't looking at your eyes anymore.
His gaze is anchored strictly on your mouth.
Obediently, your lips part.
Sukuna slides his thumb inside.
You instinctively wrap your lips around it, sucking the sweet cream off his skin, your eyes locked onto his.
That’s when he looks up, meeting your gaze with a hungry, heavy-lidded stare that completely intimidates you, making your core ache.
Maintaining intense eye contact, you keep sucking his finger, your tongue swirling around it, pulling it deeper into your mouth. Sukuna watches the friction, watching his thumb disappear past your wet lips until he can feel the sensitive tip of his finger teasing the back of your tongue.
With a slow, deliberate pull, you let his thumb slide out.
It breaks free with a distinct, wet pop, leaving a glistening trail of saliva stretching between his skin and your parted lips.
You breathe heavily, staring up at him.
Sukuna stared at you for a long moment.
"Fuck." Sukuna growls, his voice thicker, darker.
The curse left him before he could stop it.
He stares at his wet finger, then at your glistening, ruined mouth.
You tilt your head back slightly, the reality of what you just did making your heart race.
"I didn't know you were into that," you whisper, your cheeks burning.
"Don’t start," Sukuna rasps.
His grip tightens on your jaw, forcing you to stay still as your tongue darts out to lick the very edge of your mouth.
His free hand comes up to your face, briefly holding your jaw with both hands.
His gaze flickers toward the bowl of frosting before he lets go with one hand and reaches into it, scooping up a generous amount with his middle and ring fingers.
The other remains firmly on your face, his thumb brushing against your lower lip as he guides your mouth open again.
“Open that mouth, princess. Let’s see how you take these two.” Sukuna commands, his voice dropping an octave as he pushes his two cream-covered fingers against your lips.
You eagerly, obediently open wide, taking him in.
And just like that, the cake is completely forgotten, abandoned under the heat of the kitchen as you melt into his hands, playing a much dirtier game with the frosting.
──────────────────────
a/n: FINALLY finished one of my many drafts 😭
I’ve been kinda busy and stressed these past few weeks, so that’s mostly why I’ve been a little inactive lately. I’ll try to get another fic out soon since I won’t be around much for about a month because I won’t be at home, so please don’t unfollow me hehehe 😔☝️
As for this fic… well, I wrote it because I think I might have a thing for finger sucking 💀 and naturally my brain went, “what if Sukuna?” and here we are.
Honestly, I feel like every writer ends up writing about things they’re into at some point… right? Or is that just me? 😭
So yeah, consider this a tiny glimpse into my very questionable tastes 😜
Hope you guys enjoy it! 💕 As always, reblogs, comments, and tags are very much appreciated—they genuinely make my day and help support my writing more than you know. 🫶
𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐬: you don’t remember ever critiquing satoru gojo’s presentation — but he does. he’s the painfully shy but brilliant physics major who hides behind nervous smiles and gentle words. when he offers to tutor you, awkward study sessions turn into soft laughter, late-night coffee, and the slow, certain pull of falling in love — quiet, steady, and utterly undeniable.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: physicsmajor satoru x philosophymajor female reader.
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: he's down bad (he can't seem to get you out of his head), yearning?, slowburnish, tutoring trope, fluff, happy ending, slightly rushed if you can notice, hes stalkerish, literally runs away from you, you're also quite weird too, hes a nervous wreck around you, suggestive?, mutual pining, povs switch mid-way, and then turns back into third person (just a heads up), a looooot of kissing, nerdy gojo !!
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 26k
𝜗𝜚₊˚- 𝐧𝐢𝐚'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: after two weeks, its finally set free, this was so cute i was smiling while writing this, but whew i am tired..i may write short drabbles of these two. hes so clark kent coded omg, also i am so pissed off bc the ending wasn't supposed to be like that but i hope you guys enjoy this !!
satoru was never good at being put on the spotlight.
in childhood, he was a curious infant, always rubbing his small, nimble fingers at things children should never touch. in adolescence, he developed a craze for chemicals or how and why lights flicker at a rapid pace.
in high school, this seemed to flourish more. in the hushed sanctuary of his make-shift lab, with sodium seeping from the broken conical flask resting haphazardly in the corner, shards catching the natural sunlight through the windows, a maniacal grin splits his face. hands moving with the practiced precision of a thousand repetitions, measuring which volume is critical, which compound will birth the reaction he's been chasing for weeks.
and then it happens—element 119, stable for exactly 4.7 seconds before decay, long enough to be measured, to be real. the scientific community erupts. at seventeen, satoru stands on a stage in stockholm, fingers fidgeting with the edge of his ill-fitting suit jacket, squinting under lights that burn hotter than any bunsen burner. the applause crashes over him like a physical weight. he mumbles his acceptance speech, eyes fixed on his scuffed shoes rather than the sea of faces. the medal feels foreign against his chest, heavy with expectation. all he can think about is the failed experiment waiting back home, the one that should have worked, the mystery that matters more than any prize ever could. what complications a physicist has.
now he's twenty, a university student like any other—except for the medal gathering dust in his childhood bedroom, except for the papers published with his name, except for the way professors look at him with expectation heavy enough to crush.
he's giving a thesis presentation. routine. nothing like stockholm's lights and global audience. just a university auditorium, some faculty, some students fulfilling requirements.
....so why was his mouth suddenly sealed shut?
it was because of you - you sat right in the middle of the auditorium with wide, curious eyes that were begging him to open his brilliant mouth, a genuine hunger for his ideas. knuckles turning white from the amount of pressure you applied to the edges of the heavy fabricated chair.
(you were only there for an assignment. philosophy 301: observing scientific rhetoric. you needed to write three pages analyzing how scientists communicate to non-specialist audiences. he was convenient, scheduled during your free period. you didn't even know his name.)
"..as this research shows how we can never predict the radioactive decay from any nucleu-" his voice wavered in shock - somebody actually admired him? not just listens or understands but admires..?. he tried really, to force his words that were scrunched deep into his throat but as he persisted "i.." nothing seemed to leave his now dried up mouth - like someone dehydrated him and left him seeking for refuge, desperately needing one single droplet of water in the heat of a desert.
that look of admiration shifted into confusion then annoyance. how could you have such contradicting emotions into one expression?
you raise an eyebrow in interest, eyes rolling—barely, but he caught it—and the message was clear: who let this awkward man on stage? that made him wince internally.
he interpreted your intensity, your white-knuckled grip, your laser focus as admiration— you were infact analyzing him like a specimen, cataloging his failures with the clinical detachment you'd been taught in your philosophy classes. observation without investment. criticism without cruelty, but also without care.
that destroyed him completely.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
the haunting 101
the weeks after the presentation, satoru learns what it means to be haunted.
not by ghosts. by memory. by a single moment that plays on loop every time he closes his eyes—your face, your expression shifting from what he thought was fascination to unmistakable disappointment. the eyebrow raise. the eye roll so slight anyone else would have missed it.
he didn't miss it. he sees you three days later.
he's crossing the quad, backpack heavy with textbooks he's been trying and failing to read, when he spots you on a bench under one of the old oak trees. the afternoon sun filters through the leaves, dappling your face in light and shadow. you're laughing at something on your phone, earbuds in, completely unaware of the world around you. the breeze catches your hair, moves it across your face. you brush it back absently. you look comfortable. happy. alive in a way that makes his chest hurt.
his heart stops.
then starts again, too fast, painful against his ribs like something trying to escape. his palms go instantly sweaty, the textbook slipping slightly in his grip. his mouth goes dry—that same desert feeling from the presentation, like all the moisture has been sucked out of his body and replaced with sand and panic.
he changes direction so sharply he nearly walks into someone. mumbles an apology without looking up. takes the long way around the science building even though it adds ten minutes to his walk and makes him late for his advisor meeting.
you never look up. you never see him.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
the haunting 102
tuesday morning, 9am. he needs coffee or he's going to die and leave a wallowing corpse on the university floor.
the campus coffee shop is packed with the usual morning crowd—students who actually sleep at night and wake up at reasonable hours, professors with their worn leather satchels and perpetual air of being slightly annoyed by existence. the space is small, cramped, claustrophobic. the espresso machine screams and hisses like it's being tortured. it smells like burnt coffee and sugar and that underlying scent of too many bodies in too small a space—deodorant and perfume and the faint tang of stress sweat already at 9am.
the line moves slowly. someone ahead is asking detailed questions about milk alternatives. the barista looks like she wants to die. satoru's been standing here for five minutes, staring at his phone, trying to ignore the way his stomach is eating itself.
then he hears your voice.
"black coffee, one sugar. and one of those croissants if they're fresh."
his entire body locks up.
you're ahead of him in line. three people ahead, but close enough that if he took five steps forward he could touch you. close enough to smell your perfume—something floral and light, completely at odds with the heavy coffee shop air. jasmine maybe, or something sweeter. it cuts through the burnt coffee smell like a knife.
the barista calls your name. your full name, clear and bright in the crowded space.
you grab your coffee, check your phone, turn—
he's already moving. slips out of line, out the door, into the cold november air that shocks his lungs and makes his eyes water. or maybe that's not the cold. his heart is pounding like he's just run a marathon. his hands are shaking so badly he has to shove them in his pockets. there's a slight ringing in his ears.
he doesn't get coffee.
goes to his 10am lecture running on zero caffeine and three hours of sleep and the taste of panic coating his tongue like metal.
sits in the back row and can't focus on anything except the way your voice sounded ordering coffee. one sugar. not two, not zero. one. exactly one. he writes it down in his notebook like it's important data. like he's conducting an experiment.
later, alone in his apartment, he looks you up properly. finds your instagram—private, but the profile picture is enough to make his chest hurt. you're laughing, mid-motion, caught in a moment of genuine joy. finds your philosophy department profile. reads that you won an award last year for an essay on phenomenology and consciousness.
he downloads the essay. reads it three times. it's brilliant. of course it's brilliant. you're brilliant and he's an idiot who fell apart in front of you and you've forgotten he exists.
he closes his laptop and doesn't open it for two days.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
the haunting 103
the library becomes dangerous territory.
he sees you there on a thursday afternoon, second floor, east wing where the philosophy and literature sections live. the afternoon sun streams through the tall windows, illuminating the dust motes floating in the air like tiny galaxies. you're at a table surrounded by books with intimidating titles—being and time, critique of pure reason, the phenomenology of spirit. you're taking notes in a notebook covered in stickers—coffee cups and planets and tiny mushrooms. your pen moves quickly across the page, then stops. you tap it against your bottom lip—three times, pause, three times again—while you think.
he's on the third floor, supposedly working on his dissertation. he's been standing at the railing for forty-five minutes, partially hidden behind a bookshelf, just... watching.
the way you chew on your bottom lip when you're concentrating. the way you push your hair behind your left ear when you're frustrated—always the left, never the right. the way you stretch your neck, rolling your shoulders like you've been sitting too long. the way you take a sip of coffee, make a face because it's gone cold, but drink it anyway.
you never look up. never see him standing there like a creep, cataloging your existence. he watches you for two hours. writes nothing.
his phone buzzes.
his advisor: where are you? we had a meeting scheduled. fuck.
when you finally pack up and leave, he feels the absence like a physical thing. the space you occupied goes empty and the library feels cavernous, too big, too quiet. the dust motes keep floating but they're not beautiful anymore, just particles suspended in empty air.
he stays until they kick him out at 2am.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
his roommate suguru finds him staring at his laptop at 3am on a cold saturday.
the apartment is dark except for the blue glow of the screen. the heating's broken again—has been for a week—so satoru's wearing two hoodies and still shivering. the cold seeps up through the floorboards, makes the whole place feel like a tomb. there's the smell of old coffee and the takeout containers neither of them has bothered to throw away—something with a hint of garlic from three days ago, slowly rotting. the refrigerator hums its broken-compressor hum, a grinding sound that never quite stops. outside, someone's car alarm is going off, shrill and insistent, has been for an hour.
"you're doing it again."
satoru doesn't look up. his eyes hurt from the screen glare—actually hurt, that gritty, burning feeling that means he's been staring too long. his neck hurts from sitting in the same position for hours. his hands are cold. everything hurts. "doing what?"
"that thing where you pretend you're working but you're actually having an existential crisis." suguru's voice is rough with sleep. "I can tell the difference now. it's been three weeks of this."
"I'm fine, suguru."
"you've typed three words in the last hour. I can see your screen from my bed—the glow is keeping me awake. that's not fine, that's catatonic."
suguru sits up. his bed creaks loudly in the quiet apartment—old springs that sound like they're dying. he turns on the lamp beside his bed. the light is warm and yellow and makes everything look softer than it is, makes the mess of their apartment look almost cozy instead of depressing.
"also you've been wearing the same hoodie for four days and you smell like depression and old coffee. so. talk."
satoru closes his laptop. the sudden darkness is disorienting. his eyes struggle to adjust. "nothing to talk about."
"bullshit." suguru's wearing his glasses, the ones he only wears at night when his contacts come out. they're crooked. he pushes them up. "is this about your presentation? because dude, everyone bombs presentations sometimes. it's not—"
"it's not about the presentation."
"then what?"
how does he explain it? that there was someone in the audience whose opinion somehow mattered more than the entire scientific community's? that you've looked at him with what he thought was admiration and it turned out to be analytical disdain? that he can't stop seeing you everywhere, that his entire world has reorganized itself around avoiding and seeking you in equal measure? that he's in love with someone who doesn't know his name?
wait. no. not love. he's not—
"nothing. forget it."
suguru is quiet for a long moment. the car alarm finally stops outside. the silence is somehow worse. "you know what your problem is? you're brilliant with particles and completely useless with people. whatever this is—whoever this is—you need to either deal with it or let it go. you can't keep—" he gestures at satoru's entire situation with a flick of his wrist, the laptop and the dark circles and the way he's curled in on himself. "—whatever this is. it's not sustainable."
"I know."
"do you? because from where I'm sitting, you're driving yourself insane over something that probably isn't even as bad as you think it is."
it's worse. it's so much worse. because it wasn't a moment of humiliation he can recover from. it was a moment of connection he imagined completely. he invented a story where you cared, where you were fascinated, where he mattered.
and reality showed him otherwise.
reality showed him that he's just another awkward academic to you. forgettable. already forgotten.
"I'll figure it out," satoru says.
"when?"
"eventually." he huffs
suguru sighs, long and disappointed. "you're impossible." he turns off the lamp. darkness again. the apartment settles back into cold and silence. "get some sleep, satoru. you look like death."
satoru doesn't sleep.
he opens his laptop again in the dark and stares at the cursor blinking in his dissertation document. types: element 119. deletes it. types: radioactive decay. deletes it.
types your name. stares at it for ten minutes. deletes it.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
the haunting 104
he starts taking different routes to class.
the long way around the quad that adds fifteen minutes—past the science buildings on the east side, around the maintenance shed that always smells like gasoline and cut grass, through the parking lot where the asphalt is cracked and weeds push through. it avoids the bench where he saw you that first time, the oak tree with its sprawling branches, the patch of grass where students sit when the weather's beautiful.
he learns your schedule without meaning to. or maybe he means to and won't admit it. just by avoiding you, he maps your movements like he's charting the orbit of a celestial body. tuesdays and thursdays you have class in the philosophy building at 2pm—he knows because he saw you walking there once, twice, three times until the pattern was undeniable. so he makes sure he's nowhere near there during those times. takes his lunch at 1pm or 3pm, never 2pm. uses the bathrooms on the opposite side of campus.
mondays, wednesdays, and fridays you're usually in the library in the afternoon. second floor, east wing, by the windows. he knows this because he's checked. accidentally-on-purpose walked past. saw you there once and now avoids that entire section like it's radioactive.
but the campus is only so big. avoidance only works until it doesn't.
he sees you anyway.
he needs a textbook for his advanced quantum field theory seminar. the bookstore is warm—too warm after the biting cold outside. it smells like new books and tea from the cafe in the corner, that specific scent of paper and binding glue and the cinnamon from someone's latte. the fluorescent lights are too bright. there's pop music playing over the speakers, tinny and grating but addictive.
he's in the science section, running his finger along the spines. quantum field theory, advanced particle physics, statistical mechanics. the books are expensive. he's trying to decide if he can get away with using the library copy or if he needs his own.
then he sees you.
three shelves over, in the historic section. you're reaching for something on the top shelf, and you're not quite tall enough. you're on your toes, stretching, your whole body extended upward. your jacket—that green one, the one he's seen before—rides up with the movement.
he can see a sliver of skin at your waist. just an inch, maybe two. the curve of your lower back. the waistband of your jeans.
his brain short-circuits.
you're still reaching, fingers just barely brushing the spine of whatever book you're trying to get. you make a small frustrated sound—he can hear it from here, this soft "come on" that's half-muttered to yourself. you stretch higher. more skin. he can see the shift of your muscles, the flex of your body trying to extend just a little further.
someone should help you. someone should offer to get the book down. that's what a normal person would do.
he stands there frozen, staring, heart pounding so hard he can feel it in his teeth. his palms are instantly sweaty. the textbook in his hands might as well weigh a thousand pounds.
you give up, lower down onto flat feet. your jacket falls back into place. you're looking around now, maybe for an employee, maybe for someone tall enough to help.
your eyes are sweeping the store. they're going to land on him.
panic floods his system like molten ice. he's already moving—backwards first, then turning, abandoning his textbook on a completely wrong shelf. introduction to organic chemistry sitting where quantum field theory should be. he doesn't care. he's walking fast toward the exit, weaving between displays, nearly knocking over a rack of university-branded t-shirts.
the cold air outside hits him like a slap. his breath comes out in clouds. his heart is still racing.
he walks three blocks before he stops, leans against a building, tries to remember how to breathe normally.
that night he goes back to the bookstore twenty minutes before closing. buys the textbook from a bored employee who doesn't look at him twice. walks home in the dark, thinking about that strip of skin, that frustrated sound, the way you moved.
he's so fucked.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
the haunting 105
he's been in the lab all day. it's past 7pm and he hasn't eaten since... he can't remember. his advisor kept him late going over data, pointing out inconsistencies, asking questions satoru couldn't answer. he feels hollowed out. exhausted. his hands smell like latex gloves and whatever chemical he was working with.
the dining hall is bright and loud and overwhelming after the quiet of the lab. it smells like institutional food—something with tomato sauce, garlic bread, that underlying scent of industrial cleaning products and steam tables. the noise is incredible. hundreds of students talking, laughing, the clatter of trays and silverware, the hiss of the soda machines.
he gets food without really looking at it. some kind of pasta. garlic bread. water. his tray feels heavy. everything feels heavy.
he's scanning for an empty table, somewhere quiet, preferably in a corner where he can eat quickly and leave—
and then he sees you.
you're at a table in the middle of the dining hall. surrounded by friends—three other people, all talking over each other in that comfortable way that suggests they've known each other for years. there are textbooks pushed to one end of the table, dinner spread out, someone's laptop playing music he can't hear from here but can see the glow of.
you're animated. laughing. your hands move when you talk—quick gestures that punctuate whatever story you're telling. you're wearing a sweater he hasn't seen before—dark red, oversized. your hair is different today. pulled back somehow. he can see the line of your neck.
one of your friends—a girl with dark curly hair—says something. he can't hear it over the dining hall noise. but he sees your reaction.
you throw your head back, laughing so hard you have to cover your mouth with your hand. the movement is unconscious, natural, beautiful. your shoulders shake. your eyes squeeze shut. the laugh is loud enough to carry across the dining hall even through all the other noise. it's bright and genuine and unselfconscious.
it's the most beautiful sound he's ever heard.
it makes him feel like he's swallowed glass. like something sharp and broken is lodged in his chest, cutting him from the inside. his hands tighten on his tray. the plastic creaks.
you're so... alive. so present. so comfortable in your body, in your space, in your friendships. you belong here. you fit.
he doesn't fit anywhere.
he's still standing in the middle of the dining hall, holding his tray, staring at you like a creep. someone bumps into him—"excuse you"—annoyed. he needs to move. needs to find a table. needs to stop looking at you.
your head is turning. you're looking around the dining hall. maybe looking for someone. maybe just people-watching.
your eyes are going to land on him.
he moves. fast. back toward the exit. out the door he just came through. the cold air hits him again—it's snowing now, light flurries that melt on contact. his breath comes out in clouds. he's still holding his tray.
there's an outdoor seating area—empty because it's december and snowing and no one eats outside in december. metal tables and chairs covered in a thin layer of snow. he brushes off a chair. sits. the metal is cold even through his jeans.
he eats his pasta. it's gone lukewarm. the garlic bread is soggy. he can't taste any of it. he's just putting food in his mouth, chewing, swallowing, because his body needs fuel and this is fuel.
the snow falls. his hands go numb. he can see his breath.
through the dining hall windows, he can still see you. still laughing. still warm. still living a life that doesn't include him and never will.
and when he gets back to his apartment, suguru takes one look at him and says "you look like someone died."
"no one died."
"then why do you look like you're grieving?"
satoru doesn't have an answer.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
the haunting 106
he's walking to his quantum mechanics class. it's 1:47pm. the class starts at 2pm. he's cutting it close but he needed to stop by his apartment to get the problem set he forgot this morning, and then there was a line at the coffee shop, and now he's practically jogging across campus with his too-hot coffee sloshing in its cup.
the air is brutally cold. the kind of cold that stings your lungs when you breathe. the sky is that pale gray that promises more snow. the wind cuts through his jacket—he didn't dress warm enough this morning. his ears hurt. his hands are numb even wrapped around the hot coffee cup.
there are other students moving between classes. everyone hunched against the cold, moving fast, breath coming out in clouds.
and then he sees you.
you're walking toward him. not directly toward him—you don't see him. but you're on the same path, coming from the opposite direction. earbuds in. you're nodding your head slightly, moving to music he can't hear.
your breath makes clouds in the cold air—little puffs of white that dissipate immediately. you're wearing that green jacket again—the one from the bookstore. it's not warm enough for this weather. you're hunched against the cold, hands shoved deep in your pockets. your nose is pink. your cheeks are flushed.
you look cold and miserable and somehow still beautiful.
you're going to see him. you're going to look up and recognize him—except you won't recognize him because you've never known him. you'll just see some random guy staring at you. you'll think he's a creep.
or worse. worse. you might recognize him. might suddenly connect him to the presentation. might remember where you've seen his name before. might realize—
his heart is pounding. he can feel it in his throat, in his wrists, behind his eyes. his palms are sweating even though his fingers are numb. his mouth goes dry, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.
ten feet. you're humming now. he can almost hear it under the wind.
fight or flight. every time it's the same choice. every time he chooses flight.
there's a path to the right. barely a path—more like a gap between buildings. he's never noticed it before. he takes it.
the gap is narrow. he has to turn sideways in one spot where someone's left recycling bins. it smells like old beer and something rotting. the ground is icy. his coffee sloshes, burns his hand through the cup. he comes out on the other side of the building, completely disoriented.
he's on the wrong side of campus. the opposite side from where his class is. he checks his phone. 1:53pm.
he's going to be late. he's never late.
he runs. actually runs, coffee abandoned in a trash can, backpack bouncing against his spine, his breath coming in white clouds. his lungs hurt from the cold air. his legs hurt. everything hurts.
he makes it to class at 2:04pm. professor yaga gives him a look but doesn't comment. satoru slides into his seat in the back row, heart still pounding, hands shaking.
he can't focus on anything. can't hear the lecture. can't take notes. he's just sitting there, breathing hard, thinking about the way you looked in the cold. the way you hummed. the way you were just... existing. walking to class. living your life.
and he ran away from it. again. like a coward. like someone who's afraid of a girl who doesn't even know his name.
