It was the day of the Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Slytherin, the much awaited match of the season as it will determine the winner of the house cup.
You were walking down the field with your friend, excited for the match to begin and betting on whose house will win.
"Not being biased but I believe Gryffindor will win the cup." you mutter, burying your nose to your scarf due to the winter breeze.
"Of course, you'll be betting on your boyfriend's house." your friend scoffs making you chuckle for a bit.
"What? You're expecting me to support the other team while I know how much they prepare for today?" you snort, shaking your head.
"Oh, right. Your almighty beater boyfriend." your friend responds, giving you a nudge of your shoulder. "So, what are you going to give to him once they win?"
"Uh…a congratulations?" you said, confused. Your answer made your friend rolled their eyes at you.
"Seriously? It's the house cup."
"And? It's not the first time they'll be winning the cup if ever."
"You need to give him something."
"Like what?"
"I don't know, a hug or a kiss since you're not exactly a very showy, expressive, and basically a PDA hater girlfriend."
What they said is true because in your relationship with Fred, he is the one who's affectionate and clingy while you're only like that once in every blue moon.
You're not technically a PDA hater but it's just that you don't want people watching those private moments between you two and you believe that they don't have to witness what kind of relationship you two have.
You're not a clingy and affectionate partner but you still care for him in your own ways— bringing him food, helping him with his assignments even with their products, and supporting him in every way you can.
And hearing what your friend says, it makes you think that a little reward for him won't hurt you and you want to make him feel that he's loved since you were overthinking that he may feel like you don't love him as you were not that expressive or affectionate like he is.
When the two of you reach the stand, your eyes immediately look for him even though you know they will be in the tent to prepare for the match.
"You look more nervous than the players, you know." your friend whispers to you with a teasing grin.
"Sod off." you nudged her yet hearing your frantic pace of pulse despite the loud chattering around you.
Screams began erupting through the field as the commentator introduces both of the teams and soon after, they made their entrance.
As the Gryffindor enters, your eyes immediately lock on Fred. It sounds cliché but you feel the world slows down when he flies past the area you were in, seeing him in his Quidditch jumper with a smile plastered on his face.
His gaze caught yours, sending you a wink making you fight back the smile on your face. You mouthed a 'good luck' to him before he went to his position.
The match starts and everything becomes a blur to you as your only focus was on Fred. You don't even know what the scores are and who's leading but all you know is that seeing him play, out in the field like this makes you fall in love with him more.
He looks carefree, proud, and knows everything like the back of his hand when he's in his Quidditch mode. This side of him is one of the things that you love about him as he gets to show what's more than his image of being a prankster alongside his twin.
Your train of thoughts gets interrupted when you hear your friend scream loudly and she starts flapping her arms around almost hitting you on the face.
"What happened?" you ask, look around and see that Gryffindor won the house cup. You began screaming happily as you realized what was happening, clapping and slightly bouncing on your seat.
You caught his eyes again and you can see how joyful they are. You give him a proud smile and a thumbs up before you and your friend walk down the stand.
You saw him celebrating with his team but the moment he saw you, he strides towards you with a huge smile on his face.
"Congrats, Freddie! You did wonderful in that match." you mutter, looking up at him.
"Thanks, love. You were watching so I have to make sure you'll be impressed by my moves." he responded. You rolled your eyes at him playfully yet the smile still plastered in your face.
You look around, checking your surroundings. You saw your friend and his team are busy chatting with one another about the match so you grab the chance.
You turned back to Fred who's wiping a dirt on his jumper, unaware of what you'll be doing next.
You gulp and look around one more time before you encircled one of your arms around his nape and tiptoe to plant a small kiss on his lips, catching him off-guard.
While doing so, you feel your cheeks burning especially when you pull away from the contact. You saw his eyes wide from shock but his smile became bigger than he did when they won the cup.
"Merlin..." he exclaimed breathlessly with a chuckle. "That was the best congratulatory gift ever."
You untangle your arm and cover your burning face, processing what you just did. It was embarrassing but it somehow…felt good.
"Aw, someone's shy." he teases, making you glare at him between your fingers. He looked at you in a way that made your heart beats even more faster than they already are. His gaze is full of love, softness, fondness, and attraction towards you.
"I know how much courage you need to do that and I appreciate it, a lot." he mumbles softly enough for you to only hear.
He tucked a stray hair behind your ear, removing your hands on your still burning face. "You don't have to force yourself to be affectionate, I love you just the way you are and I know you do too because I'm Fred Weasley and everyone loves me."
You smack his arm slightly, snorting at his words. "Your head is becoming large."
"Which head?"
Your face burns more in embarrassment leading for his smirk to widen. "Pervert."
He laughed softly, adjusting your scarf. "You still love me tho."
"Unfortunately."
He gasoed dramatically, clutching his chest. "That's not how you treat a champion, woman."
"Oh really? How do you treat them then?" you sarcastically said.
He leaned forward, his face inches closer to yours. "You give them a kiss again."
"No." you pushed his forehead with your pointer finger. "Yeah, definitely not written in the Champion's rulebook."
"It is indicated there that champions need to be kissed by their lover." He rebutted, crossing his arms.
"And I already did. I'm certain that it was not mentioned how many times they need to be kissed." you argued, imitating his action.
The two of you kept staring at each other until he folded, blinking at you slowly. "Come on, love, just another one."
"No, once is enough."
"Even if I told you I'll be your servant for a month in exchange for another kiss?" he ask.
"Nope, nah-uh."
"What if I won't include you in our prank and let you out of trouble for two months?"
"Still no."
"I'll shout how much I love you, professing how deeply in love I am in the Astronomy Tower?"
"For the sake of Merlin's beard, do not do that."
He gave you his softest pleading look that he knows always made you fold.
"That won't work." you mutter, looking away from him.
"Please, my lovely and beautiful girl?" he pleaded softly to you. You shake your head, signalling your answer.
He pulled away and sulked with crossed arms. You stifle your laughter by biting your lip because you knew his sulking is purely just an antics of him.
You rolled your eyes and tiptoe to give him a small kiss on his lips again, pulling away abruptly after a few seconds.
"I'll see you in the castle."
"Can I have a goodbye kiss?"
"No, don't push your luck, Weasley."
Before he was able to respond, you beat him to it.
"I love you, you really did great out there." you mumble, blushing while giving his hand an affectionate squeeze and immediately walking away as you can't handle all the embarrassment you're feeling and the new sensation you're discovering from showing affection to him especially in public.
"I love you more, my beautiful, gorgeous, kindest, pretty, supportive, and sexy girlfriend!" he shouted at you retreating form but knows how red you are right now while walking which makes him tease you more. "Let's make out later after I changed my clothes."