--
every time, his body has the same response.
heart rate spikes—he can feel it in his throat, in his wrists, behind his eyes. physical and undeniable. his pulse in his ears like a drum. palms sweat even in the cold. even when his fingers are numb. even when it makes no sense. mouth goes dry, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. he can't swallow. can't speak. can't think.
fight or flight. the oldest response. the most basic survival instinct.
he always, always chooses flight.
he's twenty years old. he's discovered a new element. he's been to stockholm. he's published in nature. he's given lectures to rooms full of nobel laureates.
and he's running away from a philosophy student who doesn't even know his name.
running away from the girl who destroyed him six months ago with a single look.
running away from the only person he's ever wanted to run towards.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
twenty-four weeks. six months.
he's gotten good at avoiding you. expert level. knows your patterns better than his own. your routine is mapped in his brain like a formula—tuesday/thursday, philosophy building, 2pm. monday/wednesday/friday, library, afternoon. coffee shop, mornings when you have early classes. that bench under the oak tree when the weather's nice.
he's an expert at existing in your orbit without ever colliding.
and then one night, 11pm on a wednesday, he's in the library because where else would he be?
the main entrance is all glass and steel, modern renovation grafted onto a building from the 1960s. automatic doors that whoosh open, letting in blasts of february cold that the heating system can't quite compensate for. there's a security desk just inside where a obnoxious guard scrolls through his phone, barely glancing at student IDs.
past security, the entry hall opens up—high ceilings, fluorescent lights buzzing their persistent electrical hum, the smell of old books and new anxiety mixing with stale coffee and dry heating and that particular scent of stress that no amount of air freshener can cover. the carpet is industrial—blue-gray, stained in places, worn down to threads in high-traffic areas. it smells faintly of mildew when it rains.
the main floor is organized chaos. rows of study tables, mostly full even at this hour. computer stations along the walls, all occupied. the circulation desk is closed but the returns bin is overflowing. there are vending machines in the corner—humming their refrigerator hum, offering caffeine and sugar for $3 a hit. someone's phone is ringing unanswered. someone else is typing like they're trying to kill their keyboard.
it smells like desperation in physical form. coffee—always coffee, in travel mugs and disposable cups and the expensive reusable ones. energy drinks, the chemical-sweet smell mixing badly with the coffee. someone's eating something with too much garlic. the heater is blasting hot, dry air that tastes like dust and old building, making everyone's throat scratch, making the whole place feel like a desert.
the sound is what gets you. it's not quiet. it's the absence of the right kind of noise. no conversations—those are banned. just the persistent hum of HVAC pushing air through old ducts. fluorescent lights buzzing, especially the dying ones. keyboards clicking. pages turning with aggressive, frustrated whisper-shouts. pencils scratching against paper. the occasional cough.
the bathrooms are in the back, and they smell like industrial cleaner trying and failing to cover decades of academic stress. the water pressure is bad. the hand dryers are loud enough to damage hearing.
satoru is on the third floor—the quiet floor, the serious floor. up here the carpet is even more worn. the study carrels are individual fortresses, little wood-paneled cells where PhD students go to slowly lose their minds. the stacks are dense—floor-to-ceiling shelves of books that haven't been touched in decades. it smells more like old paper up here, less like coffee. mustier. the air doesn't circulate as well.
he's got a table near the window. can see the campus below—streetlights making pools of yellow, the occasional student hurrying between buildings. his laptop is open. he's been staring at the same paragraph of his dissertation for an hour.
and then you walk in.
he sees you before you see him. you're three floors down but he can see you through the central atrium—the library's design means all the floors are open in the middle, creating this vertical space where you can see all the way down to the ground floor.
you're walking like someone who's exhausted. backpack weighing you down. you're wearing that green jacket again. you look frustrated. defeated.
you head for a table on the ground floor, third row back. drop your bag with a heavy thud he can't hear but can see. pull out a textbook.
physics for non-majors.
even from three floors up, even at this distance, he can see the defeat in your body language. the way you slump in your chair. the way you press your palms against your eyes.
you're struggling.
he should stay up here. should maintain the careful distance he's cultivated for six months. should protect himself from another opportunity to be seen and found wanting.
but you're struggling with physics.
and he knows physics.
and you look like you're about to cry.
and before he can think better of it, before he can stop himself, before his brain can catch up with his body—
he's gathering his stuff. closing his laptop. walking toward the stairs.
his heart is pounding. his hands are shaking. every step down feels like walking toward something inevitable. something that's going to hurt.
but you need help.
and he can help.
and maybe—maybe—this time will be different.
and just like that, everything changes.
just like that, he gets his second chance.
just like that, he's more fucked than ever.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
you're in the library at 11pm again, physics textbook open, on the verge of tears because nothing makes sense and your exam is in two days.
the library at this hour is a special kind of purgatory. the fluorescent lights buzz overhead with that persistent electrical hum that burrows into your skull after enough hours. they cast everything in a sickly blue-white glow that makes everyone look half-dead, which is fitting because everyone here feels half-dead. the heating system clanks and groans through old pipes, either blasting you with dry air that tastes like dust and desperation or leaving you shivering in your hoodie.
it smells like old books and new anxiety. the musty paper smell mixing with stale coffee, energy drinks, and that particular scent of stress sweat that no amount of air freshener can cover. someone three tables over is eating something that smells aggressively like ginger. your stomach growls in response even though you're too stressed to be actually hungry.
the silence isn't really silence. it's the sound of dozens of students slowly losing their minds in unison. keyboards clicking. pages turning with aggressive whisper-shouts of frustration. pencils scratching. someone's pen clicking obsessively—click click click click—until someone else hisses "stop" and there's a brief, tense pause before it starts again, quieter.
you've been sitting in this uncomfortable chair for three hours. the plastic digs into your spine in a way that guarantees tomorrow will hurt. your coffee went cold an hour ago but you keep sipping it anyway because the bitter, chalky taste is something to focus on besides the swimming symbols in your textbook.
the words on the page have stopped being words. they're just symbols now, meaningless hieroglyphics mocking your inability to understand basic motion. you've read the same paragraph on newton's second law six times and it's somehow making less sense with each repetition.
you press your palms against your eyes until you see stars. the pressure helps somehow. when you open them again, the equations haven't magically become clearer.
"you're using the wrong equation."
you look up, disoriented, eyes adjusting. white-haired guy at the next table over. you hadn't really noticed him before—the library at 11pm is full of ghosts, everyone hunched over their own personal disasters. but now that you're looking, he's hard to miss.
white hair that catches the terrible blinding light and somehow makes it look intentional. pale skin that suggests he might be as nocturnal as the rest of you. dark clothes—black shirt, black jacket slung over his chair. the kind of deliberately neutral outfit that says he doesn't want to be perceived but is too striking to pull it off.
he's not looking at you—eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder like making direct eye contact might physically hurt him. but he's clearly talking to you, fingers fidgeting with the edge of his laptop, knee bouncing under the table in a nervous rhythm that makes the table vibrate slightly.
"what?"
"problem twelve." he gestures vaguely at your textbook, and you notice his hands are shaking slightly. "you're using the equation for uniform acceleration but the problem states non-uniform. you need calculus for that one."
his voice is quiet, careful, like he's afraid of taking up too much space in the air between you. there's something fragile about it. something that makes you think of glass about to crack.
you stare at your textbook, then back at him. he's still not meeting your eyes. a muscle jumps in his jaw. his fingers tap against his laptop—tap tap tap tap, anxious rhythm.
"we haven't learned calculus. this is physics for non-majors."
"oh." he finally meets your eyes for a brief, electric second before looking away again. his adam's apple bobs as he swallows. "then... the problem is probably mislabeled. or it's extra credit. can I—" he hesitates, fingers drumming faster against his laptop. "can I see?"
you should probably say no. it's weird, right? random guy commenting on your homework from across the library? but you're desperate and he seems harmless—awkward in that specific way physics majors tend to be awkward, like he's more comfortable with particles than people. like every word costs him something to say out loud.
and there's something else. he looks as exhausted as you feel. dark circles under his eyes that suggest he's as much a creature of this fluorescent nightmare as you are. his coffee cup is empty but he keeps reaching for it anyway, hand closing around nothing, like the muscle memory of caffeine is all he has left.
"sure." you angle your textbook toward him, and you don't miss the way he tenses. like you've asked him to do something monumental instead of just look at a physics problem.
he doesn't move closer at first. just leans slightly in his chair, and you can hear it creak under the shift of weight. he's squinting at the page, and you realize he's trying to read it from where he is, too nervous to actually close the distance.
"you can come closer," you say slowly. "I don't bite."
the look he gives you is startled, almost frightened, before he schools it into something neutral. "right. yeah. okay."
he closes his laptop with a soft click that sounds too loud in the library quiet. stands up, and he's tall—you hadn't registered that before—all long limbs and careful movements like he's constantly aware of how much space he takes up and apologizing for it.
he sits in the chair beside you, and you can feel the heat coming off him in the over-air-conditioned library. he smells like coffee and something clean—laundry detergent maybe, or shampoo. something normal and almost comforting in this place that smells like academic suffering.
but he's still not quite close enough to see the problem clearly. he's left almost a foot of space between you, perched on the edge of his chair like he might need to flee at any moment.
"I'm not going to murder you," you say. "you can actually sit like a normal person."
"sorry." he shifts incrementally closer. his knee is still bouncing. "I'm just—sorry."
he says sorry like punctuation. like it's the baseline state of existing in proximity to another person.
his finger traces the problem text, and his hands are interesting—long fingers, neat nails, the slight calluses that suggest lab work. they're still trembling slightly. nervous. everything about him radiates nervous energy, that vibrating tension of someone who wants to be anywhere but here but can't quite make himself leave.
"okay, so..." his voice is steadier when he's talking about physics. like the math gives him something to hide behind. "they're asking about acceleration but they've given you a velocity function that changes with time. see? it's not constant."
you lean in despite yourself, and you catch him holding his breath when your shoulder nearly brushes his. he smells like he's been in this library for days. that specific scent of someone who's been breathing recycled air and stress for too long.
"I... think so?"
"here." he pulls a blank sheet from his own notebook, and you see his papers are covered in equations that make your textbook look like elementary school math. his handwriting is surprisingly neat—precise, careful, like everything else about him. "the question is badly worded for an intro class, but what they probably want is..."
he starts writing, and something shifts. the nervousness doesn't disappear but it redirects. flows into the movement of his hand, the scratch of pencil on paper—that specific sound that's become the soundtrack of this library, of these late nights, of slow academic death.
his explanation is... different. not like your professor who lectures at the board like he's addressing a conference he'd rather not be at. not like the textbook that assumes you already understand and is just going through the motions.
he's breaking it down into pieces, checking your face for confusion. and he's good at reading faces—when your brow furrows, he stops. adjusts. tries again from a different angle.
"wait." you stop him, and he flinches slightly at the interruption. "go back. why did that equal that?"
no impatience. no condescension. just: "right, okay, so..." and he explains it again, differently, his knee still bouncing under the table, fingers still drumming against the paper between sentences.
until something clicks.
"oh my god." you sit back, and the chair creaks loudly in the quiet. someone shushes you from across the room. you lower your voice. "oh my god, I actually understand it."
the smile that crosses his face is brief but genuine—surprised, almost shocked, like he wasn't sure it would work. like he's as relieved as you are. "yeah?"
"this textbook is absolute garbage at explaining things. you did in two minutes what I've been trying to understand for an hour." you look at him properly now. really look at him.
he's objectively attractive in that specific way that cartoon characters are attractive—features almost too perfect, too symmetrical. the white hair should look ridiculous but somehow doesn't. and his eyes, now that you're really seeing them, are striking. pale blue, almost gray in this terrible lighting.. and are those just frames? the lenses are nearly clear. "are you a physics major?"
"yeah." he's already retreating slightly, physically pulling back like he's worried he's overstayed his welcome. "sorry, I shouldn't have interrupted your studying, I just—"
"no, please." you touch his arm without thinking, then immediately pull back. "I have seventeen more problems and my exam is thursday and I'm completely lost. can you—would you—" you pause. "do you tutor? I can pay you."
something complicated crosses his face. "you don't have to pay me."
"I can't just take up your time for free."
"I'm already here." he gestures at his laptop, his scattered papers. "I'm just working on... research. it's fine. I can help."
there's something in the way he says it—like he's trying to convince himself as much as you.
you don't leave right away. you work through more problems. he keeps helping, getting more comfortable, more animated when he's explaining physics. you notice things: the way his whole face changes when he's talking about something he loves, how he automatically adjusts his explanations based on your reactions, that he's patient in a way that feels genuine, not performative.
it's almost midnight when you finally pack up.
"I'm here most nights," he says, closing his laptop. "if you need help again. for the exam."
"most nights? do you sleep?"
a half-smile. "not really."
you laugh, but you're also mentally cataloging this information. library. late night. physics help available.
"I'm here tomorrow night. same table?"
he pauses, something flickering across his expression. then, "same table."
he doesn't ask your name. he already knows it—saw it on the attendance sheet that day six months ago, looked you up in the student directory afterwards like some kind of masochist, tortured himself with your social media presence, your philosophy department profile, the awards you've won for your essays.
you don't ask his name either. you'll realize this later, embarrassed, and have to awkwardly ask tomorrow.
but there's something and he's so completely, utterly, hopelessly fucked.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
library session one
you show up the next night with two coffees.
"i didn't know what you liked," you say, setting one down near his laptop. the cup leaves a faint ring of condensation on the wooden table. you can feel the heat radiating from it, see the steam curling up in lazy spirals. "so I got you what I get. If you hate it I can—"
"it's perfect." he wraps his hands around the cup like it's precious, like you've handed him something infinitely more valuable than a $4 coffee. his fingers curve around the paper sleeve, and you watch his throat work as he swallows. his eyes meet yours—soft and startled and grateful in a way that seems disproportionate to the gesture. "thank you."
it's too sweet. the sugar hits his tongue wrong, cloying and heavy, coating his teeth. he hates sweet coffee—always has, takes his black when no one's watching. but he drinks it anyway, every drop, feeling the too-hot liquid burn down his throat. and he orders the same thing for the next three months until you finally catch him making a face, his nose wrinkling involuntarily, his mouth twisting into something between a grimace and a smile when he thinks you're not looking.
you settle into the chair beside him—the same configuration as yesterday, close enough to share the textbook but not quite touching. your elbow is maybe three inches from his. you can feel the heat of him in that small gap, smell that clean eucalyptus scent mixing with coffee and old books. "i realized I never got your name. I'm—"
"i know." He says it too quickly, and you watch color bloom across his cheekbones—a faint pink that spreads to the tips of his ears. he catches himself, blinking rapidly, and you can see him scrambling for recovery. "i mean—you're in the student directory. i looked up who else was taking physics this semester. for... study group purposes."
a lie. a terrible lie. his voice pitches slightly higher at the end, and he won't quite meet your eyes. but you accept it with a small laugh, the sound bright in the quiet library.
"creepy, but efficient. i'm impressed." you pull out your notebook—the pages are getting dog-eared now, filled with his handwriting mixed with yours. the spiral binding catches on your sleeve with a small metallic whisper. "so, mysterious physics major who stalks the student directory—what's your name?"
"satoru. gojo satoru."
something flickers across your face—brief, confused, like you've heard the name before but can't place it. your eyebrows draw together fractionally. your lips part like you're about to say something, then close. the moment passes. "satoru. okay." you test the name in your mouth, the syllables unfamiliar on your tongue. "ready to save me from newton again?"
you had written his name in your assignment. subject: Gojo Satoru, Physics PhD candidate. but you'd written twenty pages that semester, cited dozens of names. they all blurred together—just another brilliant mind reduced to a footnote, a reference, a line in your bibliography that you'd never expected to materialize into a person sitting beside you smelling like eucalyptus and drinking coffee he hates.
he nods, pulls your textbook closer, and you both pretend this is just about physics.
the pages make a soft rustling sound as he flips through them. His finger traces down the chapter index—you notice he has long fingers, pale and precise, the nails neatly trimmed. there's a callus on his right middle finger from holding pens.
It takes you forty-five minutes to realize you're not actually struggling with the homework anymore. youu're asking questions just to keep him talking, watching the way his hands move when he explains angular momentum—sweeping arcs through the air, fingers tracing invisible orbits—the way his eyes light up when you actually understand something. they go brighter, more vivid, and his whole face transforms. he leans closer without seeming to realize it, and you can see the individual lashes framing his eyes, pale at the roots and darker at the tips.
"you're good at this," you say. "teaching, i mean. You should be a TA or something."
his laugh is short, almost bitter. the sound catches in his throat, comes out rough. "i'm not good at teaching." his hands drop to the table, fingers curling against the wood.
"you're literally teaching me right now. and I actually get it for the first time all semester."
"that's different. this is..." he gestures vaguely between you, and you feel the air move with the motion, watch the play of muscle and tendon in his forearm where his sleeve is rolled up. "one on one. small. when there's a crowd, when people are watching, I—" he cuts himself off. his jaw tightens. you can see the muscle jump beneath his skin.
"stage fright?"
"something like that." His voice is quiet. he's looking down at the textbook now, at the equations that probably make perfect sense to him, that he could solve in his sleep. his fingers tap against the page—once, twice, a nervous rhythm.
you want to push, but something in his expression stops you—a guardedness, a door closing. instead you say: "well, lucky for me you're good at the small scale stuff." you bump your shoulder against his gently, and feel him tense for a fraction of a second before relaxing. the contact is brief but you feel it echo through your whole arm, warm and electric.
lucky for him too, he thinks. or maybe the worst luck in the world. He hasn't decided yet. your shoulder is still warm where it touched his, and the library suddenly feels too small and too large all at once, and he can still taste that too-sweet coffee on his tongue and he doesn't hate it as much as he should.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
library session four
it's been two weeks. your exam came and went—you got a B, which felt like a miracle.
when you'd told him, breathless and disbelieving as you'd stared at the grade on your phone, his whole face had transformed. the careful composure he usually wore had shattered like glass, replaced by something incandescent. his eyes had gone wide and bright, crinkling at the corners, and he'd smiled—not his usual half-smirk but a full, unguarded grin that made him look years younger. "i knew you could do it," he'd said, voice rough with something that sounded almost like pride, and then softer, almost to himself, "i knew it."
his hand had twitched at his side like he'd wanted to reach for you, to pull you into a hug or grab your shoulder or something, but he'd caught himself, fingers curling into his palm instead. the wanting had been written all over his face though—transparent as glass, obvious as gravity. you'd felt the phantom warmth of it anyway, the almost-touch lingering on your skin like static electricity.
you should probably stop coming to the library at 11pm now that you don't need help anymore.
you come anyway.
the library smells like old paper and lemon cleaning solution and the particular mustiness of a building that's never quite warm enough. your sneakers squeak against the linoleum as you approach your usual table—the one by the window that overlooks the quad, where the fluorescent lights flicker every forty-seven seconds (you've counted).
"i don't have physics homework tonight," you announce, setting down your bag with a soft thud that echoes in the near-empty third floor. your coffee (black, one sugar) and his (too sweet, but he won't admit it) are already on the table, still steaming faintly. the bitter-sharp scent of your coffee mingles with the almost cloying sweetness of his—you can smell the caramel syrup from here.
satoru looks up from his laptop, and something cautious crosses his face—a subtle downward twitch at the corners of his mouth, a fractional widening of his eyes before his expression smooths into something carefully neutral. his fingers pause on the keyboard, hovering over the keys. the brightness from three days ago when you'd shown him your grade is gone, replaced by something guarded, braced for impact. "oh. okay." his voice is even, but there's a tight quality to it, like he's holding his breath.
"buuut I have a philosophy paper due friday, and I work better when someone else is around. so." you pull out your laptop, feeling the cool metal against your palms, hearing the familiar click as it opens. "is it okay if I just... work here?"
the relief that floods his expression is almost comical. his shoulders drop at least two inches. the tension around his eyes—you hadn't even noticed it was there—melts away, and his mouth curves into something that's trying very hard not to be a grin and failing. that incandescent brightness returns, softer this time but no less real, warming his features from within. "yeah. of course. i'm just running simulations anyway." he says it too eagerly, words tumbling over each other. his hands resettle on the keyboard but don't actually type anything—just rest there, fingertips barely touching the keys, trembling almost imperceptibly.
you settle into what's become your chair—the one with the slightly wobbly left leg that you've learned to compensate for. the vinyl is cracked and cold through your jeans until your body heat warms it. for twenty minutes, the only sound is typing—his rapid and rhythmic, yours more hesitant—and the occasional sip of coffee. yours has cooled to the perfect drinking temperature. you can feel the caffeine hitting your system, sharpening your focus.
after a moment of silence, he speaks, "what's your paper about?" his voice cuts through the silence, softer than usual.
you glance over. he's not looking at his screen anymore. his laptop displays rows of numbers and graphs, but his eyes are on you—a pale, crystalline blue that's almost unsettling in its intensity. the overhead lights catch on his white hair, making it glow like a halo. or a warning. "Heidegger's concept of 'being-toward-death.' super cheerful stuff."
"the idea that awareness of mortality gives life meaning?" he's leaning forward slightly now, elbow on the table, chin propped on his fist. you can see the individual creases in his shirt sleeve, the faint shadow of exhaustion under his eyes.
you blink. "you know Heidegger?"
"i know some philosophy. mostly philosophy of science, but." he shrugs, and you hear the rustle of fabric, catch the faint scent of whatever detergent he uses—something clean and sharp, like mint or eucalyptus. "I read."
"physics majors don't usually read continental philosophy for fun."
"i'm not most physics majors."
it's not said arrogantly. just... factually. like he's stating something obvious about himself that you should already know. his gaze is steady, unwavering, and there's something almost vulnerable in it—like he's offering you this piece of himself and waiting to see what you'll do with it.
"okay, übermensch, what do you think about being-toward-death?"
he considers this, fingers drumming against his coffee cup—a soft, rhythmic tap-tap-tap that you can feel more than hear. his eyes shift away, focusing on something in the middle distance. the fluorescent lights flicker. forty-seven seconds. "i think it's incomplete. Heidegger focuses on the subjective experience of mortality, but he ignores the physical reality. entropy. decay." his voice takes on a different quality when he talks about physics—more animated, his hands starting to move, sketching invisible equations in the air.
"the universe itself is being-toward-death on a cosmic scale. every system tends toward disorder. every particle is running down. we're not special for dying—we're just... participating in the fundamental nature of reality."
you stare blankly at him. his face is earnest, completely serious, eyebrows slightly drawn together in concentration.there's a small furrow between them that you want to smooth away with your thumb. the thought startles you. "that's the most depressing thing i've ever heard."
"but accurate." he meets your eyes again, and there's a hint of a smile now—barely there, just a slight upward curve at one corner of his mouth.
"i can't put that in my paper. my professor would have an existential crisis."
"your professor should have an existential crisis. it's good for philosophers." the smile widens. you can see his teeth now—straight except for one canine that's slightly crooked, overlapping the tooth next to it.
you laugh—really laugh—and the sound bounces off the high ceilings, fills the empty library with something warm. something in his face softens, his whole expression opening up like a flower turning toward sunlight. the harsh fluorescent light suddenly seems warmer. his eyes are doing that thing again—going bright and unguarded, looking at you like you've just handed him something precious. "you're weird, satoru."
"yeah." he says it like he's heard it before, like it's a fact he's made peace with. But there's something in his eyes—a flicker of old hurt, quickly buried. "i know."
you don't say: i like that you're weird. but you think it, the words forming in your mind with crystalline clarity. he sees you thinking it—you can tell by the way his breath catches, barely audible but you're close enough to hear it, by the way his fingers still on the coffee cup, by the way his pupils dilate just slightly. the air between you feels charged, electric, like the moment before a storm breaks.
you end up staying until 2am, your philosophy paper forgotten, talking about entropy and meaning and whether the heat death of the universe negates all human achievement. your second coffee has long gone cold in its cup, bitter dregs at the bottom. you can feel the exhaustion in your bones, but your mind is racing, alive with ideas. it's the kind of conversation you usually have with your philosophy classmates, except satoru brings equations into it, grounds it in thermodynamics and quantum mechanics, makes the abstract terrifyingly concrete. his voice is hoarse from talking by the time you finally pack up.
when you finally leave, he walks you to your dorm. says it's on his way.
(it's not on his way. it's twenty minutes in the opposite direction. you don't know this. you probably never will.)
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
library session eight
you're halfway through a problem set when your pencil rolls off the table.
you both reach for it.
his hand gets there first, fingers brushing against yours for maybe half a second—barely contact, just the ghost of touch, skin on skin—but you both freeze. the pencil clatters to the floor, forgotten, the sound absurdly loud in the quiet library. rolling, rolling, until it hits the table leg with a hollow tap. you can feel the warmth of his hand even after he's pulled back, a phantom sensation that lingers on your knuckles. your nerve endings are firing like they've been shocked, hyperaware of that tiny point of contact. his fingers had been surprisingly warm, slightly rough at the tips like he bites his nails or writes too much.
"sorry," he says, voice slightly rough, catching on the word. he clears his throat. "i'll—" He leans down to grab the pencil from where it's rolled under your chair, and suddenly he's in your space, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. you catch a whiff of that eucalyptus scent stronger now, mixed with something else. clean laundry. mint toothpaste, maybe. the coffee on his breath—still too sweet. he surfaces with the pencil, holds it out to you between two fingers, and his ears are pink again. bright pink, the color spreading down his neck, disappearing under his collar.
you take it, careful not to let your fingers touch this time, though part of you wants to. the wood is warm from his hand, smooth under your thumb. "thanks."
the silence that follows is different from your usual comfortable quiet. charged. electric. the air feels thick with it, pressing against your skin. you can hear everything—the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, sixty cycles per second, that slight buzzing that usually fades into background noise. the distant sound of someone shelving books on the first floor, the soft thud of spines against wood. the heating system clicking on with a low mechanical groan, air starting to whisper through the vents. your own heartbeat, loud in your ears, faster than it should be. his breathing, slightly uneven.
"so," you say, too loud. your voice seems to bounce off every surface. "angular momentum."
"right. Yeah." he blinks, refocuses on the textbook, but it takes him a moment. you watch his eyes track across the page, not quite reading. His finger finds the relevant equation but he has to read it twice before speaking, lips moving silently the first time. "so the key thing about angular momentum is that it's conserved in a closed system. like—you know when figure skaters pull their arms in and spin faster?"
you nod. watch his mouth form the words. he has a small scar at the corner of his lip, barely visible, a thin white line maybe half a centimeter long. you've never noticed it before. wonder distantly how he got it. his lips are slightly chapped—it's getting cold out, everyone's skin is drying out. you can see where he's been worrying the bottom one with his teeth.
"that's conservation of angular momentum. same principle applies here, just..." he trails off, and you realize you're staring. He's staring back. his eyes are doing that thing again—that impossibly blue, catching the harsh fluorescent light and somehow making it soft. his pupils are dilated in the dim library, making his eyes look darker. you can see yourself reflected in them, tiny and inverted. "just more mathematical."
"right," you echo. you have no idea what he just said. the words entered your ears but didn't process, got lost somewhere between his mouth and your comprehension. all you can think about is that his knee is three inches from yours under the table and your hand is still tingling.
he runs a hand through his hair—a nervous gesture you're starting to recognize. it leaves the white strands standing up slightly, messy, catching the light like fiber optic cables. you want to smooth them down. want to know if they're as soft as they look. "should I explain it again?"
"no, I—" you look down at your notebook, at the equation he's written there in his precise handwriting. the numbers blur slightly. you blink hard, force your brain back online. focus on the physics. the math. something concrete. "i think i get it. so if the radius decreases, the velocity has to increase to keep L constant?"
"exactly." his face lights up—that transformation again, the one that makes your chest feel tight, like someone's wrapped a hand around your lungs and squeezed. his whole expression opens, eyes crinkling at the corners, mouth curving into a genuine smile that shows that slightly crooked canine. "exactly, you've got it."
the praise sends an unexpected flush of warmth through you. you duck your head, pretending to write in your notebook. "good teacher," you murmur.
"good student," he replies, just as quiet. his voice has dropped lower, intimate in the empty library.
your phone buzzes against the table—a harsh vibration that makes you both jump. you glance at it—12:47am, the numbers glowing blue-white in the dimness. you have class at nine. you should leave. get at least six hours of sleep. you make no move to pack up. your textbook stays open. your notebook stays on the table. his laptop is still running simulations, the screen casting a pale glow on his face.
"can I ask you something?" the words are out before you can stop them, before you can think about whether you actually want to know the answer.
he goes very still. you see every muscle tense—shoulders, jaw, hands. even his breathing seems to pause. "sure." the word is careful, guarded.
"why do you always have coffee waiting? you're always here before me. do you just... camp out at the library every night?"
something crosses his face—caught, almost guilty. his eyes dart away, focus on a point somewhere past your shoulder. "i like the quiet. good place to work." the words come out rehearsed, like he's prepared this answer.
"at 11pm."
"i'm a night owl." he's fidgeting now, fingers tapping against the edge of his laptop. tap-tap-tap, an irregular rhythm.
"every night?"
"most nights." he's not looking at you anymore, studying the textbook with sudden intense focus, like the diagram of rotational motion is the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. "it's not—i mean, i'd be here anyway. the coffee's just... it's on the way. there's a 24-hour place near my dorm."
(another lie. the 24-hour coffee shop is twenty minutes in the opposite direction from his dorm, tucked into a corner near the engineering building. he leaves at 10:15pm every night to make sure he gets there, gets the coffee—yours black with one sugar, his disgustingly sweet because you bought it that way once—and makes it to the library before you arrive at 11.
he's timed it down to the minute. knows that if he leaves at 10:17 he'll be two minutes late. knows which route has the fewest streetlights out. knows that the barista working nights on thursdays always gives him an extra shot of espresso for free.)
you let it go. file it away with all the other small things you're starting to notice. the way he remembers how you take your coffee. the way he always walks you home, even though he claims it's on his way. the way he looks at you when he thinks you're not paying attention—like you're a theorem he's trying to prove, a puzzle he can't quite solve, something precious and fragile and just out of reach. the way his breath catches when you laugh. the way he leans in when you talk, like he doesn't want to miss a single word.
"i'm glad you're here," you say instead, the words softer than you intend. "the nights, i mean. it's nice. having company."
his eyes snap to yours, wide and startled, unguarded for just a moment. for a heartbeat he looks almost scared, like you've just said something dangerous, something that could detonate in his hands. his lips part slightly, and you watch his throat work as he swallows. then his expression softens into something that makes your stomach flip, that sends heat pooling low in your abdomen. something warm and open and achingly vulnerable.
"yeah," he says quietly, voice barely above a whisper. "it is."
you work in silence for another hour. the numbers start to blur together on the page. your hand is cramping from writing. at some point your knee bumps against his under the table and neither of you moves away. the contact is barely there—just a point of warmth through two layers of denim—but you're aware of it with every breath. can feel the solid presence of him, the small movements when he shifts his weight. t
he table is small enough that you're constantly almost-touching—elbows nearly brushing, hands coming close when you both reach for the textbook. the air between you feels charged, like static electricity before a storm.
when you finally pack up at 2am, your brain fuzzy with exhaustion and caffeine and something else—something unnamed that sits warm and heavy in your chest—he does that thing where he pretends walking you home is on his way. closes his laptop with a decisive click. stretches, and you try not to watch the way his shirt rides up, exposing a thin strip of pale skin above his jeans.
the october air is cold enough now that you can see your breath, small clouds that dissipate in the darkness. the campus is dead quiet except for your footsteps on the pavement—his heavier, yours lighter, falling into an easy rhythm. your shoulders brush occasionally when the sidewalk narrows. the streetlights cast long shadows, turn everything orange and surreal. somewhere in the distance a siren wails. a dog barks. the normal sounds of a city at night, but they feel muted, distant, like you're walking through a bubble that contains just the two of you.
"hey satoru?" you call out.
"mm?" he turns his head to look at you, and the streetlight catches in his eyes.
"next time you don't have to get the coffee. we could just... I don't know. meet here and then go get it together or something."
you feel more than see him go still. his footsteps stutter for just a moment before resuming. "together?" the word comes out strange, like he's testing it. tasting it.
"yeah. I mean, if you want. seems fair since you always—" you gesture vaguely, breath clouding in the cold. "you know."
"i want to," he says, too quickly. then, more carefully, like he's trying to dial it back, "that would be good. yeah."
there's something in his voice—relief and longing and something almost like fear. you glance at him but he's looking straight ahead, jaw tight, hands shoved deep in his pockets.
when you reach your dorm he does that small wave thing, hands in his pockets, breath clouding in the cold air. the motion makes him look younger somehow, uncertain. "see you tuesday?"
"tuesday," you confirm. wave back, your fingers already numb from the cold.
inside, the lobby is overheated and smells like stale popcorn and floor cleaner. you climb the three flights to your floor, legs heavy with exhaustion. your roommate is asleep, the room dark except for the glow of her phone charging. you drop your bag, go to the window.
he's still there. standing under the streetlight, looking up. the light turns his hair silver-bright, makes him look like something otherworldly. a ghost. an angel. something not quite human. he stands there for a long moment—thirty seconds, a minute—just looking. you can't see his expression from here but something about his posture seems lonely. small, despite his height.
then he turns and starts walking, not toward the direction he said his dorm was, but the opposite way. east instead of west. you watch his figure get smaller, watch him pass under streetlight after streetlight, until he finally disappears around the corner by the physics building.
huh, you think.
you stand at the window for a moment longer, breath fogging the glass. your fingers are pressed against the cold pane. below, the street is empty. just pools of orange light and darkness.
you don't mention it on tuesday.
but when you get to the library at 10:45—fifteen minutes early, your heart beating faster than it should—he's already there, two coffees on the table, looking up with that soft, startled expression like you've just appeared out of nowhere.
like he's been waiting for you.
(he has.)
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
library session ten
it's thursday and you're not doing physics.
"I have a philosophy presentation tomorrow," you say, dropping into your chair with a heavy sigh that seems to echo in the empty third floor. your bag hits the floor with a thud—heavier than usual, stuffed with books you've been hauling around all day. "i need to practice it out loud but my roommate's asleep and I—" you pause, suddenly uncertain. "would it be weird if I just... presented it to you?"
satoru looks up from his laptop, and something flickers across his face. Interest, maybe. or concern—you can't quite read it. "what's it on?"
"Sartre. existence precedes essence. the whole 'we're condemned to be free' thing." you pull out your notes, pages covered in highlighter and frantic marginalia from when you'd been trying to make sense of Being and Nothingness at 3am. the pages are crinkled, coffee-stained. "it's only ten minutes but I keep losing my place and—"
"yeah," he interrupts, too quickly. then, softer, "i mean, yes. I'd like to hear it."
there's something in his voice. eagerness, carefully restrained. like you've just offered him something he didn't know he wanted.
you stand up, smooth down your shirt even though there's no one here but him. clear your throat. the fluorescent lights buzz overhead. "okay. so. um." your hands are already shaking slightly, papers rustling. "Jean-Paul Sartre argued that—"
"wait." he closes his laptop with a quiet click, pushes it aside. turns his chair to fully face you, giving you his complete attention. his eyes are steady on yours, patient. "okay. go ahead."
something about the way he's looking at you—focused, interested, no judgment in his expression—makes your shoulders relax slightly.
"Jean-Paul Sartre argued that existence precedes essence," you begin again, and this time your voice is steadier. "unlike objects, which are created with a purpose—a chair is made to be sat on, a knife is made to cut—humans exist first, and only afterward do we define ourselves through our choices and actions."
you glance at your notes, lose your place, find it again. your finger traces down the page, smudging the highlighter. "this means that we have no predetermined nature. no essence handed to us by God or biology or society. we are, in Sartre's words, 'condemned to be free.'" you look up, checking if he's still with you.
he's leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, chin resting on his laced fingers. completely still. listening with an intensity that makes you feel pinned, examined. but not in a bad way. like every word you're saying matters.
"the condemnation comes from the weight of that freedom. We are entirely responsible for who we become. we can't blame God, or fate, or our upbringing. every choice we make is a choice we're making not just for ourselves, but—" you flip a page, the paper catching on your thumb, "—for all of humanity. because in choosing, we're saying 'this is what a human should do in this situation.'"
"but that's not quite right," satoru says, and you stop.
"what?"
"sorry." he sits back slightly, looking almost apologetic. his hand comes up, rubbing the back of his neck. "i don't mean to—you're explaining it well. i just meant Sartre's argument. the idea that every choice is a choice for all of humanity—it's too broad. too... abstract." his eyes are distant now, thinking. "when I choose to have coffee at 11pm, i'm not making a universal statement about humanity's relationship with caffeine."
you can't help it—you laugh, the sound bursting out before you can stop it. "that's exactly what my professor said. well, not about the coffee. but that Sartre's ethics are too demanding. that they lead to paralysis because every tiny choice becomes this huge moral weight."
"so what do you think?" he tilts his head, genuinely curious. "do you buy it? the whole condemned to be free thing?"
you set your notes down on the table, presentation temporarily forgotten. "i think... i think there's something true in it. the part about how we define ourselves through our choices. but the weight of it—" you gesture vaguely, trying to find the words. "i don't know if i believe every choice is that significant. sometimes you're just tired and you want coffee. sometimes you're just trying to pass physics."
his mouth quirks into a small smile. "sometimes you're just trying to help someone pass physics."
"right. like—" you pause, something clicking into place in your mind. "those choices still mean something. they still define who you are. but maybe not in this grand universal way. maybe just in a... smaller way. a personal way."
"the small scale stuff," he says quietly, and you remember—lucky for me you're good at the small scale stuff.
"yeah. the small scale stuff." you repeat.
the silence that follows is comfortable. thoughtful. you can hear the heating system, the distant hum of computers in the lab downstairs. your coffee has gone cold in its cup.
"you should keep going," he says after a moment. "with the presentation. you were doing well."
"was I?" you pick up your notes again, suddenly self-conscious. "i feel like I keep going off on tangents."
"you do," he agrees, and there's amusement in his voice. "but they're good tangents. you're not just reciting facts. you're actually thinking about them. engaging with them." he leans back in his chair, and you hear it creak slightly. "your professor will like that. even if they disagree with your conclusions."
you study him for a moment. he's relaxed now, more than you've seen him. usually there's a tension in his shoulders, a guardedness in his expression. but right now he looks... comfortable. content. like this—sitting here at 11:47pm in an empty library talking about existentialism—is exactly where he wants to be.
"okay," you say. "from the top?"
"from the top."
you present the whole thing twice more. he doesn't interrupt again, just listens, nods at certain points, makes small encouraging gestures when you stumble over words. by the third run-through, you're not even looking at your notes. the arguments flow naturally, and you can see the through-line of your own thinking clearly for the first time.
"that was perfect," he says when you finish. "seriously. you're going to do great."
the praise makes something warm bloom in your chest. "thanks for listening. i know this isn't exactly—" you gesture at his laptop, at the equations you can see on the screen. "your area."
"i liked it." He says it simply, like it's obvious. "i like hearing you talk about things you care about."
the words hang in the air between you. you can feel your face heating, are grateful for the dim lighting that hopefully hides it. "i like hearing you talk about physics," you offer, then immediately feel stupid. "even when I don't understand half of it."
"you understand more than you think." he opens his laptop again, but slowly, like he's reluctant to break whatever spell has settled over your corner of the library. "want to do some actual homework now, or are you too philosophized out?"
"i should probably—" you glance at your phone. 12:15am. "i should probably look at my physics reading. we have that quiz on Monday."
"chapter seven?"
"yeah. rotational dynamics. which i definitely, totally understand and am not at all terrified of."
he grins—quick and bright and almost playful. "liar."
"okay, yes, i'm terrified. Are you happy?"
"very." he's already pulling up the textbook pdf on his laptop, turning the screen so you can both see. "come here, i'll walk you through it."
you move your chair closer—close enough that your shoulders are almost touching, that you can feel the warmth of him along your left side. the screen glows blue-white in the darkness. his fingers move over the trackpad, pulling up diagrams and equations, and you try to focus on the physics and not on the way his voice drops lower when he's explaining something complex, the way he smells like eucalyptus and coffee and something uniquely him.
"so the moment of inertia depends on the distribution of mass," he's saying, and you can feel his breath on your shoulder when he leans in to point at something on the screen. "the farther the mass is from the axis of rotation, the larger the moment of inertia. that's why figure skaters—"
"spin faster when they pull their arms in," you finish. "conservation of angular momentum. you already taught me that."
"just making sure it stuck." he glances at you, and he's close enough that you can see the individual shades of blue in his eyes. not just one color but layers—pale blue near the pupil, darker at the edges, with flecks of something almost silver. "did it stick?"
"yeah," you say, quieter than you intend. "it stuck."
you're staring at each other. the laptop screen has gone dark from inactivity, plunging you into deeper dimness. the only light now is the fluorescent glow from the main library area, filtering through the gaps in the bookshelves. you can see the exact moment his eyes drop to your mouth—quick, involuntary, like he couldn't help it—before snapping back up.
he pulls back slightly, breaking the moment. clears his throat. "we should—the quiz. let me pull up some practice problems."
"right. yeah. practice problems."
but neither of you moves to turn the laptop back on. not for several long seconds. not until someone laughs on a lower floor and the sound echoes up the stairwell, breaking whatever was building between you.
the rest of the night is quieter. you work through practice problems while he runs his simulations, and the silence is punctuated only by the scratch of pencil on paper, the click of keys, the occasional question and answer. but something has shifted. you're hyperaware of every almost-touch, every shared glance, every moment when his hand gets close to yours on the table.
when he walks you home at 2am, the cold october air biting at your exposed skin, you walk closer together than usual. your arms brush with every third step. neither of you mentions it.
at your dorm, he does his usual wave. waits until your light comes on. you watch from the window as he walks away—the correct direction this time, you note. or maybe he's just gotten better at the lie. maybe he walks the correct way for three blocks and then doubles back. maybe he's been doing that all along.
you don't know.
(you're starting to want to.)
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
library session twelve
it's tuesday and satoru is wearing a different shirt.
this shouldn't matter. it doesn't matter. except you've seen him in the same rotation of clothing for weeks now—three button-downs in various states of wrinkled, two sweaters with holes in the sleeves, that one hoodie with the faded logo—and tonight he's wearing something new. dark blue, fitted, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows in a way that seems deliberate. intentional. like he thought about it.
"hey," he says when you arrive, and his voice is slightly higher than usual. nervous.
"hey." you set down your bag, and your hand trembles slightly when you reach for the coffee he's already gotten you. your fingers brush the cup and it's still warm—which means he got here even earlier than normal. "new shirt?"
you watch color flood his cheeks, spreading down his neck. "oh. yeah. the... the other ones were all dirty."
(a lie. you're getting better at spotting them. his shirts were fine. he did laundry on sunday like he always does, you've seen him in the same blue button-down twice since then. this is new. this is for you.)
"it's nice," you say, and your voice comes out softer than intended. "the color. it's... it's good."
"thanks." he's not looking at you, fingers drumming against his own coffee cup in that nervous rhythm you've memorized. tap-tap-tap-pause-tap. "how was your presentation? friday?"
"oh." you'd almost forgotten. "it went well, actually. got an A. professor said I had 'interesting insights on Sartre's ethical implications.'" you smile at the memory. "pretty sure that's academic speak for 'you went off script but I liked it.'"
his face does that thing—that full, unguarded smile that transforms him completely. "I knew you'd do well. you were—" he pauses, seems to catch himself. "it was a good presentation. when you practiced."
there's something in the way he says it. something weighted. like he's saying more than just the words.
you sit down, and somehow end up closer than usual. your chair scrapes against the floor and you end up near enough that your knees are almost touching under the table. you notice it. freeze for a half-second. shift slightly away but not all the way. neither of you acknowledges it but you can feel the space between you like a physical thing. charged. electric.
"so what are we working on tonight?" he asks, pulling his laptop closer. his fingers are shaking slightly on the trackpad. you've never seen his hands shake before.
"chapter eight. torque and equilibrium." you pull out your textbook but you're hyperaware of where he is in space. the exact distance between his elbow and yours on the table. "but I should probably warn you, I'm completely lost."
"you're not lost. you just think you are." he pulls up the chapter on his screen, angling it so you can both see, and you catch a whiff of his detergent—he changed it, or maybe you're just noticing it more. something clean and fresh with a hint of cedar. "torque is just... it's rotational force. you already understand force. this is the same thing, just spinning."
"just spinning," you echo. "why do you make everything sound so simple?"
"because it is simple. once you see the pattern." he points at a diagram on the screen and you both lean in at the same time. his shoulder brushes yours—just for a second—and you both jerk back like you've been burned. there's a pause. a weird charged silence. "see?" his voice is slightly strained. "force times distance. that's all torque is."
you're trying to focus on the diagram but your skin is still tingling where he touched you. "so if I want to open a door, I push far from the hinges to maximize torque."
"exactly." he turns his head to look at you and you realize suddenly how close you're sitting. close enough to see the faint freckles across his nose. close enough that if you leaned forward just a few inches—
you don't lean forward. neither does he. but you both seem to realize the proximity at the same time and there's a moment where neither of you moves. frozen. his eyes are very blue.
then he clears his throat and looks back at the screen. "you do understand. you just don't trust yourself."
"maybe I just like having you explain things," you say without thinking, and immediately want to take it back. too honest. too revealing.
his fingers still on the trackpad. "oh," he says quietly.
the silence that follows is thick. awkward. you can hear your own heartbeat, loud in your ears.
"so," you say too brightly. "practice problems?"
"right. yeah. practice problems." he's typing too fast, making mistakes, having to backspace. you pretend not to notice.
you try to focus on the physics. you really do. but you keep getting distracted by stupid things. the way his fingers move over the keyboard. the way he worries his bottom lip when he's thinking. the way his hair falls into his eyes and he pushes it back with an impatient gesture.
and you keep almost-touching. reaching for the same pencil. both moving to point at the same equation. every time there's contact—just a brush of fingers, a bump of elbows—you both pull back like you've been shocked. apologize. avoid eye contact.
it's searing.
"are you okay?" he asks after the fifth time you've lost your train of thought mid-sentence.
"fine. just—" you scramble for an excuse. "tired. long day."
"we can stop if you want." there's something in his voice. disappointment, maybe, buried under concern.
"no. I want to stay." too emphatic. you try to dial it back. "I mean, I need to understand this for the quiz monday."
"right. the quiz." he runs a hand through his hair, messing it up. you want to smooth it down. you don't. "let me show you another example."
he pulls the textbook closer to him, which means closer to you. you're sharing the book now, both leaning over it, and you're acutely aware of every place your bodies almost touch. his arm next to yours. his knee a centimeter from your knee. the warmth radiating off him.
"so the system is in equilibrium when the sum of all torques equals zero," he's explaining, and his voice is slightly unsteady. his finger traces the diagram and you're watching his hand instead of the physics. "which means—are you listening?"
"yes," you lie.
"what did I just say?"
"...something about equilibrium?"
he laughs—quiet and a little breathless. "you're not paying attention at all."
"I am. I'm just—" you meet his eyes and forget what you were going to say. he's looking at you with an expression you can't quite read. something soft and uncertain and almost scared. "distracted."
"by what?" it comes out barely above a whisper.
you should say something about the quiz. about being stressed. instead you say, "I don't know," which is somehow more honest.
he swallows hard. you watch his throat work. "me too," he admits quietly. "I've been—for weeks now, I can't—" he stops. takes a breath. "never mind."
"no, what?" you're leaning closer without meaning to.
"nothing. it's—" he shakes his head. "it's stupid."
"tell me anyway."
he looks at you for a long moment. you can see him weighing something. deciding. "I think about you," he says finally, so quiet you almost miss it. "when you're not here. more than I should. more than makes sense for—" he gestures vaguely at the textbook. "for physics homework."
your heart stops. starts again, harder. "oh."