It was a normal Hogsmeade day in Hogwarts and you just woke up, feeling light and excited. As you walked down the stairs after freshening up, you saw Fred and your other friends in the common room waiting for you.
“Good morning.” you greet them, kissing Fred on his cheek. “Who are we still waiting for?”
“Angelina forgot something from her room.” Lee answered, fooling around with George.
You sat beside Fred who immediately wrapped his arm around your waist. You leaned on his shoulder and listened to the conversation of George, Lee, and Fred.
You saw a tissue nearby and a mischievous idea struck you. you pull a piece of tissue and wipe Fred’s face while he’s still talking to them. He looked at you, confused but you just responded with a sweet smile.
“What are you on about?” Fred asks, narrowing his eyes at you. You chuckle and give his nose a kiss instead of answering.
After a while, Angelina arrived and all of you headed down to the carriage for Hogsmeade. Throughout the journey, you wiped Fred’s face once or twice—chuckling as he looked at you with confusion and suspicion.
Once your group arrives at the Hogsmeade, the first place you went to is the Honeydukes. You hopped through the aisle as you picked the sweets you wanted to buy. As you ponder on the two sweets you have in hand, a pair of arms wrapped around your waist.
“I thought you’re in Zonko’s?” you ask, placing back the packet of apple rings to its assigned spot.
“I was. I already finished buying and you’re still here choosing.” Fred responds, eyeing the sweets in your arms yet getting it from you to hold it. “You have a lot on your hands, are you planning to host a sweets party?”
You stick your tongue out at him. “Yeah, in fact you’re not invited.”
He gasped dramatically, feigning sadness and hurt. “You wounded me, woman. I thought it's us against the world?”
You laugh, leaning on his shoulder out of habit. “You're so dramatic, Weasley. no wonder i’m dating you.”
You grab a tissue and wipe his face. Before you pull away, he catches your wrist.
“You know, love…”
“No, I don't know.”
“That's why I'm telling you, genius.”
He snorted, rolling his eyes at you dramatically. You giggle, walking at the counter to pay for the sweets you chose.
“I’m just wondering…” he trails off, waiting for your sweets to be packed before paying.
“You did not just do that.” you gasp, pointing your fingers at him. “I told you I can pay for my stuff.”
“I know, but I want to. Besides, you’re my girl, I’ll buy everything that makes you happy.” he said. You can’t help the grin to spread on your face and the slight blush tinting on your cheeks.
“Hm, whatever you say.” you mumble, turning your back at him to hide your flustered state.
You heard him chuckle as he got the bag of sweets and intertwined his hand with yours, walking out of the store.
“Where are the others?” you ask, looking around.
“Getting butterbeer.” he said. “Oh, right. As I was saying before a certain lady objected to me paying for her goods…”
He gave you a side eye making you hit his arm with your free hand.
“Merlin, calm your steel hand.” he rubbed his arm dramatically. “As I was saying, I'm wondering why you keep doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“You know exactly what.”
“I won’t ask if I know, Weasley.”
“You know what I'm talking about.”
“No, I clearly don't."
You grabbed a piece of tissue from your pocket and wiped his face again.
“That exactly.” he muttered, looking at you while you continued wiping his face. “Why are you wiping my face like I had dirt every minute that passed in my life?”
You stifle your laugh, biting your lip. You pull away and fold the tissue you’ve used.
“Wanna know why?”
“Of course, woman.”
You look up at him, grinning. “Because I want my seat to remain clean at all times.”
You winked at him, walking away like nothing happened. He was speechless and completely taken aback but once he processed your words, he ran up to you and carried you bridal style with one arm as his other hand held the bag.
“If that's the case, your seat is thoroughly cleaned and ready to use, love.”
You squeal as he adjusted his grip on you, squeezing the back of your thigh as you encircled your arms around his nape.
He leaned down to whisper in your ear. “And you have another seat to claim, already waiting for you to sink in.”
You shudder, gulping as you feel him give your earlobe a nibble. You know you’re in for a long night but who cares, it’s not like you dislike what will happen. In fact, that’s what you’re aiming for. (◠‿◕)
You're a normal girl in college, a broke little barista and trying your best to keep your scholarships up - Satoru Gojo is not normal, not at all - he's the six eyes, the clan leader, and about to have to marry and take over. The two of you wish for something different when a rare comet shoots across the sky. And that's when you wake up in his body - Satoru Gojo, a powerful sorcerer a world away, and he wakes up in your tiny little dorm bed, with a pair of tits. The two of you stare in the mirror at unfamiliar faces and wonder if any of this is real, and just who the two of you were - could you get back to your bodies, and was a different life really any better?
pairings - Sorcerer! Satoru x fem! reader
warnings Based on the movie your name obviously - it will be very angsty, but also kinda cute - you will keep body swapping throughout, there will be a time difference - fix it fic. Toru is 22, you're 21. size difference to make it more dramatic and funny, canon adjacent (yes, I'm writing him as a sorcerer hehe) Geto never defected, eventual smut, lots of character and plot, emotional - planning on four parts to this. taglist open <3
art by @3-aem of courssee <333
part one
Life was normal before that comet shot across the sky.
You were just a normal college student – struggling in physics, but doing great in everything else. You had a part time job at a coffee shop in your little town, you had a boy you had a crush on and a few friends, but mostly – you studied. You studied till your eyes burned, till they hurt so badly you fell asleep right on your desk, drooling on whatever text book you had.
You didn’t come from money – your family in fact was too broke to put you through college, but they loved you, they helped you get financial aid and scholarships so hopefully you could do better than they did. You loved them very much, too, there were video chats every day since you lived in the dorm outside of your city.
Days were just that – normal, as you worked on your degree, a wicked hangover on your twenty first birthday, where you finally got your first kiss. Yeah – you could say you were that much of an introvert, you hadn’t even done that yet. You wish you remembered it more, it was something quick and hasty as fireworks went off, it was that time of year when you were born.
Something special, something beautiful, but something was…
Off.
It was off even that day. Maybe your period was coming or something, but everything on the day of your twenty-first felt off – especially when you got that damn letter saying if you didn’t raise your physics grade you’d lose that funding.
Tears blurred your vision as you collapsed onto your bed with that letter, knowing if your parents knew how horribly you were doing they would be so disappointed. You couldn’t help but wish for an escape from the crushing weight of all these expectations – many of which you placed on yourself, rushing to take that invite and get positively drunk at a party.
You didn’t tell the guy it was your first kiss, you just did that – let him slide his tongue in your mouth and press you against a wall, then it was all a bit of a blur – you heading back to the dorm, sneaking away. Crying yourself to sleep even though you technically ‘had fun’.
Why did you feel so lonely, though?
Yet when you woke up, everything changed.
Your body changed.
Your fucking room changed.