"yeah." he laughs awkwardly, won't meet your eyes. "so. that's—I'm probably making this weird. sorry. we can just—"
"I do too," you interrupt. the words tumble out before you can stop them. "think about you. I mean. when I'm not here." you can feel your face burning. "I see something and wonder what you'd say about it. or I check the time and start getting ready to come here even when I don't have homework and—" you stop. this is too much. too honest.
he's staring at you now. "really?"
"really."
"oh," he breathes. and then: "I wore this shirt because—" he stops. starts again. "you said you liked this color once. weeks ago. on someone else's shirt. I don't even know if you remember."
"I remember." your voice is shaking. "I wore this sweater because you said green was your favorite color on me."
the silence that follows is deafening. you're both just looking at each other, and the air feels thick, hard to breathe. his eyes drop to your mouth—just for a second—and your stomach flips.
then someone laughs on a lower floor and you both startle, jerking apart. the spell breaks.
"we should—" he starts.
"yeah. physics. right." you're not looking at each other now. both staring determinedly at the textbook.
but your hand is on the table between you and so is his, and they're very close. almost touching. you can feel the warmth of his skin. see his fingers twitch like he wants to reach over. you want him to reach over. your pinky moves closer. so does his.
you're both pretending to read the textbook but you're not reading anything. you're focused entirely on the shrinking distance between your hands.
his pinky brushes yours. the contact is feather-light. barely there. but neither of you pulls away.
you shift your hand slightly. now your fingers are overlapping. not quite holding hands but not not holding hands either. your heart is racing so fast you feel dizzy.
"so torque," he says, voice strained, not looking up from the book. "is equal to force times distance."
"right," you manage. your hand is tingling where you're touching him. "force times distance."
"and when the system is in equilibrium—" his index finger curls around yours. still casual. still deniable. "—the net torque is zero."
"zero," you echo. you have no idea what you're saying. all your focus is on the point of contact. his finger hooked around yours.
you sit like that for several minutes. pretending to study. hands linked between the coffee cups and physics textbook. not acknowledging it. both terrified that if you acknowledge it, it will stop.
eventually you have to turn the page and the spell breaks. you both pull back. there's an awkward pause.
"I should—" you start. "it's late. I should probably—"
"oh. yeah. of course." he sounds disappointed. "I'll walk you back."
"you don't have to—"
"I want to."
the walk back is torture. you're walking close enough that your arms brush occasionally. every point of contact feels massive. significant. you're both talking too much, too fast, filling the silence with nervous chatter about nothing. philosophy and physics and the weather and anything except what just happened.
at your dorm, you both stop. stand there awkwardly.
"so," he says.
"so," you echo.
"same time thursday?"
"yeah. thursday." you pause. "thanks for—for the help. with physics."
"anytime." he's looking at you with that soft expression again. "I mean it. anytime."
you should go inside. you're both just standing here. "okay. good. I'll—thursday."
"thursday," he confirms.
neither of you moves.
"I should—" you gesture at the door.
"right. yeah." he takes a step back. "goodnight."
"goodnight, satoru."
you're halfway through the door when he calls your name. you turn back.
"I—" he stops. seems to lose his nerve. "sleep well."
"you too."
you watch from your window as he walks away. he makes it to the corner, pauses, looks back at your building. stands there for a long moment before finally continuing on.
you touch your fingers where his had been. they're still tingling.
this is bad, you think. this is going to be a problem.
you can't wait until thursday.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
library session fourteen
it's thursday and satoru isn't here.
you arrive at 11pm exactly—maybe a minute early, maybe you were eager, maybe you'd spent an extra ten minutes picking out your shirt (green, because he likes green on you, because you're just as bad as he is)—and the table is empty. no laptop with its familiar array of stickers (a periodic table, a cat with glasses, something in japanese you can't read). no coffee cups sweating condensation onto the wood, leaving those overlapping rings you've both stopped bothering to wipe away. no satoru with his messy white hair and nervous hands and that way he looks up when you arrive like you've just made his entire night worthwhile.
you wait.
you sit down in your chair—the wobbly one you've gotten used to—and pull out your textbook. chapter nine, angular momentum. you read the same paragraph three times without absorbing a single word.
11:15. nothing.
the library is almost empty. there's someone on the first floor, you can hear the distant sound of pages turning. the fluorescent lights hum their endless sixty-cycle song. the heating system clicks and groans. outside the window, campus is dark except for the scattered orange glow of streetlights.
11:30. you text him. you coming?
you watch the message deliver. wait for the read receipt. nothing.
your leg bounces under the table. you bite your thumbnail, a nervous habit you thought you'd broken in high school.
11:45. you try calling. it rings once, twice, three times. your heart sinks with each ring. four, five, six.
"you've reached gojo satoru, leave a message."
his voice on the recording is awkward, formal. you can hear him cringing at himself even through the recording. there's a pause before the beep like he forgot what he was supposed to say next.
beep.
"hey, it's me. just—wondering if you're okay? you're usually here by now. call me back." you try to keep your voice light, casual, not like anxiety is already coiling in your stomach like a snake.
you hang up. stare at your phone. the screen shows your wallpaper—a photo you took last week of the autumn leaves on the quad, gold and red against grey sky. you'd almost changed it to the selfie you'd convinced satoru to take with you three days ago (he'd looked terrified of the camera, you'd both been laughing, it was perfect) but that felt like too much too soon.
by 12:15 you're packing up your untouched textbook, anxiety fully transformed into something sharper. fear, maybe. what if something happened? what if he's sick? what if he got hit by a car or mugged or had some kind of lab accident with radioactive materials—
or what if he finally got tired of spending every night tutoring you? what if tuesday was too much, too weird, too intense? what if he went home and thought about your fingers tangled with his and realized he didn't actually want this, didn't want you, what if he's avoiding you—
no. no, he wouldn't do that. not without saying something. not after the way he looked at you, not after that soft confession about thinking about you when you're not there.
but what if he would?
you pull up the student directory on your phone. your hands are shaking slightly as you type his name. gojo satoru, physics phd candidate. there's a dorm listed. warren hall, room 447.
you shouldn't go. it's creepy. invasive. stalkerish. he probably just fell asleep or his phone died or he's busy with research and forgot and you're being completely irrational—
you're already walking.
the cold october air hits you like a slap when you exit the library. it's gotten colder in the past few hours—probably in the low forties now, cold enough that you can see your breath, cold enough that you wish you'd brought a heavier jacket. you shove your hands in your pockets and walk fast, partly for warmth and partly because if you slow down you'll lose your nerve.
warren hall is on the far side of campus—a solid twenty-five minute walk from the library. past the humanities building (dark, locked, silent), past the student center (a few lit windows on the upper floors, the distant thump of music from someone's room), past the science quad with its modern glass buildings that glow blue-white from the emergency lighting inside.
warren hall is newer than your building—maybe ten years old instead of fifty. all key card access and security cameras and a front desk that's unmanned at this hour. you catch the door when someone leaves—a tired-looking grad student with a messenger bag and dead eyes—slip inside before it closes. the lobby is too warm, overheated in that way institutional buildings always are. it smells like carpet cleaner and instant ramen and the particular musk of too many people living in close quarters.
the elevator has an "out of order" sign taped to it. of course it does.
you take the stairs, your footsteps echoing in the concrete stairwell. someone has taped inspirational posters to the walls at each landing. "you got this!" "don't give up!" "almost there!" they get progressively more deranged as you climb. by the fourth floor it just says "why?" with a picture of a cat looking existentially exhausted.
fourth floor. the hallway is long and narrow, painted that specific shade of beige that exists only in institutional buildings. the carpet is dark blue, industrial, stained in places you don't want to examine too closely. the hallway smells like microwave popcorn and old socks and someone's weed brownie experiment gone wrong.
you find 447 at the end, past doors decorated with whiteboards and name tags and one very elaborate fantasy map. satoru's door is plain. just the number. no whiteboard, no decoration. somehow that feels very him.
you hesitate with your hand raised to knock.
what are you doing? what if he's here with someone? what if he's asleep? what if he doesn't want to see you? what if you're completely overreacting and he's going to think you're unhinged for tracking him down like this—
you knock before you can talk yourself out of it.
nothing.
the silence is absolute. you can hear your own heartbeat, loud in your ears. can hear someone's tv through the wall to your left, canned laughter from a sitcom.
you try again, louder. your knuckles sting from the impact. "satoru? it's me. are you okay?"
more silence.
you try the handle—just to see, just to confirm it's locked so you can leave and tell yourself you tried—and it turns.
unlocked...
your heart jumps into your throat, pulse suddenly racing. unlocked. his door is unlocked. what if something's wrong? what if someone broke in? what if he's hurt inside?
"satoru?" you push the door open slowly, every horror movie you've ever seen playing in your head. "I'm coming in, okay? I just want to make sure you're not dead or—"
the room is empty.
you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.
it's small—barely bigger than your own dorm. maybe ten by twelve feet, most of it taken up by furniture. a single bed in the corner, neatly made with plain navy sheets and a pillow that looks flat and sad. a desk absolutely buried in papers and textbooks and coffee cups in various states of empty. a small bookshelf overflowing with physics texts and actual literature—you spot dostoevsky and camus and, inexplicably, a collection of poetry by mary oliver. a tiny kitchenette area with a microwave and electric kettle. a closet with the door half-open, showing a depressingly small collection of clothes (lots of white and blue, everything rumpled).
barely any decoration except a periodic table poster on the wall above his desk—the kind where each element is color-coded by category—and a small succulent on the windowsill that looks half-dead, its leaves brown and shriveled. there's a single photo taped to the wall by his bed: satoru and an older couple, possibly his parents, all three of them squinting into the sun. he looks younger. happier. less tired.
his laptop is open on the desk, screen still glowing with that pale blue light.
you shouldn't look. you absolutely should not look. this is a massive invasion of privacy. this is wrong. this is—
but what if something in there tells you where he is? what if there's a note, a calendar entry, something to explain why he didn't show up? what if he's in trouble?
you move closer, shoes sinking into the thin carpet. the desk is chaos—printed papers covered in equations you can't begin to understand, lab notebooks with coffee stains and scribbled margin notes, a mug with cold coffee and a film on top, three different pens (blue, black, red), a calculator that looks like it costs more than your textbooks, a stack of grant applications paper-clipped together.
the laptop screen shows a document—academic formatting, double-spaced, dense with citations and technical language that might as well be a foreign language.
your eyes catch on the title at the top.
Synthesis and Characterization of Ununennium (Element 119): A Novel Approach to Superheavy Element Creation Through Modified Hot Fusion Reactions
Gojo, S., Department of Physics, Graduate Program in Nuclear Science
Nakamura, T., Department of Physics
Submitted to: Physical Review Letters
your brain stutters. stops. tries to process. fails.
element 119. synthesis of a new element. ununennium.
that lecture. the one from your assignment at the beginning of the semester. that brilliant, awkward physicist who'd discovered element 119 and could barely string two words together in front of a crowd. who'd rushed through his slides like he was being chased, whose hands had shaken so badly the laser pointer kept jumping around the screen. who'd gotten flustered at questions and stammered through answers and looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.
who'd made you write in your paper: there's something deeply humanizing about seeing a scientist—especially one who made such a groundbreaking discovery—be so genuinely uncomfortable with public speaking. it reminds us that brilliance doesn't come with confidence pre-installed. that the person who just expanded our understanding of atomic physics is still just a person, still nervous, still human.
you scroll down, hands shaking. the abstract is full of technical terms you don't know. isotopes and decay chains and cross-sections and beam energy. but you catch fragments:
...successful synthesis of element 119 through the fusion of titanium-50 and berkelium-249...
...detection confirmed through alpha decay chain analysis...
...represents a significant advance in superheavy element research...
there are dates. the experiment was concluded in july. the lecture was in september, right before the semester started. right before you'd been assigned to write about a recent scientific advancement. right before you'd sat in the library at 11pm struggling with physics homework and a white-haired, blue-eyed stranger had asked if you needed help.
"oh my god," you breathe.
you scroll further. more documents in his recent files. drafts of papers. data analysis. emails from his advisor about publication timelines and conference presentations. an email from someone at berkeley asking him to give a talk. an email from CERN with the subject line "research opportunity."
and then—
a folder labeled "papers to read."
you click it without thinking, without considering that this is wrong, that you're violating his privacy, that you should stop—
your philosophy paper on heidegger. saved as a PDF. dated from three weeks ago.
you open it. the margins are full of comments in his handwriting—small, precise, the letters cramped.
this is a really interesting point about authenticity
hadn't thought about it this way before
I wonder if this connects to what you said about entropy that night? both about finding meaning in the face of inevitable ending?
you close it with shaking hands. scroll further.
an article about sartre's concept of bad faith from a philosophy journal. bookmarked. highlighted in yellow—something about self-deception and avoiding freedom.
an article about the ethics of artificial intelligence that you'd mentioned wanting to read during one of your late-night conversations. saved.
a PDF of mary oliver's wild geese with one line highlighted: you do not have to be good.
and then—
a document titled simply "notes."
you shouldn't open it. you absolutely should not open it.
you open it.
it's not dated. just... observations. fragments. a running list.
—takes coffee black with one sugar, always waits for it to cool to exactly 140 degrees before drinking (I timed it, approximately 7 minutes after purchase)
—gets frustrated when she doesn't understand something immediately but won't ask for help until she's tried at least three times on her own
—chews on her pen cap when she's thinking, has probably consumed a concerning amount of plastic
—birthday in -your birthday month- (mentioned it when talking about spring break plans, specifically, same as the ides of march and she made a joke about betrayal)
—wants to go to grad school but isn't sure where yet, keeps changing her mind between continental philosophy and ethics
—thinks I'm weird but in a good way??? (she said this. I have replayed this seventeen times in my head. "good way" means positive. probably.)
—laughs with her whole body, throws her head back, it's the best sound I've ever heard
—she wore the green sweater again today, I think she knows I like it, or maybe I'm reading into things, I'm definitely reading into things
your heart is hammering against your ribs so hard it hurts. you scroll further and there are more notes, going back weeks. the first entry is from early september.
—asked me for help with physics, looked at me like I might actually be able to help, like I wasn't just the weird guy who can't talk to people. maybe this semester won't be completely terrible.
then more, scattered observations:
—she came back. didn't have to. chose to.
—remembers things I say, brought up something I mentioned about quantum tunneling three days later
—bit her lip today when she was concentrating and I forgot how to explain angular momentum
—I think I'm in trouble
the most recent entry is from tuesday. two days ago.
—she wore the green sweater. she remembered. she REMEMBERED.
—held her hand for 4 minutes and 23 seconds before she had to turn the page. wanted to do it again immediately. wanted to never stop. wanted to—
—I think about her constantly. when I'm running simulations I imagine explaining them to her. when I read something interesting I mentally compose how I'd tell her about it. when I'm falling asleep I replay conversations, thinking about what I should have said, what I wish I'd been brave enough to say.
—she makes me want to be less afraid. she makes me want to be brave. she makes me want to be normal even though I've never been normal a day in my life and I don't know how to start.
—I'm in love with her. I think. I don't have a reference point. but if love is wanting someone else's happiness more than your own, wanting to know everything about them, wanting to be better for them—then yes. definitely. unequivocally.
—I'm terrified she'll realize I'm too much. too intense. too weird. that she'll—
it cuts off there. like he couldn't finish the thought.
you're staring at the screen when you hear footsteps in the hallway. voices.
"—just need to grab my laptop and then we can go over the data from tonight's run. the decay chain is slightly different from what we predicted—"
the door opens. satoru freezes in the doorway.
he's wearing his lab coat—white, rumpled, stained with something that might be coffee or might be chemicals you don't want to think about. his hair is more disheveled than usual, standing up like he's been running his hands through it for hours. he has safety goggles pushed up on his forehead. there's a smudge of something dark on his cheek. he looks exhausted—eyes shadowed, shoulders tight with tension.
there's an older man behind him—late fifties, greying hair, wearing an identical lab coat and carrying a stack of folders thick enough to be a weapon. professor nakamura, you recognize him vaguely from around campus. he's apparently somewhat famous in physics circles, though you couldn't say why.
satoru's eyes—those impossibly blue eyes that you've memorized in every shade and mood—go wide. then wider. his face drains of color, going from pale to absolutely bloodless in the span of a heartbeat. his mouth opens. closes. opens again. no sound comes out.
his eyes dart to his laptop. to you standing in front of it. back to you. the recognition and horror that crosses his face is almost comical. almost, except you can see real fear there too.
"I—" he starts. his voice cracks. "I can explain."
professor nakamura looks between you with barely concealed amusement, one eyebrow raised, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "I'll just—" he clears his throat. "I'll wait in my office. room 342 in the physics building. bring the data when you're ready, gojo. take your time."
the emphasis on "take your time" is meaningful. he's definitely laughing at satoru.
he leaves, closing the door behind him with a soft click that sounds deafening in the sudden silence.
you and satoru stare at each other for what it seems like hours.
he still hasn't moved from the doorway. his hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles white. you can see him trembling—just slightly, but definitely trembling. his eyes are doing that thing where they jump around, looking at you then away then back, like he can't decide whether to maintain eye contact or flee.
"you didn't show up," you say. your voice sounds strange to your own ears. distant. like you're underwater. "I was worried."
"I was in the lab." the words come out in a rush, defensive. "we were running the particle accelerator and it took longer than expected and I lost track of time and my phone died and I—" he stops. swallows hard. you watch his throat work, watch him try to gather himself. "you read it."
it's not a question. it's a statement of fact, heavy with resignation.
"element 119," you say. "you made element 119."
"yes." barely a whisper.
"you synthesized a new element. you discovered—no, created—something that has never existed before in the universe." your brain is still trying to process this. "you were the one. the lecture. the one I wrote my assignment about."
"yes." he won't look at you now. he's staring at the floor, at his shoes (scuffed sneakers, the laces on one are coming untied), anywhere but your face.
"why didn't you tell me?" you're not angry—you should maybe be angry about the invasion of privacy, about the secret-keeping, but you're not. you're just baffled. genuinely confused. "when I mentioned that assignment, when I talked about that lecture—why didn't you say it was you?"
"because—" he runs a hand through his hair, agitated, messing it up even more. the safety goggles fall off his forehead and clatter to the floor. he doesn't pick them up. "because I didn't want you to know. I didn't want you to—" he makes a frustrated gesture, hands cutting through the air. "everyone knows. everyone in the physics department, everyone who follows particle physics, everyone at conferences. I can't go anywhere without people wanting to talk about it or asking me questions or treating me like I'm—"
his voice rises slightly, gets tighter. he's breathing faster now, working himself up.
"—like I'm some kind of genius or prodigy or—or like I'm not a person. like I'm just this thing that made a discovery. this achievement. not satoru who likes bad coffee and can't give presentations without wanting to die and who's read the same mary oliver poem seventeen times because it makes him feel less—"
he cuts himself off. bites his lip hard.
"and when I met you, you didn't know." his voice drops back down, goes quiet. "you just thought I was some weird physics student who hung out in the library too late. you looked at me like I was normal. like I was just... a person. a regular person who happened to know physics."
he finally looks at you. his eyes are bright, maybe with unshed tears, definitely with emotion you can't quite name.
"I liked it. I liked that you didn't know. that you weren't impressed or intimidated or weird about it. you were just—you were just talking to me. not the person who synthesized 119. not gojo satoru, the youngest person to create a superheavy element. just... me. just satoru."
the silence that follows is heavy. you can hear everything. the buzz of his laptop. someone's music three doors down. your own heartbeat. his breathing, still uneven.
"I read your notes," you say quietly. "about me."
if possible, he goes even paler. "that's—those were private. I wasn't—" he's spiraling now, you can see it happening, panic taking over. "I know it's weird. I know I'm weird. I just—I wanted to remember things about you and I have a terrible memory for anything that's not physics so I write things down and I didn't mean for it to be creepy I just—"
he's talking faster now, words tumbling over each other.
"—you're always on my mind. you're always—god, all the time. when I'm in the lab I think 'she would find this interesting' or 'I should explain this to her' or 'I wonder what she's doing right now.' when I read something I think about how you'd analyze it, what connections you'd make. when I'm trying to fall asleep I replay our conversations, every single one, and think about all the things I should have said differently or better or—"
he's pacing now, three steps one way, three steps back, gesturing wildly.
"—and tuesday when you held my hand I thought I was going to combust. literally. spontaneous human combustion. I couldn't breathe properly for the rest of the night. I've been thinking about it nonstop for two days. four minutes and twenty-three seconds. I timed it because of course I did because I time everything because I'm obsessive and weird and I—"
he stops. puts his hands over his face.
"I know I'm too much. I know I get too intense about things. my advisor says I need to learn to be normal about stuff, to have boundaries, to not throw myself completely into everything but I don't know how to be normal about anything, I never have been. especially not—"
his voice drops, muffled behind his hands.
"—especially not you. you're—you're the first person in years who's wanted to spend time with me for me and not because of what I can do or what I've discovered or because they want something from me. you just—you just wanted to pass physics. and then you kept coming back. you kept choosing to be there. and I—"
he lowers his hands. his eyes are definitely wet now.
"I'm in love with you. I think. I don't know. I've never—I don't have a reference point for this but I think about you constantly and when you're not around everything feels wrong and when you smile at me I forget how to think and I—"
his voice cracks.
"—I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I know that's too much too fast but I don't know how to be anything other than too much and I don't know how to pretend I'm not—that I don't—"
you cross the room in three strides and kiss him.
he makes a shocked sound against your mouth—high and surprised, almost a squeak—and freezes. his hands hover in the air beside your shoulders, not touching you, like he doesn't know what to do with them. like he's afraid to touch you. like he thinks you might disappear if he does.
his lips are slightly chapped. he tastes like coffee—the cheap lab coffee, bitter and burnt—and something mint, maybe gum. he's completely still, not kissing back, apparently short-circuiting.
you pull back just enough to speak, your lips still brushing his. "you should've told me sooner."
"what?" his eyes are unfocused, dazed. his pupils are blown wide, making his eyes look almost black. "I—what?"
"about the element. about the lecture." you're smiling now, you can't help it. your hands are on his chest and you can feel his heart racing, hammering against his ribs like it's trying to escape. "I always thought you were brilliant. finding out you literally synthesized a new element doesn't change that. if anything it just—"
you laugh softly.
"—it makes sense. of course you did. of course you're the person who did that. you explain physics like.... it's poetry. you see patterns in everything. you think about the heat death of the universe the way other people think about what to have for dinner."
you reach up and push his hair back from his forehead. he leans into the touch like a cat, eyes fluttering closed for a second.
"of course you created something new. something that never existed before. that's just—that's you."
"you're not—" his voice is barely functional. "you're not mad?"
"why would I be mad?"
"because I didn't tell you. because I let you write an assignment about me without saying anything. because I—" he gestures helplessly at the laptop, still open, still showing his notes about you. "because I keep notes about you like a creep."
"satoru." you put your hand on his cheek. he leans into it, turning his face to press his lips against your palm—just for a second, quick and unconscious. "I wore a specific sweater because you once mentioned liking the color green. I look up your schedule so I know where you might be between classes. I change my coffee shop route on tuesdays and thursdays because there's a chance I might run into you."
you meet his eyes.
"I started coming to the library at 11pm even on nights when I don't have physics homework because I know you'll be there. I think about you when I'm supposed to be paying attention in class. I read philosophy papers and imagine what you'd say about them. we're both a little creepy."
he laughs—shaky and breathless and slightly hysterical. "yeah?"
"yeah." you lean up and kiss him again, soft and quick. his hands finally move, coming up to grip your waist like you're the only solid thing in his universe. "and for the record? I always thought you were adorable."
"adorable," he repeats weakly, like the word doesn't compute.
"adorable. even when—especially when—you got all flustered during that lecture. I wrote in my paper that it was humanizing. that it made this incredible discovery feel real because the person behind it was so—"
you search for the word.
"—so genuine. so awkward and brilliant and human. you couldn't get through your presentation without stumbling over your words but you'd just done something incredible. something that expanded human knowledge. and you were just—you were just a person. nervous and brilliant and real."
his hands are trembling where they grip your waist. "I've wanted to kiss you for six weeks."
"then why did you not act on it?"
he kisses you again, and this time he kisses back. his hands slide from your waist to your back, pulling you closer. one hand moves up to cup the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. he kisses you like he does everything else—intensely, thoroughly, like he's trying to memorize every detail. like he's been thinking about this for weeks and now that it's happening he wants to get it exactly right.
you make a soft sound and feel him shiver. his grip tightens. when you finally break apart you're both breathing hard. his forehead rests against yours. his eyes are closed. he looks almost pained.
"tell me about it," you say.
"about what?" his voice is rough.
"the element. 119. how did you make it?" you press your lips to the corner of his mouth. "I want to know."
"now?" he sounds strangled. "you want to know about particle physics now?"
"I always want to know about particle physics when you're the one explaining it." you explore his jaw. feel the muscle jump under your lips. "tell me."
"I—" he tries to gather his thoughts. difficult, apparently, when you're kissing along his jawline. "we used hot fusion. titanium-50 beam and berkelium-249 target."
"what's hot fusion?" you kiss just below his ear and he makes a soft sound, a sound close to a whimper.
"it's—fusion of—" he has to stop. breathe. "fusion of a lighter beam nucleus with a heavier target. as opposed to cold fusion which uses similar masses. hot fusion produces more neutron-rich isotopes which—which are more stable—"
you pull back to look at him. "keep going."
his eyes are half-lidded. he's looking at your mouth. "the titanium beam is accelerated to about 5 MeV per nucleon and—and fired at the berkelium target—"
you kiss him again, slow and deep. he makes a desperate sound in the back of his throat.
"and then?" you prompt against his lips.
"and then—if the energy is right—the nuclei fuse. create element 119 for—for approximately 0.9 milliseconds before it undergoes alpha decay—"
his hands are moving restlessly on your back, like he can't quite figure out where to put them, settling for pulling you impossibly closer.
"—we detect it through the decay chain. element 119 decays to 115 which decays to 111 which—which—"
you're kissing his neck now. he's completely lost his train of thought.
"which what?" you murmur against his skin.
"I—I don't—what was I saying?"
you laugh softly and he shivers. "decay chain."
"right. right. decay chain. each—each alpha decay releases a specific amount of energy. we measure that. it's like a fingerprint. tells us what element we created."
his voice is getting progressively less steady.
"the tricky part is the half-life. less than a second. so we need incredibly sensitive detectors and—and—"
you bite gently at his pulse point and he gasps.
"—and fast data acquisition. which is why—why we use—"
he gives up. cups your face in both hands and kisses you desperately like he's got something to prove.
"you're evil," he says when you finally break apart. "you're trying to kill me."
"I'm trying to learn about superheavy elements."
"you're trying to make me lose my mind."
"can't I do both?"
he laughs—breathless and genuine—and kisses you again. softer this time. sweeter.
"four minutes and twenty-three seconds," you say when you pull back.
he groans. "you're never going to let me live that down."
"you timed how long we held hands."
"I have a very accurate internal clock."
"you're such a nerd."
"you like it." he's smiling now—that full, unguarded smile that transforms his whole face.
"I do," you admit. your hands are fisted in his lab coat. "I really, really do."
"I need to—" he glances at his laptop, then at you, clearly torn. "I need to bring data to my advisor. he's waiting. we need to analyze the results from tonight's run."
"alright." you respond in a whiny tone — like a child slowly brewing up a tantrum.
"but after—" he pauses. his hands are still on your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones. "do you want to come back? we could—we don't have to do physics. we could just—"
"talk?" you offer. "like normal people?"
"I don't know how to be normal."
"good." you kiss him once more, quick and sweet. he chases your mouth when you pull away. "I don't want normal anyway."
he makes a soft sound—want and frustration and something that might be relief.
"go," you say. "do your science thing. I'll wait."
"you'll wait?" like he can't quite believe it.
"I'll wait."
his smile could power the entire campus. could probably power the particle accelerator. could possibly be visible from space.
"okay. okay. I'll be fast. twenty minutes. maybe thirty. definitely less than an hour—" he's already moving to his laptop, saving documents with shaking hands, ejecting a USB drive from the port.
"satoru."
"right. going. I'm going." he shoves the USB in his lab coat pocket, grabs a notebook from the desk. pauses at the door. turns back. "you're really—you're not mad about the notes?"
"I'm keeping a mental catalog of every time you do that thing where you push your hair back when you're thinking," you tell him. "I think we're even."
he laughs—bright and genuine and surprised, like the sound was pulled out of him. it fills something in your chest you didn't know was empty.
he kisses you one more time—quick and clumsy and perfect—and then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
you sink onto his desk chair, surrounded by his papers and research and the evidence of his brilliant, chaotic mind. the room still smells like him—eucalyptus and coffee and something clean. his bed is right there, neatly made. his books are within arm's reach. his laptop is open in front of you showing his notes, his observations, his confession.
'I'm in love with her.'
element 119, you think. he synthesized element 119 and was too nervous to tell you. he created something that never existed before in the universe—expanded the periodic table, pushed the boundaries of human knowledge—and what scared him was admitting he liked you.
you're smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.
you touch your lips where you can still feel the ghost of his mouth. remember the way he kissed you like you were precious. like you were the real discovery.
· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·
date session one
it's thursday and everything is different.
you arrive at 11pm—exactly on time, not early, because you spent fifteen minutes in the bathroom of the science building giving yourself a pep talk in the mirror like a lunatic. your reflection had stared back at you, slightly wild-eyed, while you'd whispered "it's fine. it's the same as always. except you're dating now. except you've kissed him. except he told you he's in love with you and you kissed him again and—"
okay. it's not the same as always.
your hands are sweating. you wipe them on your jeans as you climb the stairs to the third floor. the stairwell smells like old books and floor wax and someone's leftover chinese food. your footsteps echo. your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your throat.
you're being ridiculous. this is satoru. this is the person you've been spending almost every night with for three months. nothing has changed.
everything has changed.
the library is quiet, nearly empty. third floor is completely deserted except—there. your usual table by the window, the one where the fluorescent light flickers every forty-seven seconds. and there he is.
satoru looks up when you approach and his whole face does that thing—that transformation you've memorized in excruciating detail, the way his expression shifts from focused (eyebrows slightly drawn, mouth in a concentrated line) to soft (eyes widening, mouth parting slightly) to incandescent (full smile, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and shows that slightly crooked canine) in the space of a heartbeat.
but now there's something else there too. nervousness. uncertainty. his hands are fidgeting on the table, fingers drumming that familiar rhythm. tap-tap-tap-pause-tap. like he's also been giving himself a pep talk. like he's also terrified.
"hey," he says. his voice cracks slightly on the single syllable. the word breaks in the middle, goes higher than intended. you watch his face flush, color spreading across his cheekbones and down his neck.
"hey." you set your bag down with a soft thud that echoes in the quiet space. there are two coffee cups on the table already, still steaming. you can see the heat waves rising from them, smell the bitter-sharp scent of your coffee and the tooth-achingly sweet caramel of his. yours and his. the familiar ritual. "you're here early."
"I'm always here early." he's fidgeting with his pen, clicking it open and closed. click-click-click. the sound is too loud in the silence. his thumb is pressing the button compulsively, a nervous tic you've never seen before. "I just—I wanted to make sure—"
he stops. you're both just standing there, on opposite sides of the table, like there's a force field between you. like you've forgotten how to be normal around each other. his laptop is open, screen glowing blue-white with some physics paper covered in equations. there's a stack of books next to it—three library books about quantum mechanics and one collection of poetry by mary oliver that definitely isn't for his research. his coffee cup has a ring of condensation around it. his hair is slightly damp, like he showered recently. you can smell his shampoo from here, that clean eucalyptus scent mixing with the coffee and old books.
this is excruciating.
"so," you say. your voice sounds strange. too high.
"so," he echoes. he sets the pen down. picks it up again. sets it down. his knee is bouncing under the table, making his whole body vibrate slightly.
"are we going to be weird about this?"
"I don't know. maybe?" he runs a hand through his hair, leaving it standing up in messy white spikes. "I don't know how to—I've never—"
"me neither."
"oh. good. okay." he takes a breath. you watch his chest expand, watch him hold it for three seconds, release slowly. a calming technique. "so we're both being weird."
"extremely weird."
"great. perfect. that makes me feel better." he's smiling now, small and tentative, just the corner of his mouth quirking up. "do you want to sit down? or we could keep standing here awkwardly. both options are valid. equally valid. I'm fine with either. whatever you want."
he's rambling. you've never heard him ramble quite like this before.
you laugh—relieved and genuine, the sound bursting out of you—and the tension breaks slightly. like a string that was pulled too tight suddenly loosening. you move to your chair, the wobbly one with the cracked vinyl, and sit. the seat is cold through your jeans. he sits too. you're in your usual positions—him on one side of the table, you on the other—except now you're hyperaware of the distance between you. eighteen inches. maybe twenty. you could measure it in the length of the physics textbook lying closed on the table. too far.
you both reach for your coffee at the same time. your hands move in sync, close around the cups (yours still warm, heat seeping through the cardboard sleeve, his probably already cooling). both lift to your mouths. both take a sip. the coffee is perfect—exactly the right temperature, bitter and strong. both set the cups down in the exact same moment. the slight thud of cardboard on wood, perfectly synchronized.
you catch each other's eyes and laugh—nervous, slightly hysterical.
"I have physics homework," you say, desperate for something normal. something that feels like before.
"of course you do." there's affection in his voice now. warmth. the kind of warmth that settles in your chest like sunlight. "what chapter?"
"ten. rotation and angular momentum. again. I don't think I actually understood it the first time."
"you understood it fine. you just don't trust yourself." he's pulling his laptop closer, but slowly. his movements are careful, deliberate. his eyes keep darting to you and then away, like he can't decide whether to look or not look. "same problem as always."
"maybe I just like having you explain things."
the words hang between you. that's—that's flirting. you're flirting. you've flirted before, danced around the edges of it for weeks, but now it means something different. now you're allowed to mean it. now it's not subtext, it's just text.
his ears go pink. bright pink, the color spreading down to where they disappear into his hair. "yeah?"
"yeah."
the smile that breaks across his face is devastating. it's unguarded in a way you've rarely seen—no careful control, no attempt to play it cool. just pure, undiluted happiness. his eyes crinkle at the corners. his whole face lights up. "okay. good. I—okay." he opens his laptop fully, the screen casting pale light on his face. pulls up the textbook pdf with slightly shaking hands—you can see the tremor in his fingers as they move across the trackpad. "come here then."
the words send a jolt through you. come here. not stay there. come here.
you stand up. the chair scrapes against the floor, too loud. walk around the table, your footsteps muffled by the old carpet. he pushes his chair back slightly—the wheels squeak—and you hesitate for just a second before sitting down. not in your own chair, but on the edge of the desk right next to him. close enough that your leg is pressed against his arm. you can feel the warmth of him through two layers of fabric, feel the solid presence of his shoulder against your thigh.
he goes still. like he's afraid to move, afraid to breathe. you can feel the tension in him, every muscle locked. the way his breathing changes—shallower, faster. his hand on the trackpad freezes mid-movement.
"is this okay?" you ask quietly.
"yes." his voice is rough, scraped raw. "very okay. extremely okay." he swallows hard and you watch his throat work, watch the bob of his adam's apple. "you can—you're welcome to sit closer. anytime. always."
you lean over to look at his screen and your hair falls forward, brushing his shoulder. the strands whisper across his shirt—he's wearing that blue one again, the new one—and you hear his breath catch. actually hear it, a sharp inhale that he tries to cover with a cough.
"so," he says, slightly strangled. his voice has gone up half an octave. "angular momentum. L equals I times omega." he points at the equation on the screen but his hand is trembling slightly.
"I remember." you're not really looking at the screen. you're watching him, cataloging every reaction. the way his throat works when he swallows. the way his fingers are gripping his pen too tight, knuckles white. the way a muscle jumps in his jaw. the faint flush spreading down from his ears to his neck. "moment of inertia times angular velocity."
"right. and—and if there's no external torque, angular momentum is conserved, which—"
he loses his train of thought completely when you lean closer. your shoulder pressed against his now, your arm brushing his. you can feel his heartbeat, impossibly—or maybe that's your own heartbeat, you can't tell anymore. the heat of him seeps through your clothes. you can smell his shampoo stronger now, eucalyptus and something else. mint maybe. clean and sharp and distinctly him.
"which means what?" you prompt. your voice comes out softer than intended, almost a whisper.
"which means—I don't remember. what was the question?" he turns his head to look at you and suddenly your faces are very close. three inches. maybe less. you can see the individual shades of blue in his eyes, pale near the pupil darkening to something almost cobalt at the edges. can see the faint freckles across his nose that you never noticed before. can count his eyelashes if you wanted to. "what were we talking about?"
you laugh softly and he makes a pained sound, something between a groan and a whimper.
"you're doing this on purpose," he accuses, but there's no heat in it. his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide.
"doing what?"
"being distracting. sitting this close. smelling good. existing." he turns his head to look at you properly and suddenly your faces are very close. close enough that you can feel his breath on your lips, warm and coffee-scented. "it's cruel. you're being cruel to me."
"I can move—" you start to pull back.
"don't you dare." his hand comes up, fingers catching your wrist gently. his touch is warm, careful, like you're something fragile. his thumb finds your pulse point, presses there lightly. you wonder if he can feel how fast your heart is racing. "I'm just—I'm trying to figure out if I'm allowed to—if we're—"
"satoru."
"yeah?" he's staring at your mouth now, not even trying to hide it.
"you can kiss me if you want to."
"we're in the library," he says weakly, but his eyes have already dropped back to your mouth. his tongue darts out to wet his lips—nervous habit.
"we're on the third floor at 11pm on a thursday. there's literally no one here." you can hear how empty it is, just the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant sound of the heating system and both of your slightly-too-fast breathing.
"what about the physics homework—"
you cup his face and kiss him.
he makes that sound again—soft and surprised and pleased, high in his throat—and then he's kissing you back. his hand comes up to tangle in your hair, careful, gentle, fingers threading through the strands like he's trying to memorize the texture. like you're something precious. the kiss is soft. sweet. chaste, almost. nothing like the desperate kissing in his dorm room two days ago. this is—tender. exploratory. like you have all the time in the world. his lips are soft, slightly chapped. he tastes like that terrible sweet coffee and mint gum. his hand in your hair is trembling.
when you pull back his eyes are still closed. his lips are slightly parted, kiss-swollen. his cheeks are flushed pink. he looks dazed, slightly drunk in love and moonstruck. his hand is still in your hair, fingers tangled in the strands like he forgot to let go.
"hi," you whisper.
his eyes flutter open slowly. they're darker than usual, pupils blown wide. "hi."
"better?"
"so much better. can we—can we do that again?"
you kiss him again. and again. soft, brief touches that make your stomach flip every time. his hand is warm on your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone in that way that makes you shiver. he kisses like he's savoring it, like he wants to memorize every detail. each kiss is slightly different—this one a bit longer, this one with his bottom lip caught gently between yours, this one with your noses bumping and both of you smiling.
"okay," he says when you finally pull back for real. his voice is wrecked, rough like he's been using it for hours. "okay, we need to—physics. we should do physics."
"should we?"
"yes. definitely. you have a homework assignment due monday and I promised to help and I'm not going to be the reason you fail physics because I can't stop kissing you." but even as he says it, he's leaning in again, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. then your cheek. then your jaw.
"pretty sure the kissing was mutual."
"extremely mutual. dangerously mutual." but he's grinning now, looking younger and happier than you've ever seen him. "but seriously. homework. I'm going to be responsible about this. I'm going to be the most responsible—"
you give him a chaste kiss and he makes a defeated sound.
"you're not making this easy," he complains against your mouth.
"you're such a nerd."
"you like it."
"I really do."
you slide off the desk—reluctantly, muscles protesting, you realize you were tensed up without meaning to be—but instead of going back to your own chair, you pull it around to his side of the table. the wheels squeak and catch on the carpet. squeeze it in next to his so you're sitting shoulder to shoulder, thighs pressed together, both facing his laptop screen.
"this works too," he says quietly. his hand finds yours under the table, fingers lacing together. his palm is slightly sweaty but you don't care. "this is—yeah. this works."
it works better than works.
you spend the next hour actually working through the physics homework. he explains the problems with his usual careful patience—that way he has of breaking down complex concepts into manageable pieces, of finding the perfect metaphor or analogy to make things click—but now there are differences. his thumb traces circles on your palm while he talks, absent and constant. when you get an answer right, he kisses your temple—just a quick press of lips to skin but it makes you lose your train of thought every time. when you're stuck on a concept, he tilts your chin up to look at him while he explains it in a different way, and you get lost in his eyes instead of the physics.
"you're not listening," he says fondly.
"I am listening."
"you're staring at my mouth."
"I can do both."
"that's—" he laughs, breathless. "that's not how attention works."
"says who?"
"says neuroscience. you can't fully focus on two things at once. the brain doesn't multitask, it task-switches rapidly which—"
you kiss him and he forgets whatever he was saying.
the physics gets mixed up with soft touches and softer kisses. his hand on your knee, steady and warm. your fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, making him shiver. at one point you end up in his lap somehow—you're not even sure how it happened, whose idea it was—his arms around your waist, both of you looking at the textbook propped on the table.
you can feel his heartbeat against your back. steady and strong. his chin is hooked over your shoulder, cheek pressed to yours. every breath he takes moves both of you.
"this is not efficient study methodology," he murmurs against your shoulder. his lips brush your skin through your shirt and you feel it everywhere.
"are you complaining?"
"absolutely not. just making an observation." his arms tighten around you, hands splaying across your stomach. "you're going to ace this homework though. you understand this better than you think."
"good teacher."
"biased student."
you turn in his lap to face him—careful, slow, giving him time to object. his eyes go wide, hands automatically moving to your waist to steady you. you're straddling him now in the library chair, face to face, and his breath hitches.
"hey," you say.
"hi.." his voice is barely there. his hands are trembling where they grip your waist.
"I have a question," you say.
"about physics?"
"about you."
"oh." his hands settle more firmly on your waist, uncertain. his thumbs stroke small circles there, probably unconscious. "okay."
"when did you know? that you—" you pause, suddenly shy. heat flooding your cheeks. "that you liked me?"
he's quiet for a moment. his eyes search your face like he's trying to memorize it, like he's cataloging every feature. you can see him thinking, see the exact moment he decides to be honest.
"the first night," he says finally. "when you asked me for help and you looked so frustrated and determined and you said 'I'm going to fail this class' like it was a personal offense to you. like physics had insulted you personally and you were going to fight it."
his voice goes softer, drops to almost a whisper.
"and then when I started explaining vectors you actually listened. really listened. you didn't just wait for me to give you the answer. you asked good questions. made connections I hadn't thought of. saw patterns. and I remember thinking—"
he pauses, swallows hard.
"—I remember thinking 'oh no. oh this is bad. I want to explain things to her forever.'"
his thumb strokes your waist, a nervous gesture.
"and then you came back. the next night and the night after that. you kept choosing to be here. with me. not because you had to, not because I was your only option, but because you—because you wanted to. and every night I'd show up early and get the coffee and tell myself this was probably the last time, you'd probably realize I was too weird or too much or just—too—"
his voice cracks.
"—but you kept coming back. and I think—I think I knew then. or started to know. that this was going to be a problem."
"a problem?"
"a good problem." he leans forward and rests his forehead against yours. his eyes flutter closed. "the best problem. you're—you're the first person in a long time who wanted to know me. not the person who discovered element 119. not gojo satoru the prodigy. not the guy who made physics weekly at twenty-three. just—satoru. the weird guy who likes physics too much and can't give presentations and drinks terrible coffee."
"your coffee is genuinely terrible."
"I know. I hate sweet coffee."
he says it casually but you pull back to stare at him.
"what?"
"I hate sweet coffee. always have. I take it black normally. black with two sugars if I'm being fancy but usually just black." he won't meet your eyes now, embarrassed, pink spreading across his cheeks and down his neck.
"but you've been ordering it sweet for—" you stop. do the math. "three months. you've been drinking coffee you hate for three months?"
"yeah."
"satoru, that's—" you don't have words. "why?"
"because you got it for me that way. the first time. you didn't know what I liked so you got me what you get, and you looked so—" he swallows hard. "you looked so nervous when you handed it to me. like you were worried I'd hate it. and I took a sip and it was too sweet, way too sweet, coating my teeth. but you were watching me with these big hopeful eyes and I just—"
he shrugs helplessly.
"—I said it was perfect. and then it became our thing. our ritual. you'd bring me sweet coffee and I'd drink it and I couldn't change it without explaining why and I didn't want to—" his voice drops. "I didn't want to ruin it. I liked that we had a thing. I would have drunk battery acid if it meant—if it meant—"
he stops. you can see him struggling with the words.
"—if it meant you kept coming back."
you kiss him. hard. desperate. pouring three months of feeling into it. he makes a surprised sound—high and breathless—and then melts into it, hands coming up to cup your face. his fingers are trembling. you can feel wetness on his cheeks and you're not sure if it's from him or you.
"you're ridiculous," you say against his mouth when you finally need air.
"I'm aware."
"three months of terrible coffee."
"worth it." he kisses you again, softer. "so worth it. I'd do three years. three decades. I'd—"
"satoru."
"yeah?"
"next time, just tell me." you scold him with a sigh.
"noted." but he's smiling, wide and genuine. "filed away for future reference. communication is important. I'm learning."
you kiss him again because you can. because you're allowed to now. his hands slide from your face to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. one hand moves up to tangle in your hair, fingers gentle. he kisses you like he's been starving for it, like every kiss before this was just practice.
you're thoroughly distracted—lost in the taste of him, the feeling of his hands on you, the small sounds he makes when you bite his bottom lip gently—when someone clears their throat. loud. pointed. deliberately awkward.
you both jerk apart like you've been electrocuted. satoru's hands fly off you. you nearly fall off his lap and he catches you, steadies you, both of you breathing hard.
there's a security guard standing at the end of the aisle—older guy, maybe sixty, with grey hair and a tired expression. he looks like he's seen this exact scenario about a thousand times and is deeply, profoundly unimpressed with both of you.
"library closes at 2am," he says flatly. his voice is gravelly, bored. "it's 1:47. start packing up."
"yes sir," satoru says. his voice is slightly strangled, higher than normal. "sorry. we were just—studying."
"uh huh." the guard's expression says he's heard that line before. probably tonight. probably from three other couples. "sure you were. thirteen minutes. don't make me come back."
he walks away, his footsteps heavy on the carpet, his radio crackling with static.
you and satoru look at each other. you're still in his lap. his hair is messed up from your fingers. his lips are red and swollen. you probably look the same.
"oh my god," you say.
"that was—"
"mortifying."
"so mortifying." but he's grinning. his eyes are bright with laughter. "worth it though."
"absolutely worth it."
"do you think he knew we weren't actually studying?"
"satoru, I was literally in your lap."
"right. yes. that's—that's pretty damning evidence." he's still grinning. "in my defense, you got there."
"you didn't object."
"I would never object. you can sit in my lap anytime. all the time. it's encouraged. I'm making it a standing offer—" you kiss him to shut him up. he makes a pleased sound.
you climb off his lap—reluctantly, legs slightly numb from sitting weird—and start packing up your stuff. he does the same, but slowly, like he's trying to stretch out the time. every movement deliberate. he closes his laptop with careful precision. winds the charger cord methodically. stacks his books just so. you watch him watching you, stealing glances every few seconds.
when you're both ready, bags packed, coffee cups thrown away (yours empty, his still half-full of coffee he hates), you just stand there. neither wanting to be the first to leave. the security guard walks by again, pointed, and you both start moving.
the library is emptying out. you can hear other people packing up, heading for the exits. voices and footsteps and the beep of the security gates.