You were no longer in your little dorm – you’re in some fancy ass, rich ass room with an enormous bed and black silk sheets. You gasp and worry – did you end up with that dude last night? Did you think you got home but got too fucked up!? Your heart hammers in your chest as you peek down – and then you see it.
You see it and fucking scream so loud, seeing you’re wearing boxers rather than panties – and instead of your pussy, there was a dick. Oh, not a small dick, either – and not a soft one, a fully hard, massive fucking cock was on your body.
“What the fuck!? What!?” You jump up and fall, unused to the lanky ass legs that are currently under you, ones that cannot be yours – pale and muscular and so goddamn long. You’re way too tall, so tall you’d hit your head in your fucking dorm, looking down at everything in shock, stumbling into a dresser.
Even your voice is deep and – sexy!? You rush over to this fancy dresser, gasping as you see a perfect face in a mirror – a man’s face, with beautiful blue eyes and cheekbones to fucking die for. You smack at that face as if reality will hit – seeing chest muscles where your titties should be, blushing in his pale skin as you see that bulge in the mirror.
You're inside the body of the hottest man you’ve ever seen in some fancy ass home you could never afford!
“It has to be some dream,” you curse and rush out, running down spiral stairs – how big is this man’s house?! It’s a whole fucking confusing mansion, you’re rushing through everything, trying to find some hint of who he could be – of what weird ass fever dream you’re having, when the door knocks. “One minute!”
You’re rushing over now, opening it and seeing a dark haired man look at your body, rolling his eyes. “Put on some clothes, Satoru. We have training.”
“Training?” He raises a brow at you, and you struggle to act normal, searching your brain for anything. “Training…”
“Yeah, Satoru – training. Just because you’re perfect at everything doesn’t mean me and Shoko don’t need more practice. We have to set a good example if we wanna teach some day.”
“Teach. Examples…”
The man blinks his amethyst eyes, looking right at you now, too close, so close you fucking blush again. “What’s wrong with you, Satoru?”
Satoru – who was Satoru?
*****
Satoru was exhausted as he trained his fucking ass off, entirely exhausted – he wanted a break, he wanted a vacation, he didn’t want to fight anymore curses, or see anymore of his old classmates die. He didn’t want to take over the Gojo family name, and he sure the fuck didn’t look forward to the inevitable arranged marriage the elders were about to place on him.
Standing in his shower since he was covered in grime from fucking curses exploding, he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like if he was not born a Gojo at all – what would it be like if instead, he had been someone normal? If he was just a normal guy at college, and not training to teach the newbies at Jujutsu high?
If he were a normal twenty two year old man who wasn’t about to have to become the clan leader, and take on all this goddamn responsibility he didn’t ask for? Sure, Satoru loved to be the strongest – but that didn’t mean he enjoyed the constant effort, the secrets, the lies they told – the way everything fell on him and his friends, all the expectations making him drown.
He was a Gojo – they were the strongest, and that’s all there was to it. Day in, day out, everything was simple. KIll everything bad, save everyone he could, but goddamit if he wasn’t exhausted, if he didn’t just want to go be a normal guy – maybe go study physics, study theories of the universe he wishes even he could know more about.
Go look at the stars with a pretty girl and laugh, a girl he chose.
Yet that doesn’t appear to be anything he will get – no, he was born a Gojo, and that was that. Even falling asleep in his silk sheets that night, he could not stop his mind from racing, frowning as thoughts raced through his mind at a rampant pace.
How could Satoru Gojo ever live a normal life?
Well, he wondered what normal meant that next morning when he felt hungover – something he never, ever was. Satoru did not drink, it dulled his senses too much, but every now and then he had gone out with Suguru and Shoko, Nanami throwing back whiskey like it was nothing, but he could barely hold one without getting sick.
And does he feel sick – and he feels sad, more sad than before, like emotional in a way he can’t remember being. He reached out as he felt tears burning his eyes – that doesn’t happen, either. Satoru trained himself not to cry from a young age, but now he’s doing just that, his fingers touching unfamiliar cheeks that were wet with tears he hadn't shed in years.
Unfamiliar.
He looks at this shitty little bed then and screams, plopping out of it – his arms fucking flailing. He can’t even take looking at these thighs – not his lanky ass legs, no, they’re cute thighs, ones he himself would grab and spread if it belonged to a pretty girl underneath him. Cute lil socks on his ankles covered in kittens.
Kittens!?
Satoru stumbles again, bashing his head and feeling hair fall against his shoulders, shocked with that alone, but especially not being white. He stands and rushes to the little dresser – too small for him, everything is too small for him, but he is not six foot four, not one goddamn bit he realizes, looking at his reflection, at the pretty tits half falling out of a tank top spun.
Tits on his body!? He grabs them and squishes them in his hands, confused as fuck now, but he can’t help but keep squishing these pretty tits, as if they could rid him of the fucking stress, looking at the unfamiliar face. Softer features than his, completely different in every way – though she…
He!?
This body was beautiful, this face was lovely, the type of girl he’d flirt with or throw on his charm, but be just a little nervous, a little shy. Her lips are swollen as if she’d been kissed all night, he knows that look from women he’s been with, that hung over, fucked out look – though…
He doesn’t feel fucked – well how would he know!?!? He pulls aside those shorts, blushing and then covering back up, the panties were just a little wet, soaking the matching kittens. And that’s when it hits him, that clenching feeling in his tummy – he’s got a pussy.
And TITS.
Satoru Gojo is a…
Knock knock knock.
Maybe it’s Suguru and this is a joke, maybe this is a curse fucking with him – it’s one of those terrible fucking villains who make his life hell, and he’s cast under something. Or it’s a test – Yaga is fucking with him, making sure he can tell what’s real or not. Some Gojo initiation.
Anything but what this is – when a girl knocks at the door and smiles at Satoru, leaning against the door and crossing her arms.
“How was the first kiss, birthday girl?” She teases, Satoru blinks.
“Um… kiss…”
She says your name then.
Your name, is that your name?
Just who are you?
“Are you skipping physics? Aren’t you failing bad?” She asks now, clearly concerned as Satoru sputters.
HIM failing physics? There was no fucking way – well, that and Satoru IS NOT A WOMAN. “Failing? Nah, I don’t fail any subject.”
“Girl last night you were a mess about it, what’s wrong?” She asks again, he shakes his head, well – your head – and your phone is ringing. “Gonna get that?”
“Yeah.”
What’s your pattern!? What’s your phone pattern!? He tries so many times he gets completely locked out, cursing. “Maybe you’re still drunk?”
“Um yeah, I’m gonna take a shower and… get it together!” Satoru says, trying to get used to the girlie voice rather than his own, laughing as he awkwardly rubs the back of his neck – much softer than his own. When she finally leaves he leans against the door, picking up that phone again – a glittery pink one.
What the fuck?
*****
You were wearing this unfamiliar dark clothing – you’ll give Satoru this, the man has taste – it was as fancy as clothing could get. You’re absolutely sure that it costs more money than anything in your dorm put together, even these shades you have to wear must be expensive.
One moment you’re another girl, the next – you’re seeing curses.
"Focus, Gojo,” Suguru is his name – apparently, the man with the long dark hair, smiling tiredly as he smokes a cigarette. “You’re off today.”
“Right, focus…” You trail off and sigh, holding up your hand and gasping when blinding light erupts from your palms, obliterating the practice dummies right in front of you. You stare at your shaking hands – huge ones, by the way, all of this goddamn man was huge. “I did that!?”
“Rub it in,” Shoko teases, laughing as she leans against Suguru, smoking a cigarette and laughing at you a bit. “We know you’re the best, Gojo. Stop acting as if you’re like us.”
“I’m not…” You trail off then, focusing on this insane fucking energy again, feeling it course through your veins.
You don’t even get tired, like something is regenerating you constantly.
What the fuck was this? What was this power, these creatures, any of it they were talking about? You can only hope when you go to bed tonight, everything is fucking normal – that you’re failing physics, and that you’re not a six foot four rich man who seemingly never gets a break.
And you thought you worked hard.
Every moment of Satoru Gojo’s day was taken up – from training, to this driver named Ijichi who takes him all over, to the next meeting where you have to fucking hope you can keep up this act, a room full of doors, interrogating Satoru about his upcoming wedding.
This man is getting married?
There are photos of prospective brides, and all you can do is shuffle through them, curious when the fuck you were going to wake up and not have a dick.
****
“You cheated on this test!” The professor of physics comes and yells at Satoru after he aces the test, he raises a brow at her. “No way you didn’t.”
“Why would I cheat?”
“You are the worst student in my class,” she slams the paper on Satoru’s desk, a blank test with different questions. “Do this, and I’ll watch you the whole time.”
His classmates – well they’re your classmates – look at him, all worried, but he aces the goddamn test again, until she’s sputtering. Satoru can see why you suck at physics, considering how mean she is – but luckily he just knows everything, and she can’t argue a second time.
“Well, I guess you pass.” She mumbles, handing him his paper with a hundred percent. “Barely!”
Satoru is tired when his phone goes off – work at six.
WORK.
He has to go work!?
He re-set your pattern to a fingerprint, so he got your phone open – and found just where you work, a little coffee shop. Satoru was a goddamn barista. He was getting bitched out by customers when he’s used to fighting curses – and that’s the craziest thing of all, besides having tits and a pussy.
He couldn’t see well – in fact, your vision was shitty. You had to wear glasses and these weird contact things, and he certainly couldn’t see curses – they could be all around, and he wouldn’t sense them.
He had to get back to his damn body.
*****
You’re so tired when you come back to the Gojo mansion you plop in the living room chair, yawning and kicking off his dress shoes, eyes shutting with your head leaned back. Your body is sore, and you still can’t sleep – this aching, gnawing feeling of being inside this huge body taking over, wondering just what sort of hallucination you were having.
You fall asleep on that couch, as Satoru crashes face first in your tiny little dorm room, and the two of you wonder…
Will you wake up from this weird fucking dream, of bodies you two can't recognize? Was any of this real?
patreon - comms
as these are short they'll actually be coming out fast hehe - this was eating me UP I can't wait for some juicy angst
i really enjoyed your fred weasley fic!! will you write a part 2? obviously no pressure, just curious
Contraband - Part Two
part 1
One: Before The Others
The morning of the Hogsmeade visit was grey and cold in the specific way November saved for occasions when it wanted to make a point.
You'd woken up early. Which was not something you did naturally or gracefully — you were a person who required a full transition period between sleeping and functioning and resented any suggestion otherwise — but you'd woken up early because Fred Weasley had said tomorrow, Hogsmeade, before the others, and apparently that was enough to override eight years of sleeping habits.
You'd told yourself, getting dressed, that it wasn't a big deal.
You'd told yourself, walking down the corridor, that it was just Hogsmeade, people went all the time, it wasn't a significant event.
You'd told yourself, coming down the stairs, that the fact that your hands were doing something slightly nervous was completely unrelated to Fred Weasley.
Fred Weasley was at the bottom of the stairs.
Already there. Leaning against the wall like someone who had been there long enough to get comfortable, which meant he'd been there a while, which meant he'd woken up early too, which was — not nothing.
He looked up when he heard you coming and something happened to his face. Quick and involuntary. Gone almost before you could clock it, replaced with the grin, but you'd seen the other thing first.
'You're on time,' he said.
'I'm always on time.'
'You were late to Charms twice last week.'
'That was — Professor Flitwick moves the start time arbitrarily, I've said this — '
'You were late to breakfast yesterday.'
'Breakfast doesn't have a start time.'
'It has a window,' he said. 'You missed the window.'
'The window is very long.'
'Not for you, apparently.'
You stared at him. 'Are you cataloguing my timekeeping?'
He looked extremely unrepentant. 'I notice things.'
'About my punctuality.'
'Among other things.'
Among other things.
Said with complete ease, like it wasn't an enormous statement just folded into the middle of an argument about breakfast windows.
'Right,' you said, because that was all you had. 'Shall we go then.'
'We shall,' he said, and pushed off the wall, and held the door open, and the Hogsmeade morning came in cold and grey and entirely itself.
✦ ✦ ✦
The village before the crowds was a different thing entirely.
Quieter. The shops just opening, the cobblestones wet from the night's frost, the sky doing its low grey thing over the rooftops. You'd been here dozens of times and never quite seen it like this — or maybe you had and it had just never mattered as much, without Fred Weasley's shoulder occasionally touching yours as you walked.
He took you to Honeydukes first.
Not because either of you particularly needed sweets at eight in the morning, but because, as Fred explained, the best strategy was to arrive before the third years formed their impenetrable scrum around the sugar quills.
'Tactical,' you said.
'Always.' He held the door. 'Also I want to show you something.'
The something was in the back corner of the shop — a tin of what looked like ordinary Scottish tablet, labelled in plain script, sitting on the bottom shelf where most people wouldn't look.
'This,' Fred said, picking it up with the reverence of someone handling something significant, 'is their test batch. They try new things sometimes, low quantity, no fanfare. Most people miss it.'
'How do you know about it?'
'I've spent a concerning amount of time in this shop over five years. You learn things.' He turned the tin over. 'This one's got something in it. Lemon, I think, but there's something else.'
'Earl Grey,' you said, reading the small print on the base.
He looked at the base. Looked at you. 'How did you — '
'I can read upside down.'
'That's — '
'A useful skill, yes.'
'Deeply strange is what I was going to say.' But he was grinning. 'Can you actually — '
'Most things. If the font isn't too small.'