"so," satoru says when you reach the stairwell.
"so."
"I'll walk you back."
"it's not on your way."
"it's never been on my way. I think we both know that at this point." he holds out his hand, palm up, offering. "worth it though."
you take his hand. his fingers lace through yours perfectly, like they were designed to fit together. like you've been holding hands for years instead of days.
the walk back is different from every other time. you're holding hands the whole way, fingers intertwined, swinging slightly between you. he walks closer than before, your shoulders bumping with every few steps. you can feel the warmth of him all down your left side. every few steps he looks over at you like he's checking that you're still there, still real. like he's afraid he'll blink and you'll disappear.
it's colder tonight. properly cold. you can see your breath in white clouds, can feel the bite of wind against your exposed skin. the campus is mostly empty—just a few people hurrying between buildings, hunched against the cold. the streetlights cast everything in orange and shadow.
"can I ask you something?" he finally speaks when you're halfway to your dorm, past the science building, past the student center.
"always."
"do you—" he pauses. starts again. "are you okay with this? with us? I know I can be—a lot. intense. and if it's too much or too fast you can tell me. I won't—I don't want to mess this up by pushing too hard."
you stop walking. turn to face him fully. he looks nervous in the orange streetlight, vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache.
"satoru," you say carefully. "I kept coming back. every night for three months. I could have studied anywhere. could have gotten a different tutor. could have given up on physics entirely."
you squeeze his hand.
"I came back because I wanted to be there. with you. and that hasn't changed just because we're—" you gesture between you. "whatever we are now."
"boyfr—" he starts, then stops. clears his throat. "are we—is that—can I—"
"yes," you say, saving him from the question. "if you want to be."
the smile that breaks across his face is incandescent. "I want to be. very much. extremely. I've never—I've never been anyone's boyfriend before but I want to be yours."
your heart does something complicated in your chest. "then you are," you say simply.
he kisses you right there on the sidewalk, in the middle of campus with the cold wind biting at your faces and the orange streetlights casting long shadows. his hands come up to cup your face, fingers cold against your skin but gentle, so gentle. the kiss is soft and sweet and full of promise—unhurried, like you have all the time in the world. like he's savoring it. his lips are slightly chapped from the cold, moving against yours with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.
when he pulls back—just far enough to see you, foreheads still touching—his eyes are bright. definitely bright, catching the streetlight, reflecting it back like they're glowing from within. maybe with tears—you can see the shine of moisture gathering at the corners, making his lashes clump together—definitely with emotion. his breath comes out shaky, visible in white clouds between you. his thumbs stroke your cheekbones, a repetitive soothing motion like he's trying to convince himself you're real.
"you have me," he says. fierce and certain, voice rough. "for—for as long as you want. I'm—I'm all in. I'm terrible at doing anything halfway and this—"
he gestures between you with his hand holding yours tight, the other still creating soft circles on your cheek.
"—this I want to do all the way. completely. no half-measures. no holding back. if that's—if that's okay. if that's not too much too fast I just—I need you to know that I'm—I'm serious about this. about you. about us."
"that's okay." you reach up with your free hand and push his hair back from his forehead. it's cold and slightly damp from the night air. "that's more than okay."
he kisses you again under the streetlight. slow and sweet and perfect. his lips move against yours with careful attention, like he's memorizing this. you can feel him smiling against your mouth—actually feel the curve of his lips pressing differently against yours. can't help smiling back, until you're both just pressing grins together, breath huffing out in small laughs.
his free hand comes up to cup your face, palm warm despite the cold. his thumb strokes your cheek in that gentle repetitive motion that makes you feel precious. the kiss tastes like bad coffee and possibility—the lingering sweetness of caramel mixing with bitter espresso and something that's just him.
when you pull apart you're both grinning like idiots. can't stop, even when you try to school your expression into something less ridiculous. his eyes are crinkled at the corners, those small lines you've memorized appearing, making him look younger somehow despite being markers of his smile. his cheeks are pink—from cold or emotion or both, you can't tell. the color spreads down his neck, disappearing under his collar, and you can see where his ears have gone red too. he's breathing hard, white clouds puffing between you, and he can't seem to stop looking at your mouth.
at your dorm, you linger in the doorway. neither of you wants the night to end. you can feel it, the weight of goodbye even though it's just for a few hours.
"same time next week?" he asks. then catches himself. "wait, no—"
"next week?" you interrupt, mock-offended. "what about tomorrow?"
his face does something complicated. hope and disbelief and joy all at once, flickering across his features in rapid succession. "tomorrow?"
"I have a philosophy paper to work on. you could—you could read while I write? if you want. we don't have to do physics. we could just—"
"be together," he finishes. his voice has gone soft, barely above a whisper. vulnerable. like the words themselves are fragile things he's afraid to speak too loudly in case they shatter.
"yeah." you agree. the word comes out quieter than intended, but weighted with meaning. with promise.
"I would—" his voice cracks. he clears his throat, tries again. "yes. tomorrow. definitely tomorrow. and the day after that. and—and as many days as you'll let me. I'll—I'll bring better coffee. actual good coffee. coffee I don't hate. we can—we can figure out what I actually like."
"it's a date."
"a date," he repeats, testing the word. his smile is incandescent. "yes. a date. tomorrow at 11?"
"or earlier. if you want."
"earlier. definitely earlier. I'll—how about 10? 9? I can do 9. I'll bring dinner. or—or snacks. do you like snacks? what am I saying, everyone likes snacks. I'll bring options—"
"satoru."
"yeah?"
you kiss him just one last time. slow and lingering. "goodnight."
"goodnight," he breathes. he's still holding your hand, like he can't quite make himself let go.
"you have to actually leave for it to be goodnight."
"right. yes. leaving." but he doesn't move. just stands there, looking at you, fingers tangled with yours. his thumb is doing that absent tracing thing on your palm again. his eyes are soft and slightly dazed, like he's forgotten what leaving means. like the concept of walking away from you has become fundamentally impossible.
"satoru," you prompt, but there's no real urgency in it.
"mhm." still not moving. his lips are still slightly parted, kiss-swollen. you can see him swallow.
"you have to let go of my hand first."
"do I though?" but his fingers loosen slightly, reluctant.
you squeeze his hand once—firm and grounding—shake your head with a smile you can't quite suppress, a quiet giggle escaping despite your best efforts. the sound makes his whole face do something soft and wondering. you slip inside, the warm air of the lobby hitting you after the cold outside.
you take the stairs up to the third floor—faster than usual, slightly breathless. your roommate is asleep, room dark except for the green glow of her alarm clock. you drop your bag and go straight to the window.
he's still there. standing under the streetlight where you left him, looking up. the light turns his hair silver-bright, makes him look ethereal. unreal. like something out of a dream.
he stands there for a long moment—thirty seconds, a minute—just looking up at your window. even from three floors up you can see his expression. soft and amazed, like he still can't quite believe this is real. like he's trying to memorize the sight of your building, your window, this moment.
then, slowly, he starts walking. not toward his dorm immediately, but in a small circle, like he has too much energy to contain. you see him stop, run his hands through his hair, look back at your building one more time. he's smiling—you can tell even from here, can see it in the way he holds himself.
finally, he turns and starts walking. the right direction this time—toward his dorm, the route you'd looked up weeks ago when you first started noticing. but he only makes it ten steps before he stops, turns around, looks back up at your window one more time.
he sees you there—you're not even trying to hide now—and his whole face lights up. he waves—enthusiastic, almost goofy, his whole arm moving. not the small casual wave from before. this is unguarded. happy. real.
you wave back, pressing your palm against the cold glass.
he stands there for another moment, just looking up at you, and even from three floors up you can see his expression. joy and wonder and disbelief all mixed together. like you're something impossible. something he can't quite believe he gets to have.
finally—reluctantly—he turns and walks away for real this time. you watch his figure get smaller, watch him pass under streetlight after streetlight. at each one he looks back. every single time.
when he finally disappears around the corner by the physics building, you sink onto your bed, heart still racing.
satoru gojo. element 119. the most brilliant person you've ever met. and somehow, impossibly, wonderfully—he's yours.
▶︎︎ Southbound (starring . various jjk men & women)
synopsis . Mundane things you do that drive them craaaazy. pairings (separate) . Sukuna x f!reader, Gojo x f!reader, Choso x f!reader, Toji x f!reader, Shoko x f!reader, Geto x f!reader, Yuki x f!reader.
content . afab!reader, some established relationships, modern au, dirty talk, pet names, feral men & women, creampies, pervy!choso, finger sucking, perversion, overstim, filth, spit, cock stepping, rough sex, they’re naaaasty & obsessed, jealousy here ‘n there, fingering, possessiveness, brat taming, oral sex, etc.
word count . 8.4k || author's note: based on a request i can't find (help lol)! (not proofread) & the banner art is by rororogi mogera <3
☆ Sukuna Ryomen — flipping him off.
The moment your finger flew up his way in an aggravated flare, you expected the usual annoyed grunt or two in response. Instead, Sukuna's entire attitude shifts and you think you see his eyes getting uncharacteristically softer on you. Well, not really soft but soft in the way that lets you know that man is not paying attention to a word you're saying anymore.
"—and I really can't believe you," You're continuing on, "It's the same shit every week, and I just don't think I can—are you even fucking listening to me?!" Your words seem to capture his attention for a second, but his eyes are mostly trained onto your hand.
A muscle in his jaw flexes ever so slightly before you spot the faint quirk in his lips, crimson eyes just barely managing to find your face again, "What?"
"Oh, so you weren't listening," You scoff, turning away from the man with a pronounced roll of your eyes. Then you flip him off a second time and attempt to walk away from him, "Yeah, I'm done with this. Fuck y—"
“How far down my throat do you think that finger of yours could reach?” Sukuna asks all too casually and too slowly for your liking.
To which you end up choking, the remainder of your tirade dying out in your throat with one stupidly dry swallow. Your hand steadily retracts from where it is in the air and you turn to look at him, “What.”
Yeah, you knew the guy had some… strange interest when you first started talking to him romantically but nothing could’ve prepared you for the boner he popped when your middle finger went waving his way.
That—paired with that weird ass question he asked—is exactly how you ended up watching your boyfriend suck those same fingers of yours with a dark look in his eyes while he fucked you from the side. He had a singular hand neatly perched against the curvature of your hip as his other held onto your wrist to keep your hand from falling away from him.
“Mmhmm, mmmph,” Sukuna purred deeply, lathering your shaky digits with a slicked glaze of his saliva and driving his long, aggravatingly hard cock in ‘n out of your leaky cunt.
Squelch after squelch after squelch and the man was an utter mess before you. You watched as sweat trickled all down from the pink tuffs of his hair, strands clinging to his forehead messily while he sucked at your hand.
Between your moans, you found your eyebrows scrunching up as you huffed, “Why are you into this—aanh-, shit. Right there… f-fuckin’ freak.”
He nearly swallows your fingers whole, sucking impossibly harder in reaction and letting your fingertips graze the very back of his throat like some deranged whore. Sukuna had always been one to kiss your hand whenever he was trying to be romantic with you but you didn't think that'd translate over to this.
“Sukuna,” You called out in a desperate attempt at tugging him out of that fucked-out state of his.
The mean smack of his balls against your skin echoed and bounced off the bedroom walls with loud plaps, mixing in and growing louder with the grunts he was letting out and your moans.
He suddenly drags your hand away from his mouth and lets his droopy saliva splatter out and fall onto the side of your exposed waist, “Fuck do you want? Can’t you see my mouth is busy, woman?”
Your lashes flutter lightly as an utterly appalled feeling wells up inside you, “I—“
Unfortunately for you and whatever complaints you were about to strew his way, you're promptly cut off by the sultry motion of his hips plowing on as if fucking you was too easy of a task for him to put all his attention into. Then Sukuna politely takes your fingers back into his mouth and you think you see a little gleam of satisfaction coating his ruby gaze.
You tried to go on and catch him off guard by curling your fingers, but that only earns a stingy spurt of cum from the head of his cock as he gags. Then his eyes fly back and he seems to suction his mouth to your fingers even harder. Almost like he wants you to keep doing that.
To which you crack a smile, “Y’like that, ‘Kuna?”
Your boyfriend nods his head in a near pathetic manner—a way of which only your eyes are meant to capture. His cock is still ploughing through your puffy folds, sure to leave your inner walls swollen and stuffed with him by the time he's done.
Especially if you continue to egg him on by tilting your head at him and barely pulling your fingers away from him so that his mouth could follow like some big, starving mutt. Shaking your head, “This is so gross. Hah, why are you drooling like that?”
Sukuna pulls your digits out of his mouth again but only to stick his freakishly lengthy tongue out and then give you a slutty display of him wrapping a bit of the muscle around your fingers. Then he plasters wettened kisses the tips of them, “You have a really pretty fuckin’ hand.” He unexpectedly compliments.
You watch as the man shifts to drag your saliva-coated digits down along the tense plane of his sharp abs, his hips having stilled for a mere second so you could feel how your touch caused his weeping cock to pump 'n twitch frantically all around your insides.
“Can’t expect me to focus when you go waving it around in my face," He explains through a shortened breath. You take it upon yourself to feel at more of his chest while he leans over and moves both of his hands to your leg, practically pinning your body in place so he can rapidly puncture his dick past the elasticity of your entrance. "All I can think about it how good you feel against me—any part of you.”
A smile is placed upon your lips just then, “Aw, that’s kind of romanti—“
“Especially when you start stroking the inches of my cock that haven’t made it inside you just yet," He groans at the memory of it and your hand had unintentionally met the firm dips of his v-line, causing every inch of his body to shudder violently against you.
Then you deadpan, “Okay, never mind.”
To which he flashes a smug smile your way, “Keh.”
What a weirdo.
☆ Gojo Satoru — sneezing.
This freak. When he’d muttered a strangely hoarse bless you after the sneeze you’d let out, you tried not to think much of it.
But it was a little difficult to do that when he started to stare at you afterwards, flaunting that look of his that explicitly tells you his mind has gone somewhere very dirty. You were lightly rubbing the back of your hand against the tip of your nose to ease the itching sensation that the sneeze of yours had left and yet your weird ass husband was spotted in the corner of your eye bitting his bottom lip.
You sneeze one time during sex and now the damn from you sound makes his dick stand up no matter the situation!
Apparently whenever you sneeze, you clench especially hard around him—hard enough to drive him absolutely insane.
The two of you were trying to do some late spring cleaning and ended up in your cozy little attic, the air tinged with dust due to the vacancy of this area of your home. So naturally you were prone to a sneeze or two.
Unfortunately for you, this gave Gojo the brightest idea of all time.
He now has you hoisted up in his large, grabby hands—fucking you stupid as he bounces you up and down the fidgety length of his flushed cock—and hoping that having sex in this specific part of your home will coax a sneeze or two out of you.
"You're so weird," The words muddled out of your mouth in an airless little laugh, your head falling forward against the firm plane of his shoulder as he readjusted the mean grip he had on your thighs.
Despite hearing you just fine and smiling, "Is there something you wanted to say, baby?" Gojo asks, breath coming out warm near your skin.
Your eyes roll. "I said-," His hips snap upward just to purposefully cut you off, his thickened shaft sprawling your weepy hole open all the more with his ever swift motion. "Nngh-, ‘said you're so weird."
His head turned just so that his lips could brush at the shivering shell of your ear, "And yet," Gojo's teeth bare out to graze over your skin teasingly, "You're the one squeezing my cock like you don't wanna let him go." He points out.
While that was more than true, you weren't about to give him the satisfaction of you admitting it when he's the same mane who got turned on from your sneezing.
The attic air was rather warm from the glowy sun outside, and dust particles floated around lazily through the slanted beams of warm rays creeping through the singular small window placed not too far away from where Gojo stood with you. Nearly every bit of forgotten furniture cluttered in the area was painted over with a thin layer of ashy gray.
It'd been quite some time since the two of you had been in here. Hell, you believe the last time you both visited your attic was back when you guys were still christening the house via fucking in every room.
Per his idea, by the way.
The wooden floorboards beneath Gojo's sturdy feet had creaked from the weight of both his body and you hauled up in his arms. Wet droplets of slick splattered down onto the floor just under you with his every other uneven thrust, and you found yourself holding onto him tighter as he suddenly picked up the pace.
The plan to clean the attic up flew out the window about three or so sneezes ago and now he was waiting for you to do the same while his dick was inside you. It shouldn't have been too hard.
"Y'know most h-husbands just say bless you 'n hand their wife a tissue when they sneeze," Your voice was a bit unsteady from the way he was moving inside you—balmy cockhead poking all around your cervix and just kissing at your inner sweet spot to get you all the more wet around him.
You felt his chest rumbling slightly against your tits as he chuckled deeply, "Mmmh, yeah. But most husbands probably aren't blessed with the—fuck, knowledge that their wife's pussy sucks on their cock every time she—"
"Ohmygod, don't say it," You whine, cringing slightly as you leaned away from him as best as you could to catch the expression he was making.
He looked far too proud of himself, "...lets out the cuuutest little—"
"Satoru." You cut off with a warning glare in your eyes.
He only ignores it to smile at you, hands shifting to hike your body up higher in the air. The sudden change in angle brought about stars behind your shutting eyelids, his cock dragging against that squishy spot inside you that had your toe curling.
It seemed as though this was a position he'd managed to perfect with the the way he had you perfectly suspended in the air as if you weighed nothing, your tits bobbing, and feet left to dangle uselessly as he used gravity and his freakish strength to fuck you exactly how he wanted.
Oh, he was getting that sneeze out of you again.
Your hands reached up a little to tangle your fingers into his hair, holding on and tugging at him sharply whenever his tip plucked into the tightest nook of your pussy.
Mouth left open and mixed breathy moans 'n pants pouring out of you, Gojo saw how he already had one part of his plan down so far—fucking you straight to tears like he always did.
"Admit it, sweetheart," His voice dipped a pitch lower and he sounded overly determined to get his way, "You love that I know this about you, that I pay attention."
"Mmph-, I think it's weird, 'Toru. I just said this," You counter, words lacking any sort of bite to them.
Gojo's lips quirk up and his lashes bat slightly as he feels your saccharine walls quivering around the base of his cock, his hips barely rocking your body up. "Riiight, and that's why you're drippin' all down my cock right now—because you think it's weird."
You pout at him, "You're so annoying."
"You love me, though. And you love this," He picks his pace right back up where he'd just barely left off, letting his the crowning tip of his cock swat nastily against your depths to tug something sluggishly slick out of you. "Love that your weirdo husband still thinks you're sexy even when you're blowing sno—"
"I'm gonna get dry if you keep this up," You lie as your fingernails slightly scrape against his scalp and you cling onto his body tighter.
His smile manages to get impossibly wider, "Hah, not with my cock inside you, you're not." Gojo says cockily. Then his brows scrunch up and his dick is felt twitching inside you, "Plus it's your fault I'm like this to begin with, you should've held your sneeze back when we were cockwarming that night."
With every thrust and every word that jumped out of his mouth, you were only finding yourself surprised by the things he was coming up with. Scoffing, "You're being ridiculous."
Gojo lets your little comment slide for the time being and begins to walk over towards one of the attic's dustiest corner. Your expression instantly begins to twist up and you could feel your breathing growing shallower as the prospect of a sneeze tickles at your nostrils.
You really didn't want to give him what he wanted just yet.
"Oh? Did your nose just twitch?" Gojo asks, tugging your body impossibly closer to his so that your tits were sandwiched against his firm chest.
His hips became relentless just then, making it even harder for you to breathe with the way he was mercilessly fucking the air right out of your lungs.
"N-No," You tried to gasp but he saw the way tears welled up in your eyes.
Smirking knowingly at you, "Nah, don't hold it back now. Let it out, sweet girl. C'monnn, I just wanna feel you clench around me again." His voice softens up on you and you let out a short breath.
"This is so weird 'n embarrassing," You're whining, cunt spasming around his jaggedly thrusting cock. He was getting more and more frantic with each second that passed.
"Is it?" Your husband taunted, eyes lighting up as he watched your face contort into an expression that told him you were on the verge of a sneeze. "Well, I think—"
He's cut off almost comically by his own body—the dust having gotten to his nose instead of yours and leading him right into a short sneeze. With it comes a harsh thrust from his hips as the crash against your skin and you feel his muscles clenching tightly before his balls begin to twitch.
And then he's cumming inside you like an idiot.
"Oh," You're gasping now as you smirk right back at him, "I think I'm starting to get the appeal now."
☆ Shoko Ieiri — putting on lipgloss.
It’s a simple thing you, and many other people in the world, do to add some shine to your lips and yet your perpetually overworked girlfriend can’t help but get worked up every time she sees you doing it.
Perhaps it’s because you’re hers that it drives her insane but fuck, something about watching that pretty translucent shade of gloss slip out across the gorgeous curves of your lips makes her mind run to the most sinful of places.
It always reminds her of her lips against yours—and no, not the ones on your face.
There's only one other thing she can think of that's as lustrous 'n pretty as your lips are after you put on lipgloss. And that other thing is the same thing she's spreading open now with the two meticulous pads of her thumbs.
Your pussy is quivering under her due to the way she's panting like she's on the verge of dehydration from not lapping at you fast enough. She watches the cute pucker and clench your hole makes around nothing as she does so—eyeing how slobbers of slick dribbles out of you and trails down to your other hole.
You always got so wet for her, she just couldn't get enough of it.
That, and what's better than eating out her pretty girl after a long day of work?
Shoko nearly moans after blowing some air over your cunt to watch the way it flinches in reaction. "So cute," She mutters gently, "And wet." Then she's sending a fat wad of spit towards your clit and letting it trickle downward to mix with the rest of your soaked glory.
You don't even get to say anything before she's diving right in. Hell, you're not sure what got into her in the first place. You were supposed to be heading out to do some shopping but in the midst of your getting ready, Shoko said she needed something from you beforehand.
You knew she was watching you get all dolled up but you didn't think she was getting turned on from it too.
Locking her lips onto your cunt, she darts the length of her tongue out and sloppily lathers the muscle with your taste before groaning. A moan of her name leaves your lips but she hardly hears it—the taste of you has her dazed already.
Truth be told, Shoko could eat you out for hours and never get tired. Which makes sense, of course. You were her favorite meal after all.
But one of the best parts about doing so now—after you'd recently applied lipgloss—is looking up to see the way your mouth flails open with drool slipping out to mix with it. She always had you a wet mess from every single hole and she loved it.
Considered herself obsessed with it, even.
You shoot a hand down to her hair and try to grab ahold of her, pathetically attempting to move or shift her mouth where you want it to be but ultimately failing. Shoko goes wherever she wants to, the area of desire being your clit at the current moment with the way she foes from those lengthy laps 'n licks to kissing and softly suctioning her mouth to your slobbering pussy.
"Fuck, I almost forgot how sweet this pussy gets," She comments gingerly, warm breath grinding out against your smeared-open folds. "All sensitive on my tongue, nnngh-, can't get enoughhh..."
Her eyes sealed shut for a moment and you saw how she smiled into your cunt, kissing and licking like she was drunk on you or something. Fairly enough, she always got like this when she ate you out but fuck if it didn't drive you just as crazy each time.
Shoko's lips cup around your clit and she pulls at the sensitive bundle of nerves, the tip of her tongue tickling you obscenely before she moans into you once more.
Your back arches up away from the bed and you're left gasping for the air that'd recently left your throat, "Sho—fuuuck, Shoko..."
Her smile widens slightly when she hears you moaning for her but that doesn't stop the nasty flicks of her tongue. Then it begins to twist in a sloppy manner and her hands maneuvered over to peel your pussy lips further apart. She only removes her mouth from you to glide it downwards and pluck her tongue directly into your hole.