He looked at you the way he'd been looking at you lately — like you were something that kept giving him new information and he hadn't decided yet what to do with how much he liked that.
'Right,' he said. 'We're getting the tin.'
'You don't have to — '
'We're getting the tin,' he said again, already moving toward the counter, and you followed him because the alternative was standing in the corner of Honeydukes alone, and also because you wanted to.
Two: The Three Broomsticks. George's Timing. The Usual.
It was George's fault, technically.
He'd arrived at the Three Broomsticks a full forty-five minutes before anyone else was supposed to, which either meant his internal clock was malfunctioning or he'd done it on purpose. Given that it was George Weasley, the probability distribution was heavily weighted toward the latter.
You and Fred had found a table in the corner — not deliberately secluded, just the one that was empty, which happened to be the one that was furthest from the door — and had been there long enough to get through one round of butterbeer and an argument about whether the Chudley Cannons had ever had a competent Keeper, which you had strong opinions about and so did Fred, and the opinions were incompatible.
'They had Okenabo in eighty-seven,' you said.
'Okenabo retired after one season.'
'Because of an injury, not performance — '
'An injury sustained,' Fred said, leaning forward with the energy of someone making a critical point, 'because of a fundamental flaw in his defensive positioning that a competent coaching staff would have corrected before it became — '
'You cannot blame the player for the coaching staff — '
'I'm not blaming the player, I'm blaming the system the player existed in, which, if you'll let me finish — '
'I'm not stopping you from finishing.'
'You interrupted me twice.'
'You were making a wrong point.'
'I hadn't finished making it yet, it hadn't become wrong — '
'Well,' said George Weasley, appearing from nowhere and pulling out a chair with magnificent casualness, 'this looks cosy.'
Fred and you both looked at him.
'You're early,' Fred said.
'Am I?' George looked around the pub with theatrical innocence. 'Funny. Thought I was on time.'
'You are forty-five minutes early, George.'
'Clocks are suggestions.' He sat down. Looked at the two of you, at the close table, at the fact that the conversation had clearly been in progress for some time. His expression was the one he wore when he was being very purposeful about appearing purposeless. 'What are we arguing about?'
'Cannons,' you said.
'Okenabo specifically,' Fred said.
'Ah.' George looked at Fred. 'She's right, by the way.'
'She — you haven't heard her argument.'
'I don't need to. You're wrong about Okenabo. Always have been. I've told you this.'
'You have not — '
'Third year, we had this exact conversation, you were wrong then too.'
Fred looked at you. You looked at Fred. You both looked at George.
'Thank you, George,' you said.
'My pleasure,' he said, helping himself to Fred's butterbeer with the serenity of someone who had done it a thousand times. 'I'll take that. You two were clearly busy.'
'We were having a conversation — '
'You were,' George agreed. 'About Quidditch. Very romantic.'
'George,' Fred said.
'I'm just sitting here.'
'You're doing the thing.'
'I'm not doing anything. I'm drinking your butterbeer because you weren't.' He looked at you. 'He gets distracted.'
'I've noticed,' you said.
'Good thing about him, actually. When something's got his attention he doesn't notice much else.'
Fred was looking at the table with the expression of a man who had been best friends with someone his entire life and occasionally found it a significant inconvenience.
'I'm going to get another round,' he said, standing up with dignity. 'George, come with me.'
'I'm comfortable.'
'George.'
'It's very far to the bar.'
'It's twelve feet.'
'That's far.'
'GEORGE.'
George stood up. He looked at you over Fred's shoulder as Fred steered him toward the bar, and he gave you a look that was somehow simultaneously an apology and not an apology at all, and then he grinned, and you understood completely: he was here because he wanted to see how it was going, and now he had, and he was entirely satisfied with the data.
You drank your butterbeer and decided you didn't mind.
✦ ✦ ✦
The others arrived in stages — Angelina and Alicia together, Lee Jordan with his usual chaos energy, a handful of DA members who had apparently all had the same idea about the Three Broomsticks — and the quiet table in the corner became not particularly quiet.
Which was fine. Normal. What Hogsmeade visits were.
Fred had come back from the bar with three butterbeers and reclaimed his seat, which was next to you, and George had sat across from you with the air of someone who had done what he came to do and was now simply enjoying himself.
The conversation expanded with the group. Plans for the next Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes product line — Fred and George had been testing something new, Lee was the designated skeptic — and Quidditch, and whether Umbridge's latest decree actually had any legal basis, and other things, the layered ordinary conversation of a group of people who had been friends long enough to talk about everything at once.
You were in the middle of saying something to Angelina about the DA when you noticed Fred had gone quiet.
Not distant-quiet — he was still there, still following the conversation. Just. Listening. And at some point during the listening, his arm had settled along the back of your chair.
Not quite around your shoulders. The back of your chair. Technical plausible deniability, if anyone wanted to invoke it.
Nobody invoked it. Angelina's mouth twitched. Lee kept talking. George, across the table, lifted his butterbeer to hide a smile.
You kept talking to Angelina.
Fred kept his arm where it was.
The pub was warm and loud and the butterbeer was good and the morning, grey as it was, was better than it had any right to be.
Three: The Walk Back. What Almost Gets Said.
People peeled off gradually — Lee first, then Alicia, then a general dispersal in the direction of various shops and commitments and the specific drift of an afternoon that didn't have anywhere it needed to be.
George left last, with the same magnificent timing he'd arrived with. He stood up, stretched, said 'think I'll head back early,' caught Fred's eye across the table, and was gone before Fred had time to say anything, which was — the thing about twins, you were learning, was that they communicated in a way that bypassed language entirely, and what George had just communicated was approximately: you're welcome.
Which left you and Fred in the corner of the Three Broomsticks with the afternoon outside going grey-gold the way winter afternoons did, and no particular reason to stay and no particular urgency about leaving.
'Walk back?' Fred said.
'Walk back,' you agreed.
The village was different in the afternoon. Fuller, louder, the crowds that hadn't been there this morning now browsing in and out of Zonko's and Scrivenshaft's with the leisurely energy of people who had no exams until Monday. You walked through it side by side, not quite touching, the half-inch of cold air between you doing a lot of work.
'George likes you,' Fred said, after a while.
'I like George.'
'He doesn't like most people immediately. Takes him a while.' He paused. 'He liked you immediately.'
'He arrived forty-five minutes early to our — ' you stopped.
'To our what,' Fred said, and he wasn't quite looking at you, watching the road ahead, but there was something careful about the way he'd said it.
'Morning,' you said.
'Right,' he said. 'Our morning.'
The cold air between you was doing a very significant amount of work.
'For what it's worth,' Fred said, and his voice was different — still Fred, but the quieter register, the one without the performance — 'he arrived early because he wanted to check. That's George's version of vetting someone.'
'Arriving uninvited and stealing your butterbeer?'
'He does things differently.'
'He said you get distracted when something has your attention.'
Fred was quiet for a moment.
'He's not wrong,' he said.
You looked at him. He was looking at the road, jaw set in a way that meant he was saying something carefully.
'You've had my attention,' he said, 'since September. Since the educational malpractice thing. In case that wasn't — in case I wasn't being obvious enough.'
'You were obvious enough.'
'Was I?'
'Fred. You used the phrase fourteen times.'
'In my defence — '
'You told me it was yours because you'd claimed it. You have an ongoing legal system with George specifically so you could claim things.'
'The legal system predates you.'
'I know. I'm saying you applied it to me specifically.'
He finally looked at you. They were nearly back at the castle gates — the walk had gone faster than it should have, or time had done something — and the afternoon light was doing that specific thing it did in November, gold and low, making everything look briefly warmer than it was.
'Yeah,' he said. 'I did.'
You stopped walking. He stopped a half-step later, turned to look at you.
The gates were fifty metres away. The grounds were mostly empty. The castle sat above it all with its usual ancient indifference to whatever was happening at its feet.
'I've had your attention since September,' you said.
'Yeah.'
'And you walked me to the library and told George to give you the table and came to the Room of Requirement early and now Hogsmeade.'
'Yeah.'
'And last week in the Room of Requirement you — '
'Yeah.'
'You're going to have to use more words eventually, Weasley.'
He laughed — short and warm — and stepped forward, closing the distance between you that had been doing so much work all morning, and said, very simply:
'I like you. A lot. Since September. And I'm not — I'm not usually the one who — ' He stopped. Tried again. 'George is better at saying things straight. I do the other thing, the joke, the deflection. But I'm trying not to do that right now because you said you prefer the true ones and so — '
'Fred,' you said.
'Yeah.'
'I know.'
A beat.
'You know,' he said.
'I've known for a while. I was waiting for you to get there.'
'You were — '
'Patiently,' you said. 'I was waiting patiently.'
He stared at you. And then he laughed, properly, and it was the best sound in the world because it was surprised and real and completely his.
'You could have said something,' he said.
'You had it. I didn't want to rush you.'
'I've been working up to this since October.'
'I know.'
'I had a whole — I rehearsed — '
'Fred.'
'There was a structure to it — '
'Fred,' you said. 'Come here.'
He came.
The castle gates were fifty metres away and the sky was doing its low gold thing and Fred Weasley was looking at you the way he'd been almost looking at you since September — openly, without the management of it, the whole thing at once — and then he kissed you, and it was cold and warm simultaneously, which was exactly what November outside a castle felt like, and completely exactly right.
When he pulled back he still had the surprised-real-his quality to him. Like he'd said the true thing and it had gone well and he was still processing that as a category of experience.
'Educational malpractice,' he said.
You closed your eyes. 'Fred.'
'Still mine.'
'You're insufferable.'
'You knew that in September,' he said. 'You liked me anyway.'
You opened your eyes. He was grinning — the full one, the performed one — but his ears were red and his eyes were doing the thing underneath the grin, the quiet honest thing, and you thought: there. That's the one. That's the true one.
'Come on,' you said. 'It's cold.'
'It's bracing.'
'It's November.'
'November is bracing.'
'We're going inside.'
'Fine,' he said. 'Inside.' He fell into step beside you, shoulder to yours, and added: 'I want my Patronus memory back, by the way.'
You looked at him. 'What?'
'In the Room of Requirement. When I told you to use a small moment. I said George's was our mum's cooking on Sundays and I said mine was — and then I stopped.' He glanced at you sideways. 'I stopped because it was you. The thing I was going to say. And I hadn't — it felt like too much to say at that point.'
You stopped walking again.
'Your Patronus memory,' you said slowly, 'is me.'
'Specific moment. First proper conversation we had, you doing the thing with your face when you were concentrating, and then you laughed at something I said and I thought — ' He shrugged, in the way of someone trying to make something smaller than it is. 'Yeah. That one.'
You looked at him for a long moment.
'October,' he said.
'October,' you echoed.
'I know. I know, I said I've had your attention since September but honestly it was — '
'Fred Weasley,' you said.
'Yeah.'
'You are a lot.'
'Consistently, yes.'
'I mean that as a compliment.'
He went a little still. 'Yeah?'
'Yeah,' you said. 'I prefer the true ones, remember? And the true one is that you're a lot, and it's — it's a good lot. The kind worth knowing about.'
Something settled in him. The thing that happened when he stopped performing and just was.
'Right,' he said, quietly.
'Right,' you agreed.
You went inside.
He held the door.
His hand found yours in the warmth of the entrance hall, brief and certain, and you let it, and that was enough, and also everything.
✦ ✦ ✦
George was in the common room when you got back.
He looked up, looked at the two of you, looked at your joined hands with the speed of someone who had been waiting for exactly this data point, and said nothing. He just nodded once, like something had been confirmed, and went back to what he was doing.
'George,' Fred said.
'Mm.'
'Not going to say anything?'
'Nothing to say.' He turned a page. 'I liked her in September too, for the record. Just took you longer to catch up.'
Fred looked at you. 'He liked you in September.'
'I know,' you said. 'He told me at the Three Broomsticks.'
'He — when?'
'While you were at the bar. He said I was right about Okenabo and that you get distracted.'
Fred turned to George. 'You talked to her while I was at the bar.'
'Briefly.'
'About me.'
'About Okenabo,' George said, with great serenity.
'GEORGE — '
'Also about you,' George admitted. 'A little. She needed the full picture.'
'That's — you said that at the coffee shop in third year when you told — '
'I use it when it's applicable,' George said. He looked at you over his book. 'Welcome to the family, by the way. Officially.'
'She's not — we've only just — ' Fred started.
'I know,' George said. 'I'm welcoming her to the family anyway. Fred's had your attention since September. By Weasley metrics that's basically a betrothal.'
'That is NOT the Weasley metric — '
'Mum and Dad met in sixth year.'
'That doesn't mean — '
'Bill and Fleur knew in three weeks.'
'Fleur is a special case — '
'Charlie and his current — '
'George, I swear — '
You sat down in one of the chairs and watched Fred and George Weasley bicker with the practiced rhythm of two people who had been doing it for seventeen years, and the fire was warm, and you had the Honeydukes tin in your pocket, and November outside was doing its relentless grey thing, and Umbridge's latest decree was still pinned to the board by the door.
The year was heavy with things that hadn't happened yet.
That was true and it wasn't going away.
But the fire was warm.
And Fred was here.
And George had said welcome to the family with the straight-faced sincerity of someone who meant it under the joke.