A broken gasp jumps out of you and she watches the entire thing from in between your legs. Then her hips and thighs move to try 'n relive the ache she felt building up in between them, especially as she saw how much of a mess you'd been above her.
Your lipgloss had smeared down to your chin and the sight made her eyes widen. Then her mouth worked at your cunt harder, feasting on you like a woman absolutely and utterly starved. Something feral left her throat but you're not sure if it was a groan or a growl.
It was some type of husked sound that made you try to push at her head. Of which she shakes immediately, "Don't fuckin' push at me," Shoko demands, eyes glaring as they find yours, "Let me-, ah.. ruin you. C'mon, cutie, you can take it. S'just my tongue," She hums before dragging that very muscle around your entrance.
Your hands moved elsewhere and you instead tried to pull your body away from her, only to be cut off by her arms moving to wrap around your legs and yank you back towards her mouth.
She pops off of you and then spits meanly, following it up with a harsh smack to your cunt. "Try taking my pussy away from me again 'n see what happens," Shoko warns, "Don't move, take it—I only just started."
Gulp.
☆ Choso Kamo — putting on/taking off shoes.
No, he doesn’t have a foot fetish.
You had started to think your best friend was a little weird when he’d stare at your legs whilst you slipped out of or into your shoes. But, with the way he’s currently panting like some mutt against your thigh, you realize his odd staring had nothing to do with your feet specifically.
Instead, his unwavering gazes had everything to do with the jealousy he felt in his heart upon seeing you apply so much pressure onto your footwear instead of him. Weird, right?
Yeah, he’s aware. But fuck, sue him for wanting his best friend—who orders him around 24/7—to step on him a time or two!
Which you're finally doing now after catching the erection he managed to get just from helping you put your heels on.
In his defense, it was a gorgeous red pair of heels he couldn't wait to see you walking around in.
Also the same pair of heels he accidentally came on a week ago when he was jerking off in your closet...
But that part was besides the point, all that mattered in this present moment was how good your heel felt mashing into the thiiiick outline of his poor cock—finally applying all the pressure he’d been fantasizing about.
“Nnngh-,” Choso moans, head slumped against your thigh with wet pants splaying out over your skin. “More, p-please, more… mistress—“
“Excuse me?” You choke and your foot stutters in its stepping as that title hits your ears.
You figured he’d be pathetic once he got a taste of you like this but you were not expecting him to say that in the slightest. And the way he angles his head up to look at you with those charming brown eyes of his—all glimmered over with tears while his hips jerk to create more friction between your heel and his dick.
“You’re such a loser, Cho. How many times did you think about this, hm?” You ask in an unfairly demeaning tone that makes his heart skin multiple beats within his chest.
“So many fuckin’ times,” He gasps out as if his breath had run away from his lungs entirely. The warm skin of his cheek is felt rubbing against your leg and he looks rather deranged in the state he's in, “Fuuuck—do y’know how long I’ve been wanting you to step on me?” He asks in return.
You head tips in faux thought and you bring your free hand up to your chin, the other occupied with patting his head softly, “Mmm, I think I’ve got a pretty good guess.” Then you move your touch to his broad shoulders and force the upper half of his body away from your limbs—exposing all of his pathetic frame to you. “In fact, I want you to pull your cock out and show me how badly you’ve been wanting this.”
Choso’s never moved faster to do anything in his life.
His hands are a bit jittery as they slip beneath the thick band of his sweats, then his boxers, and soon his dick is quickly flying out into the air. The upper inches of it appear to be a flushing shade of red, and he looks like he'd cum if you blew at him.
You spot a thick pool of precum spilling out from his mushroomy head and find yourself biting at your lip, then you let the tip of your heel brush against his shaft and Choso whimpers.
“Y-Yes,” He mumbles, “More, fuck.. please-, step on me moreee.” His body moves about against the floor so that he could meet the motions of your heel with a few ruts of his own.
You roll your eyes at how desperate he is but let your foot do exactly as he’s asked and grind it against his cock, guiding his erection down in a way that looks like it should hurt.
And yet, Choso’s throwing his head back and moaning into the air. “Ohmygodddd,” He releases a hoarse grunt from the pressure you're gifting him, “That’s so fuckin’ hot. C-Can you tell me how.. hahh-, pathetic I am too?”
You blink. “What?”
“Please?" Choso's eyes get droopy and he pants leisurely while giving you the cutest puppy eyes he could manage, "Look at me—look at how m’leaking all over your shoes… isn’t that nasty?”
Clearly he was taunting you into giving him exactly what he wanted. And unfortunately for you, it was working.
“Yeah, really nasty…” You say in a soft spoken tone. The edge of your heel lifts up to his tip and you tap at it in short intervals, watching the way he squirms and sporting a smirk on your lips as you say, “Think you can be a good boy ‘n lick them clean for me after I let you cum?”
Choso nods aggressively enough to bring himself to a throbbing headache, but he doesn’t care.
Which makes you snort, “Wow, Choso. I mean pathetic is one thing but, you’re more like a slut for me, aren’t you? Rubbing yourself all over my shoes like that… what a needy boy.”
Only a few words out of your mouth and all his fantasies had been fulfilled tenfold. He couldn't stop his eyes from rolling back, lips wobbly from how many sounds were escaping them, “M’gonna cum."
Your foot presses down harder and adjusts his cock over to the left, forcing it to pulse against the skin of his waist. Challenging him as you snort, “Are you?”
“Please-, ohfuck.. pleeease let me cum,” Choso's a quick learner, he didn't need any more questions out of that mouth of yours to realize you wanted him to ask for it. “I’ll be good, I’ll lick it up when m’done, I’ll lick you up when I’m done—whatever you want, please.. let me cumm.”
You pretended not to hear the claim in between his pleas about how he'd lick you up, ignoring the throb it invokes from deep in between your legs. It was almost annoying how he was the one receiving pleasure here and yet you could feel your panties clinging to your folds from wet arousal already.
Then, with gracious eyes do you nod your head and hum, “Mmmh, fine. Go ahead.”
A throaty groan is ripped out of his throat as he does so. Choso’s body jolts, cum shooting out of his tip in creamy waves
“Fuuuhh-, fuck..” His breath sounds exasperated.
You’re left to watch his release come flying out, landing up along your shin and even a little higher than that. As it lands, you feel the way it sluggishly glides down and Choso’s busy trying to collect himself from where he is.
Once his panting comes to a stop and he manages to blink away those tears he’d been holding back—his eyes run down along your body and just when you try to pull your leg away from him, he reaches out for it.
His grip on you is sudden and rather rough, but you let it slide for the time being. Your composure falters for a moment in shock, and he decides to take things another step forward.
At first, he does as you said and starts to lick up his cum—cleaning it off your shoe and the lower end of your leg. Then he starts to take some of his seed up onto his thumb and lick it up that way, scarcely meeting eyes with you every now ‘n then.
You didn’t realize he’d schemed something up until it was too late.
Choso went to wipe up the second to last drop of his cum and paused before taking it into his mouth.
Noticing his hesitation, “Hey, that’s not all of—“
The man cuts you off via grabbing at the bottom of your dress, and pulling you to bend down towards him. You stumble from your footing and then choke on your own breath.
Within your gasp and while your mouth is open, Choso swipes his cum out across your lips and then pushes himself up on his knees to lick it off—tongue sneaking into your mouth right after.
“Mmph!” You moan against him, kissing him back but definitely cursing him out within your head.
When he pulls away, he’s got a smile on his face even as he whispers, “Sorry.”
To which you glare at him, “You’re not.”
His voice grows low and sheepish as his gaze darts off from yours, “I was jus’ following your instructions. You said to lick it all up.”
“Yeah, but—“
“And I think,” He leans away from your face and dips down towards your legs, “Some of it got in between your thighs…”
It absolutely did not, but with the way he was looking at you…
Your head turns away and you stand up straight before crossing your arms. “W-Well then… clean me up properly.”
Choso’s cock twitches faintly and he’s bubbling with his own excitement as he starts to move your legs apart, “With pleasure.”
☆ Toji Fushiguro — working out.
There’s nothing Toji loves more than seeing you sweat. You thought it was his normal way of being overly affectionate in the beginning of your relationship with him, but over time you’ve come to learn that your boyfriend actually has a thing for you exercising.
And it doesn’t matter how you do so either. You could go on a short walk around the neighborhood, do some yoga around the house, stretch as soon as you wake up from a nap—and that big perv is rubbing a hand over the fat cock stiffening in between his legs.
Ever the weirdo.
If only you’d known about his obsession with seeing you exercise prior to going to the gym with him.
You were doing some cardio, running on the treadmill and oblivious to his verdant eyes trained solely on you from across the way. You already warned him beforehand that if he couldn’t control himself during one trip to the gym then it wouldn’t be happening again.
Toji tried to keep his eyes away from you, but he saw one too many other people walking your way and throwing their gazes at you for him to ignore.
And by the time his attention landed on you, he was a goner. You were running rather fast and all he could focus on was the way your body looked in motion. There was nothing inherently sexual about watching you sprint, but you couldn’t tell that to Toji.
Only thing running through his mind was the multiple ways in which he could work you out afterwards.
He was only halfway through his workout before he saw you heading off towards the locker rooms. And what kind of man would he be if he didn’t follow after his wife?
Okay, technically he had no real reason to do so but he’s not about to explain that to you now—even though you’re cocking a brow at him and questioning him about it.
“Toji, I told you to behave,” You sigh as you turn around and bend over, reaching for the clean shirt that’d fallen down within your locker.
Rookie mistake.
Now he’s creeping behind you and putting his hands on your waist, coming over to your ear and whispering, “I’m so behaved, baby. Haven’t even done anything yet.”
Your head shakes as you stand up straight, “Yet?”
Your questioning is immediately answered when you shift backwards and feel the heavy bulge poking in between your ass cheeks. All you could do at this point was shut your eyes and exhale again.
Glancing back over your shoulder, “How long have you had that?”
“Since I saw you stretching,” He admits.
You wanted to laugh at the man since that happened almost an hour ago. Instead, you simply turn your head away and let your shoulders drop, “Perv.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Your husband grumps, “Tell me more about it while I fuck ya’.”
A cool brush of air meets your suddenly exposed thighs as your workout pants are tugged right off your body in one go.
“Toji!” You whisper-shout, feeling him apologetically nuzzle his face into your neck.
Then you feel that tender tip of his swatting its way in between your folds as wets himself with your arousal. “Shhhh, no one’s coming in here,” Toji insists.
Considering how you were equally as turned on as he was—with the way you’d been eyeing his beefy body work out all evening long—there wasn’t much of an argument on your end.
Though, you can’t say you expected him to be so animalistic with the eay he fucks you up against that locker. The poor thing is shaking and making all sorts of creaky, rickety noises while he pounds the meaty girth of his cock deep into your cunt.
You had to pull your shirt up and bite down on the fabric just to stop yourself from crying out too loudly.
Toji on the other hand didn’t seem to care one bit about the noises, nearly lifting your body further up against the lockers as he gruffed into your skin. “Love this fuckin’ pussy,” He praises, heavy balls hammering against your puffy folds as he stuffed himself in to the hilt of your cunt with each thrust.
“Hnngh-, hahhh—yeahh?” Your shirt falls out from in between your teeth, “H-How much?”
Your questioning taunt has his cock growing impossibly harder, and he sandwiches your frame against the cold metal ahead.
Each movement from his hips is accompanied by a sharp thwack of his chubby tip, streeetching you out from the inside and aching to pull something soaked from out of you.
“You know how much I love my pussy—nasty lil’ thing.” Toji huffs before wrapping one massive arm around your waist and towing your body back onto his to meet with him, “Always squeezin’ this dick like she wants every drop of cum I’ve got for her.” His thumb locates your clit and taps at it, “Ain’t that right, doll? You want me to cum inside ya’. Right here in this locker room, ‘n force ya’ to walk out with it drippin’ alllll down these pretty thighs?”
Your maw dangles open all dumbly and he grunts loudly at the way your walls convulse around him in a rather nasty fashion—as if to answer him or something.
Toji’s free hand moves out to slam into the locker as he holds onto it and you swear you see him dent it a little. Still holding you in one arm, you’re reminded of just how strong your husband really is.
He practically lifts you up a few inches off the ground and pins you to the locker, “Think you can still run on that treadmill after bein’ thoroughly bred?” He asks only to earn a gaping sound out of the pit of your stomach, “C’mon, talk to me, dollface. Wanna hear it out this slutty mouth of yours.”
Dropping you, your legs are left trembling once your feet hit the floor and you don’t even get to breathe properly before Toji’s moving his arm from around your waist and up to grab at your jaw.
Angling your face back to his, he’s just babbling on about all the things he plans on doing to you—leaving you little to no room to answer him with any words.
“I might hafta’ cum inside you before every workout—make sure you’re reminded of who this pussy belongs to each time you come here,” Toji’s tongue folds out to lick the sweat off the side of your neck. He saw some people in particular looking at you for a few seconds too long so you can’t really blame him for his suggestions, “Would ya’ like that?”
You told yourself right there at that moment that you’re probably not going to attend this gym with him again.
Especially since your trainer—a tall blonde named Nanami—comes walking in due to a noise complaint he’d received from one of the other gym-goers outside.
Shit.
☆ Geto Suguru — yapping.
Now, between the two of you, you’ve always been the talker. He made a habit of throwing out a topic he knows you like, just to get you to talk more and then fall silent as he listens.
You adored his attentiveness for a long time until you realized he’d only been that way for an ulterior reason. That reason being that hearing you ramble on about literally anything gets his dick unbelievably wet.
Mainly because he loves to mess up the flow of your speeches by touching you—as he currently finds himself grinding the long, curvy shaft of his cock up ‘n in between your pussy lips. It started out as dry humping while you told him about your hectic day.
But now…
“Keep talkin’, gorgeous. I swear I’m listening,” Geto claimed despite doing everything but. His eyes weren’t even at your face anymore—trained entirely on the way your lips got speared apart by the head of his cock each time he rolled his hips forward.
Your cunt was leaking all over him far too much for you to remain focused on whatever story you'd been most recently yapping about. Instead moaning, “Thought about you all-, hnngh—all day, Sugu.”
“Yeahh? I know you did, pretty girl.” Geto puffs out gently, as if his length wasn't being the exact opposite with each heave and drudge against your exposure. “Did you think about this too? About my dick slippin’ against you like this? Teasin’ you?” His voice gets breathy as he says that, falling victim to the same thing as you with the way he gets caught up in the not-so-dry humping.
“Uhuhh,” Your hips stag upwards and roll, forcing his cock to angle down and press a nasty smooch against your hole.
Geto's hand moves to sprawl out against your abdomen and he forces you to be flat against the cushions. Scoffing whilst taking his shaft into his other hand and angling it around your slavering hole instead of in, “Keep talkin’ then. Finish that story of yours. What happened with Satoru after he spilled that drink on you?” He asks.
He needed to get back on track here. After all, you only allowed him to grind against you if he promised to listen to your story properly.
“Suguruuu,” You started to whine though, as if it wasn't you who agreed to this in the first place. He then watches as you grab at his wrist and wiggle your body around below him, cutely trying to work that plump head of his past your desperate ring of resistance, “I-I can’t think about him right now,” You push his hand away next and reach further down to grab at his cock, “Jus’ put it innn. Pleaseee?”
Geto manages to smile but his breath hitches in your throat. While he loves hearing you all needy for him, he also wants to be good and abide by your prior request, “Hm… I could," He says playfully, nibbling on his lip once you begin to stroke the inches of his dick he refuses to put in you, “But I think I wanna hear you l-like—hah, shit... like this for a little longer.”
Purposefully, your mean boyfriend begins to fuck himself into the small hole your hand has created for him and you continue to feel him slide all his weight over your clit each time he thrusts forward. It was driving you inside since you could feel his many veins twitching to be shoved inside you instead.
“Fuck me,” You gasp, hoping your please would convince him to do so quickly, “Please Sugu, I need you inside me.”
His dick practically jumps against your hand and you watch how his chest rises and falls with the deep breaths he has to take to hold himself back. “Need me inside you?" He snickers, "Oh, so you want my fingers then?”
The prettiest pout appears on your lips and it makes his cock begin to drool excessively onto your skin. “N-No, I need your dick inside me. C’mon Sugu, don’t you wanna fuck me?” You say before holding your legs up ‘n open for him, “Can't you see how wet I am for you?”
Geto tries—he really does—not to look down, but when you're spreading your legs like that... he just can't help himself. His eyes descend your body and a pornographic expression is painted into his pretty features.
“Shiiit…” He mutters, moving his hips back and jerking himself off in a few, quickened strokes, before he places his swollen tip up against your cunt, “You always know how to convince me, huh?”
Not a second more is wasted before he's sliding into you with vigor, eyes locking onto the moans you let out, and head tilting over.
“Missed this dick inside you that badly? That moan was louder than normal," Geto teases, feeling your pussy let out a squeaky squelch around his thickness.
You meet his eyes with something sinful coating your own, “I missed you fucking me."
“Oh yeah?” His arms move out so that he could properly cage you beneath him, hips casually bucking into you to spread the translucent glosses of his precum all across your hugging walls, “How much, baby? Talk to me—talk to Sugu.” He mocks.
You're a mess under him already and he feels as though he's barely even done anything yet. Plus, he still hasn't let you finish that story of yours and it's gonna make him feel bad any second now. You seemed so excited to tell him what happened while you were out today and now...
“Nnngh-, aanh,” Moans were slopping out of your mouth and your body was easily being fucking up against the bed, the frame distantly thumping against the wall hard enough to leave multiple marks that you're sure to scold him about later. “S-Soo much, Sugu," You reply, "Thought about havin' you inside me all fuckin’ day.”
Geto truly couldn't get enough of your voice. He loved hearing you talk more than anything, so every time you moan for him it just drives him insane. His balls come slapping against your skin with each heavy rock of his slim hips, cock getting swallowed up so nastily by that gorgeous pussy of yours.
Hell, he can't help himself from pushing into you a little deeper, “Ohhh don’t tell me that. My poor girlll, did you rub one out before I got home?”
You nod helplessly and your hands are reaching up to hold onto his arms, leaving light scratches across his skin due to how rough he was getting with you. “Wanted to feel you," Your whines ring out and enter his ears the same way a loving kiss from you would.
“Awhh, did you?” He mocks you again and ends up tossing his hair back—long, dark locks flying with the motion all elegantly as he grunts. “Shit, you’re so cute when you’re like this. Couldn’t even finish that little story of yours.”
Your legs feel like jello underneath the large man once his pounding begins to slant—the crooked curve of his cock knocking around that spongey spot inside you, and earning gossamers of your arousal to squirt out in return.
Then he's got the nerve to grin, “Guess you’ll have to tell me about it later.”
As if that won’t lead to the same thing happening all over again…
☆ Yuki Tsumuko — eye rolls.
Now, your girlfriend has many joys in this world but one of her favorite things to do with you is be nice 'n close to your face while she's knuckle deep in your cunt.
Why? Because she loooves watching the way your eyes flock to the very back of your head each time she curls her precise digits into that spot she knows you so desperately crave for her to reach. Giggling, "Hear how loud my girl is?" She'd tease in a slightly hoarse mutter.
You'd let out a moan in response if it weren't for her lips latching onto your again to drown the sound out completely. Her tongue twirls and dances over yours the same way it typically does to your pussy and you try your best to keep up with her but it's no use.
Perhaps you should've known better than to catch an attitude with her. You only rolled your eyes once because of how much she'd been lecturing you about something and now she was punishing you for it.
You can't really say you were complaining, though.
She pulls away from your mouth simply to watch the way your face twists up into pure bliss. Her fingers are dragging out something far too sweet 'n delicious out of your weeped hole, and she's eyeing down the way whines of her name leave your pretty, spit-slicked lips.
"Y-Yuki, please," You gasp and attempt to lift your hips for a moment to breathe only to be tugged right back down by the grip she's got on you with her free hand.
Then she pouts as if to mock you, "Aw, you close, pretty?" She hums in that faux sweet tone that causes your stomach to churn with butterflies, thighs a trembly mess over hers. "Gonna cum for me? Make a nasty lil' mess on me like you always do? Hm?"
As she continues to taunt you, her fingertips are busy rubbing right against that angled spot inside you that has your eyes crossing with stars in them. You're trying to nod your dumb head, and wanting nothing more than to duck down and hide your expression from her greedy eyes.
You make a laughable attempt at doing so, trying to move your face into the crook of her neck only to be stopped by the searing grip of her hand coming up to your throat. Her thumb pushes at your chin to lift it up and she smiles when you're forced to look at her again.
"Tryin' to hide your face from me now? Seriously?" She gasps in an exaggerated manner. "Now, you know that's my favorite part of you." Her fingers pick up in pace all of a sudden and you could feel the pads of each one ramming into you as if to punish you. "Just look atcha', all teary eyed 'n pouty like you weren't asking for this."
Your eyes are quick to dart elsewhere but you feel your orgasm rapidly approaching, "S-Shut upp," You huff, "I hate it when you do that."
The knowing smile on her face only widens out before she tips her head to the side, thumbing at your puckered lil' clit to roll her name into it. "Do what?" Yuki puffs out in that soft tone once more, brownish eyes dilating fro the disorientated sight of you, "Watch you when you're about to cum? Smile at the way your eyes run to the back of your head 'cause it's too much for ya'?
Before you could even answer her, she was leaning forward and your body was easily getting unsteady with its hovering over her lap.
"Would you rather I watch her instead?" She taunts, pushing you over so that your back flops down against the mattress. "Cause' I can do that. It has been a while since I've seen my girl up close, after all. Wonder if she's got just as much of an attitude with me as you do."
With a heavy huff exiting your throat, you watch with wide, glossy eyes as she sits up over you and meets your thighs with her soaked hands. Internally you were dreading what was about to happen as Yuki was never one to be gentle with her tongue as it laid onto your folds.
She parts your legs open for herself, "Think she missed me just as much as I missed her?"
You're too busy trying to cover your face out of some sort of shyness, refusing to answer or look at your eager girlfriend. To which Yuki playfully rolls her eyes and repositions herself down in between your legs. Her eyes stay up on you and your heavily breathing chest for a moment before she pushes forward and presses a chaste kiss against the soaked slit of your pussy.
"Babyyyy," She purrs in that evil voice of hers, "Look at me, will you?"
Even though you know damn well she only wanted to tease you, you ended up listening to her anyway as you removed your hands from your face and lazily drag your eyes down to her.
God, the sight was nothing short of sexy.
Her blonde hair had been strung back into a messy ponytail, brown eyes set dead on you, and pretty pinked lips slipping upwards into that smile you know and love so much.
"Theree she is," Yuki coos, tipping her head to the side again as she flaunts a mocking pout at you, "Was that so hard?"
Your brows tangle upwards and just as you go to answer her, she slots her two fingers right back into you slooowly with a loud squelch emitting into the room. "No," You whisper, "But d-do you have to stare?"
She scoffs, "Of course I do! How else would I watch your eyes roll back while I fuck you?"
Summary: Dating a women’s studies major has turned Sukuna into the frat house’s most feared feminist. Now the frat boys can’t make a sexist comment without getting a lecture, while you sit back and watch.
A/n: just fun lil thing i thought of :)
The frat house was unusually quiet, no music, no party, no sports discussions.
This was because Ryomen Sukuna was standing in the living room with his arms crossed, looking genuinely disappointed.
“Did you just call her a bitch?”
Satoru Gojo, halfway through stealing someone’s energy drink from the fridge, blinked. “What?”
“You called that girl a bitch.”
“She literally stole my hoodie after our hookup,” he shrugged him off.
Sukuna pointed at him. “And? Speak like a man. Have some respect.”
“No, seriously.” Sukuna continued. “You don’t get to call women bitches because you’re annoyed.”