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Contraband
part 2
One: The Weasley Problem
The problem with Fred Weasley was not that he was annoying.
You could have dealt with annoying. Annoying was manageable. Annoying was something you could build a defence against and maintain with reasonable consistency.
The problem with Fred Weasley was that he was annoying and funny and he knew it, and the combination of those three things meant he operated with a kind of confident ease that made it very difficult to look at him without your brain doing something you hadn't given it permission to do.
He sat two rows across from you in Defence Against the Dark Arts.
'Sat' was generous. He occupied the space. Sprawled into it. Took up exactly as much room as he felt like taking up on any given day, and somehow Umbridge had never managed to make him sit up straight, which you suspected was a source of genuine personal anguish for her.
He'd first spoken to you properly in September. Not counting the years of existing in the same castle — you'd been in the same year since first year, you knew who he was the way you knew who everyone was, but knowing wasn't the same as speaking.
September. Umbridge had just handed back a particularly insulting essay grade and you'd made the mistake of muttering 'this is actually educational malpractice' under your breath, and from two rows across Fred Weasley had said, without looking up, 'educational malpractice. I'm using that.'
'Please don't,' you'd said.
'Too late. It's mine now.'
'I coined it.'
'And I've claimed it. Spoils of war.'
Umbridge had looked over. Both of you had looked very interested in your parchment.
After class he'd fallen into step beside you in the corridor and said, 'Fred Weasley. In case you didn't know.'
'I know who you are.'
'Good. What's your name?'
You told him.
'Right,' he said, like he was filing it somewhere. 'I'll be needing that.'
'For what?' you'd asked.
He'd grinned — that specific Fred Weasley grin, the one that meant something was already in motion that you hadn't been informed about — and said 'you'll see' and turned down a different corridor.
You had, in retrospect, been doomed from that moment.
It had taken you several more weeks to admit it.
✦ ✦ ✦
The thing about fifth year was that everything had a weight to it that the previous four hadn't.
You felt it in the corridors — something taut and low, the way the air felt before a storm. Umbridge in the castle and her decrees going up on the noticeboard one after another, each one landing like a small controlled explosion. No gatherings. No organisations. No independent study of defensive magic. The Ministry's hand reaching all the way to Hogwarts and closing around it, slowly, like it had all the time in the world.
You'd heard about the DA from Ginny, who had heard about it from Hermione, who had looked at you with the very specific expression of someone deciding whether to trust you with something important and deciding yes.
'It's risky,' Hermione had said.
'Most worthwhile things are,' you'd said.
Hermione had nodded once, like you'd passed something.
The first meeting was in the Hog's Head, which smelled terrible and was clearly chosen because nobody sane would linger there. You'd filed in with the others, found a space, and were trying to look like someone who attended clandestine anti-Ministry meetings all the time, which was the exact kind of thing you thought about, when Fred Weasley appeared at your elbow.
'Educational malpractice,' he said, very quietly, into the space beside your ear.
You startled. He was closer than you'd expected. Close enough that you could smell the particular Fred Weasley combination of something smoky and something sweet, which was presumably the product of spending every available hour working on things that occasionally exploded.
'You're still using that,' you said.
'It's a good phrase. It captures the full horror of the situation.'
'I want credit.'
'You'll get a footnote,' he said. 'In the official account of the revolution.'
'The revolution.'
'Someone's got to call it that. Might as well start now.'
Harry had started talking at the front of the room. You both turned to listen.
Fred didn't move away.
You didn't move away either.
You told yourself it was just the room being crowded.
The room was not, especially, crowded.
Two: The Room of Requirement
DA meetings became the fixed point of the week.
Everything else was Umbridge's Hogwarts — the decrees, the inspections, the Educational Authority nonsense that had settled over the castle like a particularly vindictive fog. But the Room of Requirement was something else. Warm and lit and full of people who had all collectively decided that learning to defend themselves was worth the risk of being caught, which was, you had decided, one of the braver things you'd ever been part of.
Fred Weasley was, reliably, at your elbow.
Not in a way you could call him out on. Not in a way that was obvious. Just — there. When you were practicing Expelliarmus, there was a Fred-shaped presence somewhere nearby making commentary. When Harry was explaining Patronuses and you were frowning at your wand trying to find the right memory, a voice appeared beside you saying 'you're overthinking it.'
'How do you know?' you'd said.
'Your face does this thing when you're overthinking.'
'My face does not do a thing.'
'It does. It goes — ' he'd pulled a face that was a completely unfair impression of your concentration expression.
'It does not look like that.'
'It looks exactly like that. You look like you're trying to do sums in your head.'
'I'm trying to access a specific memory, it requires concentration — '
'What's the memory?'
You'd stopped.
'Sorry?' you'd said.
'The happy memory. What is it?' He tilted his head. Not joking now, just — asking. Looking at you with an attention that was different from the banter, steadier. 'The best ones are specific. Not big things. Small ones. Moments.'
You'd looked at him for a second. 'How do you know that?'
'Because George's Patronus is our mum's cooking on Sundays,' he said. 'And mine is — ' He stopped. Looked briefly like he hadn't meant to say that much. 'Anyway. Small moments. Try that.'
You'd tried it.
The Patronus had come — silver, substantial, more than the wisp you'd been managing — and Fred had made a sound of satisfaction beside you that you felt more than heard.
'Told you,' he said.
'You did,' you agreed.
He was already grinning. Back to Fred, the version you were used to. But you'd seen the other one, just for a moment, and you were not going to be able to un-see it.
Which was, you were beginning to understand, rather the problem.
✦ ✦ ✦
The Decoy Detonators incident happened on a Thursday.
You hadn't been involved, technically. You'd been in the corridor adjacent to the one where a small army of Fred and George's prototype devices had gone off simultaneously, which technically put you in the wrong place at an extremely interesting time.
You'd been pulled into an alcove by a hand around your wrist — Fred, appearing from nowhere the way he always seemed to, George immediately behind him — just as Filch came thundering around the corner.
The three of you pressed back into the shadows. Fred's hand was still around your wrist. Filch stood in the corridor for approximately thirty seconds that felt significantly longer, peered at the smoke still curling from the Detonators, muttered something unprintable, and left.
Silence.
George looked at the two of you, looked at Fred's hand on your wrist, and said 'I'll meet you upstairs' with the energy of someone exercising enormous self-control, and left.
Fred's hand dropped. He had the grace to look slightly caught out, which was not an expression you saw on him often.
'Sorry,' he said. 'Reflex.'
'Pulling people into alcoves is a reflex?'
'Pulling people out of the path of trouble is a reflex.' He glanced at the corridor where Filch had been. 'You were about to walk right into that.'
'I was going to the library.'
'You were going to the library via a corridor full of our finest work.' He said it with complete pride. 'You're welcome, by the way.'