Satoru stared. “Who are you?”
“My girlfriend says that’s misogynistic.”
“Your girlfriend also made you stop saying ‘females.’”
“And she was right, it’s disrespectful. Some shit incels say.”
The entire frat house collectively recoiled.
Across the room, you sat on the couch, sipping an iced coffee and watching the chaos unfold. A smile on your face, because god were you enjoying this.
This was better than reality TV.
Satoru pointed at you. “YOU DID THIS.”
You raised your coffee in acknowledgment.“Damn right.”
———————————————————————————————
The frat party was loud enough to shake the walls. Music blasted through the speakers.
Drinking games to your left, a fist fight to your right; and you were just observing from the kitchen.
And in the middle of it all, Toji was sprawled across the couch with a beer in hand.
His girlfriend was standing nearby talking to some friends when Toji waved his empty can in the air. “Hey.”
She glanced over. “Yeah?”
“Grab me another beer.”
A few people looked over.
She frowned. “What?”
“You heard me.” Toji pointed toward the kitchen. “Get me another beer.”
Before she could argue, another voice cut through the room.
“No.”
Toji closed his eyes. “…God.”
Across the room, Sukuna was already walking over.
You perked up immediately, ready for your boyfriend to set Toji straight.
Sukuna stopped directly in front of Toji. “Hell no.”
Toji looked exhausted. “No what?”
“No disrespecting your girl in front of me.”
A few people turned their attention to the potential altercation.
Toji rubbed his forehead. “I asked her to get me a beer.”
“You ordered her.”
“It’s not that serious, right baby?” He said, trying to save his ass.
Sukuna crossed his arms. “If you want a beer, use your legs, or ask nicely.”
Toji stared, “You cannot be real.”
His girlfriend was already trying not to laugh.
Sukuna pointed toward the kitchen, “Go get your own drink.”
“Or what?”
The entire room collectively leaned forward.
Sukuna grinned. “Or I’ll disrespect your face by punching it.”
You giggled. Only Sukuna could point out misogyny while trying to solve the issue with violence.
A guy standing nearby immediately whispered, “That’s the most Sukuna version of feminism I’ve ever heard.”
Toji looked around the room. Nobody was helping him. Not even a little, most probably in fear of Sukuna.
Finally, Toji sighed. “Fine.”
Sukuna nodded. “Good choice.”
Toji turned toward his girlfriend. “Sorry.”
She raised an eyebrow, suddenly she had more confidence than before. “Sorry for what?”
Toji was clearly embarrassed now, “Sorry for talking to you like that.”
“Thank you.”
Sukuna gave an approving nod. “There. Growth.”
“Shut it,” he said staring down Sukuna. “You know what? I’m getting my own beer.”
As Toji disappeared into the kitchen, the room broke into applause.
His girlfriend laughed and shook her head.
Then she turned to Sukuna. “Thanks.”
Sukuna shrugged. “Don’t thank me.”
He pointed across the room toward you. “Thank her.”
Everyone looked.
You were sitting comfortably on a stool in the kitchen; chin in hand, eating chips like you’d been watching a sporting event.
You gave a little wave.
“Kuna’s a women’s studies soldier ,” she said proudly. “I teach him everything I know.”
———————————————————————————————
The fraternity and sorority had gathered in one room to brainstorm ideas for a charity fundraiser. People were throwing out suggestions.
Raffles. Bake sales. Auctions.
Then Satoru snapped his fingers. “I got it.”
Immediately, you looked concerned, because he never had good ideas.
“We do a joint event with the sorority.” Satoru grinned. “The girls wear maid outfits and serve drinks.”
The room erupted into approval.
“That’s genius.”
“People would love that.”
“Easy money.”
Across the room, Sukuna slowly lowered the energy drink from his hand.
“Interesting.”
“NO,” Gojo yelled. “Let me have this one good idea,” he groans.
Sukuna stood. “Let me understand… the women wear maid costumes.”
“Yeah.”
“And serve drinks.”
“Yeah.”
“And what are the men doing?”
Toji shrugged. “We could do some strength challenge.”
“What kind?”
“I don’t know. Lifting something heavy.” Several people nodded.
“Classic.” Sukuna stared. Then looked at you, looking for approval to go on a rant.
Sukuna turned back to the room. “The women get assigned a service role. The men get assigned a strength role.”
More silence.
“Based on gender.”
The room collectively sighed.
Sukuna pointed dramatically. “Why.”
Satoru finally spoke. “Because that’s what people want.”
Sukuna gasped.
You smiled proudly at your boyfriend, waiting for him to call out their blatant sexism.
“PEOPLE EXPECT IT?”
“Yeah?”
“So we’re just reinforcing traditional gender roles for profit now?”
The room erupted.
“IT’S A CHARITY EVENT.”
“YOU’RE MAKING IT SOUND EVIL.”
Sukuna ignored them. “Misogyny is evil.” He pointed toward the sorority members.
“Why are they the ones serving drinks?”
One of the sorority girls raised her hand. “Honestly, I don’t want to wear a maid costume.”
“THANK YOU.” Sukuna was fully activated.
You were delighted to see how this was playing out.
“Explain to me,” Sukuna continued, “why the men can’t wear maid costumes and serve drinks.”
The room went dead silent, and you almost spit out your drink.
Toji blinked.
Satoru blinked.
The sorority sisters were stunned. “What?”
“The men.” Sukuna spread his arms.
“No.”
“Why not?”
The room burst into laughter.
“If serving drinks is easy money, then congratulations.” He slapped the table.
“The fraternity is serving drinks.”
The sorority girls immediately started cheering.
“YES.”
“MAKE THEM DO IT.”
Toji looked horrified. “Absolutely not, I’m not wearing a maid outfit.”
Sukuna leaned forward. “Fragile, typical response from men. Toxic masculinity, machismo, societal expectations.” He says pointing a finger at different men around the room.
You had your face in your hands, trying to hide your laughter. You had to show support for your boyfriend, but couldn’t handle him naming every term he could think of.
Sukuna pointed around the room. “If the costumes aren’t degrading, wear them.”
Silence.
The sorority girls were having the time of their lives. One of them pulled out her phone. “I’m ordering maid costumes right now.”
The fraternity erupted in panic.
“STOP HER.”
“WE CAN STILL NEGOTIATE.”
——-
Two weeks later, the fundraiser ended up being the most successful event in frat history.
Mostly because nobody could resist paying money to watch a group of deeply embarrassed frat bros serve spiked lemonade in maid outfits.
Toji looked dead inside.
Satoru refused to make eye contact with anyone.
Meanwhile Sukuna carried a tray through the crowd completely unbothered.
His maid outfit fit surprisingly well, as he served you a drink.
Across the lawn, Satoru was being forced to say “Welcome home, master” for a twenty-dollar donation.
The sorority was making a fortune.
Sukuna took one look at the donation total and smiled. “Look how good we’ve done so far,” he said enthusiastically.
“I’m so proud of you,” you said before leaning in for a kiss.
“By the way, I think you should bring home this costume when you’re done here,” you said; snapping the thigh high sock on Sukuna’s thigh.
sukuna might as well transfer to a cosmetology school from the amount of times he helps you dye your hair.
when sukuna first started dating you, he knew you changed your appearance often. mainly, your hair. almost every few months your hair would change color and more often than not, the colors would be anything but a natural color. he never minded this; in fact, he thought it was kind of cool. when the two of you officially got together, he jokingly offered to help you dye your hair a pink to match his. he didn't expect you head to your bathroom and get the materials ready.
the first couple of times he is present when you're dyeing your hair, he doesn't do much other than hand you stuff. he knows your very meticulous about the process and honestly didn't trust him to even touch the dye. but eventually, you are ready to put him to the test.
he was nervous to say the least, but you offered help here and there. but you mainly sat back and let him brush the dye into the sections of your hair. after rinsing out the dye and inspecting the job your boyfriend did, you give him a big kiss as a thanks.
"i'm surprised it didn't come out patchy," you commend as you look at your hair in the mirror. "well done, ryo!"
"you could have a little more faith in me, you know," he complains. "i've seen you do this shit plenty of times."
"well since you're such a pro i guess you can take over dyeing my hair from now on, huh?"
surprisingly, sukuna rises to the challenge. from then on, he is the one sectioning your hair, lathering in the dye, and even rinsing it off. and he does it all for the small, small price of a kiss from you. sometimes, he'll even let you use the residue on his hair. now he doesn't do it as often as you, but his favorite style was the black ghost roots you did on him using the left over dye from when you gave yourself fox tips.
sukuna is usually seen with his signature pink hair, but every now and then he will be seen with hair to match yours. and if he's not, he's sporting a look he gets to tell everyone his girlfriend did.
he has no problem funding your hair activities, especially after shopping with you once and hearing you complain of the prices. he handed you his card without another word. his only demand in exchange was to be able to do your hair. he finds it calming and almost reassuring how trusting you are with him with your hair. he knows well and good how much effort you put in it to maintain and nourish it. so it fills his chest with pride whenever you let him dye your hair.
"i'm surprised your hair hasn't fallen out by now," he said one time.
"i don't bleach my hair often, ryo. i've only done it twice, the bleach is what hurts your hair. not so much the dye," you lecture. this goes on as you tell him about different hair care routines you use before you move on to talking about what he should do. "you're hair gets super oily," you say. "but it's not shiny." sukuna will ignore your insults and simply go with it.
but he will never admit how grateful he is that he listened to you because his hair has never been softer. not that he cares of course. definitely not.
taglist!! @cttelina @bunbun812 @oksukuna @kriitee @bleepybl00p @sailormarsinanotherlife
a/n!! in honor of the knicks winning game 2 and me dyeing my hair plumish purple/pink LOL
I NEED SUKUNA RIGHT NOW. I wanna finish so hard on his fat cock it’s not even funny. I want him to manhandle me in the most unforgivable ways. I want him to spit and slap my pussy. I want him to devour my pussy as if he has never tasted one. I want him to grip my tits, spit on them, and suck on them. I want him to stretch me apart like he’s trying to part the sea. FUCK I’m so wet for him, I need him. I’m not joking. I’m so, so, so ready for him.
He's pounding into you with harsh precision, each hard swip! Of his balls slapping against your ass filled the room accompanied with your shared gasping and moaning.
Satoru's been insisting on pulling out lately and you hate it. You want him to fill you up and make your insides white not pull out and cum on your stomach.
It made you sad because why wouldn't he want to fill you up? He always came inside of you till... Recently.
Based on how his body was trembling and twitching above you, you knew he was close. You knew his high was creeping up and you had the perfect idea.
You force his eyes to make eye contact with yours as your hands cup his face, cunt fluttering around him at how red his cheeks got. "Y-you close, baby?", he huffs out a "Y-yeah!" and brings his head down to snuggle in your neck. Satorus pace quickens making the bed squeak out with the rhythm; the sheer force of his pace has your body moving up with each plunge his cock slams into you.
Any second now. Your legs wrap around his hips and lock together giving him no room to pull out and cum on your tummy. Perfect.
"'M gonna cum! Lemme pulll ouuuut-!" Satoru whimpers and his body shockwaves against yours as he's trying oh so hard to hold himself back but your legs tighten your hold around his waist, it makes a pool of arousal wave through him. The feeling of you taking some sort of control makes something in him snap as his hips speed up in a messy, sloppy rhythm.
"B-baby-!" Satorus eyes roll back and his muscles tense before letting out a loud wail as his body convulses. His cock fills you riiight up with his thick seed and it wasn't a little amount, no. It was such a big amount that you could feel warmth spurting into your abdomen and leaking out on the sheets bellow.
"Made me cum inside.... Hah....." His Cerulean eyes flicker down to you with a slight smirk, "You fuckin wanted this huh?" Your half lidded eyes meet his and you smile; giving him his answer.
"Fuckin' slut." He grits out before snapping his hips against you in unforgiving speed. You scream out with how sensitive you were still and your hands clench at his shoulders each time his mushroomed tip kissed your womb. It wasn't even funny at how your tummy bulged each time he thrusted himself deeper.
Your legs were jumping and twitching around him, "S-sllooowww-! Angh-! D-doowhn-! O-oh-!" You're cut off with a specific thrust that echoes in the room as he stops and grinds against you.
"What huh? Now its too much?" He coos and you dumbly nodd your head making a wicked smile tug his lips. "Too bad, We'll be here for a while."
"Wha-" You can't even get a word out before you're flipped over and he's resumed his rhythm, fucking into you like its the last time he'll ever be inside of you.
Yeah. It was going to be a very long night.
A/n- hey guys I'm still alive I promise!! I'm trying to post as much as I can 😔 im still finishing up my Toji fic so take this drabble I can offer.... I hope it's okay and you have a lovely day lovelies <33
synopsis: men following you? who better to play pretend boyfriend than a massive stranger with pink hair and intimidating tattoos?
content: MDNI, 18+, implied stalking (strangers), mentions of kidnapping, explicit language, explicit smut (p in v), degradation, spitting in mouth, sukuna is rough ;)
wc: 2.4k
a/n: why is sukuna turning into my side piece, he always has me hot and ready like hello??? enjoy this idea that popped in my head today when I was trying to take a nap (i was unable to take one after)
art I believe is by r5x95r13ros on twt (pls correct me if i'm wrong!!)
Your heart was pounding, the roaring in your ears deafening as you continued to speed walk down the pavement of Shibuya. The men behind you were keeping pace, staying close enough not to lose you, but far enough to remain suspicionless.
You clutched your bag tighter, trying to make your stride longer, hoping to blend into the large crowds as you continued a route that led you back to Shibuya crossing.
The setting sun was a mirror to your impending doom, if they were still following you once the darkness of the night blanketed the city, you were likely never going home. If you had to walk all night you would, it certainly beat the alternative of never seeing the light of day again.
The largest of the trio of men following you popped out of a side street, positioning himself closer than any had been so far. If he so much as reached his arm out, he could close it around you and that would be it.
You could feel the sweat sliding down your temples, despite the cooler weather. Your mind was screaming at you to do something, anything, to keep this man from grabbing you as you saw him inch impossibly closer.
That’s when you saw him, the largest man you’d ever seen, standing on the corner waiting for the crosswalk to greenlight. He was wearing a tight black shirt, showing off his broad, muscled frame and those intimidating tattoos that covered his arms. His black baggy jeans sitting low on his hips and black combat boots peaking from beneath the hem added to his persona.
You weren’t sure what led you to do this, maybe his pink hair, but your instincts told you he was safe. You thought he would easily scare off these men with one look, so you shouted, calling out to him with a wave.
He turned with a frown on his face, showcasing the tattoos spanning across most of his face. His crimson eyes were assessing you as he pulled a wired earbud out of the ear closest to you.
You gave him the brightest smile you could muster, a pleading look in your eyes as you threw your arms around his neck, jumping into him.
“I finally found you!” You kept your voice loud and clear, hoping the man behind you continued walking. The stranger was stiff beneath you, as he closed one arm tentatively around your waist, keeping you off the ground.
“What the fuck are you doing?” His voice was a gruff rasp in your ear, despite the fact he was playing along with you.
“There are men following me,” you whispered back, watching over his shoulder as the man who was behind you continued walking. “Please act like you know me.”
He huffed out a breath filled with annoyance, “Fine.”
When he set you on your feet again, you pulled back finally getting a good look at his face. You were stunned for a second, admiring his strong, handsome features. He was so unique looking and probably the hottest man you’d ever seen.
You offered him a sheepish smile, before taking his large hand in yours, it was warm and rough, adding to his hotness, “Where are we heading?”
“It’s a surprise,” he gave you a sly smile, flashing his perfect teeth.
The moment the crosswalk greenlit you were off again, dragging him for half a second before his long stride matched yours. You faked a look at him, glancing past his shoulder for any signs of the men. One of them was still trailing far behind so you kept your hand in his as you flashed him a smile.
“I guess you should lead the way,” you laughed weakly as you slowed your step to let him set the pace and direction.
How you found yourself in this situation after a failed first date, the only explanation was it was just your luck. You only decided to stay out to make the best of what was left of the day after your date spent the entire time talking about himself and berating you after you offered any information about yourself. You were in a respectable career for your age, you lived by yourself, but you always kept that piece of information tucked away. You were pretty healthy. You only occasionally splurged on items for your apartment or wardrobe, so you were mostly wise with money. The only reason he thought he had something on you was his family name and being in a position he all but admitted was handed to him.
All you wanted to do was to browse some shops, hoping to clear your mind and then maybe pick up a few things you needed for your apartment before heading home and taking the hottest shower of your life. Of course all of that hit the fan the moment you caught sight of the first man following you. At first you thought maybe it was a coincidence, there were plenty of people out right now and he could easily be heading in a similar direction. Your panic started to set in when another man joined him, still following you even after you completed a full circle.
When the third man appeared, you were full on panicking as you rushed yourself back to Shibuya crossing. If this stranger you were currently holding hands with turned out to be worse than those guys following you, then you’d have to accept your fate. It would be fitting, all things considered.
You had to admit, your intuition was hardly ever wrong and not once since you jumped into his arms had you felt unsafe. If anything most of your worries fell away as you walked in silence further away from the reality you almost faced. Best case scenario you were free of the men and got to go home and sleep everything off. Worst case, maybe this guy would pick up where they left off.
When you stopped in front of yakitori-ya you finally focused on everything around you again. You scolded yourself because if this guy was going to kidnap you, you’d made it entirely too easy as you zoned out the entire walk here. You guessed it was a good sign your hand was still in his and you were still alive, and if you had to look on the bright side, being able to zone out around him meant your instincts were further proving he was safe.
“Get whatever you want,” his voice was calm, the deep baritone of it settled in your bones as you furrowed your brows.
“I’ll pay for my food,” you dropped his hand, fumbling around your purse for your wallet before he firmly grabbed your hand and laced your fingers together again. A wave of warmth rushed through your body as you looked at him, stunned.
“Why would you pay for anything?” He grumbled, his frown settling across his face like it was a familiar expression. It probably was given everything you’d gathered about him in the past twenty minutes or so.
“I owe you,” you gestured between the two of you, clearly not understanding what wasn’t clicking for him.
He gave a long sigh, like you were the one being ridiculous, “Just order, woman.”
“Woman?” You pulled back, getting a better look at another one of his sly grins. You huffed, snatching your hand away as you crossed your arms, waiting in line in silence.
After you got your food from the takeout window you both settled into a mindless walk while eating the skewers. It wasn’t so bad being around him, even if he was kind of a brute, you found you didn’t dislike it. Somehow he made it work, rather than coming off as misogynistic like this one blond guy you went out with once who wore winged eyeliner and said something along the lines of women belong serving men.
The stranger broke the silence first after you dropped your empty trays in the trash, “Why’d you pick me to come up to?”
“Honestly, I don’t really even know,” you laughed lightly. “I think my mind figured picking someone who was scarier looking than the people following me was a good idea.”
“Oh so I’m scary looking?” He gazed down at you, lifting one of his brows. You realized how much larger he was than you as you looked up at him, he was so tall and clearly worked out regularly.
“Don’t be dense,” you rolled your eyes, earning a quick poke to the cheek.
“Watch it,” he warned and you found yourself grinning up at him, feeling the argumentative side of you peeking through.
“Or what?” You challenged.
“I think you know what,” he stopped, bringing his body closer to you and lowering his face. “And I think that’s why you’re acting like this.”
“Acting like what?” You feigned innocence, placing a hand against your chest.
He gripped your chin in his hand, his voice low and promising, “A fucking brat.”
“Am I?” You batted your lashes at him.
“You know what you’re doing,” he grumbled.
“Well, I think I owe you for saving me,” your voice was sultry as you trailed your hand up his strong biceps.
-
-
-
Those were your famous last words that led to Ryomen Sukuna (you this learned on the way to his place) pounding into you ruthlessly.
“Look at you, helpless while you take it,” his voice was rough against your neck, a sharp bite following that had you moaning even louder. “Fucking slut,” he grunted against your ear as he fucked you with long, deep strokes.
You were currently pressed against the wall in his entryway, legs thrown over his arms as he supported your full weight. You hardly made it inside before he had your clothes off and his huge cock shoving inside your sopping wet cunt. Your nails were clawing against his back every time he slammed upwards, his tip bullying the deepest parts of you.
“Oh god-” you moaned, slipping a hand into his hair and yanking roughly.
“I prefer Ryomen,” he gave you the sexiest grin before shoving his tongue into your mouth, claiming your mouth just as ruthlessly as his cock claimed pussy. When he pulled back slightly to spit in your mouth you moaned, noticing that he was watching as it slid down your chin.
The lewd sounds that filled the apartment would’ve made anyone blush, you were so wet you were practically dripping down his cock. You were completely helpless, as he fucked you stupid, your mind empty except for the overwhelming sensation of him.
“Harder- fuck-” you whined, clenching around him as he gave you exactly what you asked for. The frames hanging on the wall rattled every time he roughly thrust into you.
“You like being fucked like a slut?” His degrading tone had your pussy growing even wetter as he suddenly dropped your feet to the floor and spun you around. When he shoved you roughly against the wall you moaned, arching back against him.
“Don’t stop,” you begged, your words cut off by his cock slamming back inside of you. One of his big hands fisted your hair, pulling your neck back allowing him to spit into your mouth again. His other drifted around your hip, finding your clit and rubbing circles over it as he continued to slam into you.
“Begging for my cock,” he hummed in your ear. “After you begged for my help earlier,” his fingers were working your clit quickly, the combination of his cock rubbing against the spot deep inside of you had you spiraling quickly. “Are you always this fucking needy?”
“No-” your words choked on a moan as he pinched your clit roughly, the pain mixing with the pleasure overriding everything.
“Don’t tell me you’re so cockdrunk you can’t answer me?” He tugged against your hair as he began rubbing your clit again, working quick circles against you as he focused on hitting all the spots inside you.
“I can-” you babbled.
“Try again,” he pinched your clit, almost causing your orgasm to crash through you. The white hot pleasure fading quickly as he worked soft strokes against it, building it up again slowly.
“Oh Ryo-” you moaned when he hit a particularly deep thrust, arching your back further as you tried to take him deeper. His soft strokes against your clit were maddening as you sat on the edge of your climax.
“Try harder,” he tsked, yanking your hair.
“It’s you,” you whined. “All for you.”
“There you go,” the pressure of his fingers increased as his mouth lowered to your ear. “Come,” his command had your orgasm cresting, your cries filling the small entry way as you came hard on his cock, tears spilling down your cheeks.
His fingers wouldn’t let up, his pace not faltering even as you tried to push away, the overstimulation too much. “It’s too much,” you moaned.
His hand shoved your head against the wall as his fingers continued to bully your clit. You could feel another orgasm building deep inside of you as he continued fucking you.
“Might have to make you mine,” he grunted, his thrusts growing erratic.
“W-what?” You stammered, moaning as he angled himself deeper inside of you. Your eyes rolled back, you could hardly hear what he said next.
“Taking me like you were made for me,” he grunted as you clenched around him. “Wanna be mine huh?”
“I don’t know-” you moaned, his hand leaving your hair to close around your hip, shoving you down against him.
“Fucking liar,” he hissed, rubbing his fingers harshly against your clit. “This pussy’s mine.”
“Yes- all yours-” you moaned, his fingers working you quickly as he practically impaled you on his cock.
“Come for me again, fucking brat,” you came with a scream, it was quickly muffled by his mouth pressing against yours. His tongue bullying itself inside your mouth, swallowing all your cries.
You felt his cock twitch, before he was grunting in your mouth as he spilled warm, thick ropes of cum inside of you. He fucked you through his orgasm, drawing every last drop of cum from himself as he shoved it deep in your pussy.
When he pulled his lips away, a string of spit followed him as he looked you deeply in your eyes, “You’re mine now.”
And that sounded like the best thing in the world to you.
a/n: i would definitely agree to be his after he fucked me stupid because i'm #easy
izzy806
areudirty
baratheonpilled
jacobvanloon
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