'I didn't say thank you.'
'That's what the 'you're welcome' was for. Pre-emptive.'
You looked at him. The alcove was not large. He hadn't moved back, which meant the distance between you was the distance of two people who had just been pressing themselves into shadows trying not to get caught, which was to say: not much.
'Were those the Decoy Detonators?' you said. 'The ones you were testing last month?'
He blinked. 'You remember that?'
'You mentioned them. In the Hog's Head, that first meeting. You said you were working on something that would cause a diversion.'
Fred Weasley looked at you the way people looked at things that had surprised them.
'You were listening,' he said.
'I listen to most things.'
'I talk a lot.'
'I know. I still listened.'
Something moved across his face. There and gone. He stepped back, gave you the corridor distance back, and the moment was over.
'Come on then,' he said. 'Library's this way. I'll walk you, make sure there aren't any more diversions en route.'
'That you caused.'
'Details,' he said, and gestured for you to walk, and fell into step beside you, and you went to the library with Fred Weasley as an escort and tried very hard to think about books.
You thought about him the whole way.
Three: Umbridge Makes a Mistake
Umbridge inspected your Defence class on a Wednesday.
You had been warned it was coming — the whisper network in Hogwarts was efficient in the way of all things that formed in response to something intolerable — and so most of the class had arrived prepared to look precisely as obedient and useless as she wanted them to be.
Fred and George had other ideas.
It started small. A question asked with perfect, polished innocence about whether Ministry-approved theory was consistent with the spells used in documented dark wizard encounters. Umbridge had said yes. Fred had said, with an expression of complete sincerity, that he'd read something suggesting otherwise and could she clarify. Umbridge had clarified. George had asked a follow-up question. Fred had countered with a point. The whole thing had the quality of watching two cats calmly bat a vase toward the edge of a table, and Umbridge's smile was getting tighter by the minute, and the rest of the class had gone completely still in the way of people witnessing something that could go badly wrong and finding it impossible to look away.
You were sitting directly in front of Fred, one row up.
He leaned forward and said, barely a breath, 'she's going to snap in about three questions.'
'Two,' you murmured back, without turning around.
'Bet?'
'What are the stakes?'
'If I win, you have to come to the next DA meeting early and help us test something.'
'That sounds dangerous.'
'Mildly.'
'And if I win?'
A pause. Umbridge was answering George's question through a smile that had become essentially structural.
'Name it,' Fred said.
You thought about it for exactly the length of time it took George to ask the follow-up question.
'You stop stealing my phrases,' you said.
'Educational malpractice is my phrase now.'
'It was never your phrase.'
'I've used it fourteen times since September.'
'That's called theft, Fred.'
He made a sound that might have been a laugh converted into a cough at the last second.
Umbridge snapped on George's second follow-up question.
Not loudly — she didn't do loud. But the smile went completely rigid and she said, in the soft deadly voice she used when she'd had enough, that she thought that would be sufficient discussion for the day.
George sat back, satisfied.
Fred leaned forward again. 'Two questions. You win.'
'Thank you.'
'Educational malpractice is still mine though.'
'You agreed to the stakes, Weasley.'
'I agreed to stop stealing your phrases. I'm arguing that prior acquisition counts as possession.'
'That is not how that works.'
'It's how it works in my legal system.'
'You don't have a legal system.'
'I'm working on one,' he said. 'George is the co-founder. We've been drafting since third year.'
You turned around, just slightly, just enough to look at him over your shoulder.
He was grinning. Close — your desk was only a row ahead — and looking at you with that specific attention that made it hard to remember what you'd been going to say.
'Fine,' you said. 'Keep it. It suits you anyway.'
He blinked. Like that wasn't what he'd been expecting.
'Yeah?' he said.
'You're the one actually doing something about it,' you said. 'You've earned the phrase.'
Umbridge dismissed the class. People started moving. Fred didn't, for a second, just looked at you with an expression you couldn't entirely decode.
'Come to the next DA meeting early,' he said.
'I won the bet.'
'I know. Come anyway.'
He left before you could answer, catching up with George in the corridor.
You gathered your things.
You were going to go early. You'd already decided.
You weren't going to tell him that yet.
Four: Early
You went early.
The Room of Requirement was already configured when you arrived — mats on the floor, practice dummies in the corner, the warm light that the room always chose for these evenings. Fred was there, sitting on the floor with components spread out around him in the organised chaos of someone who knew exactly where everything was even when it looked like nothing was in order.
He looked up when you came in and something — quick, genuine, there before he managed anything over it — moved across his face.
'You came,' he said.
'I said I might.'
'You said you weren't going to tell me.'
'I wasn't. I'm here anyway.' You came and sat on the floor across from him, looking at the components. 'What is it?'
'Portable swamp,' he said. 'Prototype. We've been testing the containment.'
'What does it do?'
'Exactly what it sounds like.' He picked up one of the small packages. 'Except it needs to deploy in an enclosed space without flooding the whole building. That's the part we haven't solved yet.'
'Spatial limitation charms,' you said. 'You'd need to set a boundary before deployment.'
He looked at you. 'Go on.'
'The charm would have to go on first, not the device,' you said, thinking it through. 'Otherwise the swamp expands to fill available space. If you set the boundary before — like a ward, basically — the swamp reads the ward as a wall.'
Fred was quiet for a moment. Looking at you with that steady attention. 'That's — yeah. That's the part George and I kept getting stuck on. We kept trying to limit the device itself.'
'You can't control the output, you can only control the space.'
'That's exactly it.' He leaned forward slightly. 'How'd you work that out?'
'Charms theory. Containment principles. We did it in fourth year, Professor Flitwick.'
'I was probably not listening in fourth year Charms.'
'Probably not,' you agreed.
He smiled. It was a different smile from the grin — quieter, less performed, the one she suspected most people didn't get to see.
'You're clever,' he said, simply. Not a compliment designed to get somewhere. Just a thing he'd observed and said.
'I know,' you said, which made him laugh — quick and real, head tilting back slightly — and the Room of Requirement was warm and empty and there were forty minutes until anyone else would arrive and Fred Weasley was laughing and sitting three feet away from you and you thought: there it is. There's the problem, clearly named at last.
You were absolutely gone on him.
You'd been gone on him for weeks.
You had no idea what to do with that.
✦ ✦ ✦
He taught you the containment application. Walked you through the modifications, which meant forty minutes of the two of you on the floor of the Room of Requirement with components between you and his voice doing the thing it did when he was explaining something he cared about — still warm, still Fred, but focused, specific, not performing anything.
At some point the distance had reduced without either of you formally deciding to reduce it. He'd leaned in to show you something and stayed leaned in. You were close enough that you could see the small scar above his left eyebrow that you'd noticed before and never asked about.
'The scar,' you said, before you could stop yourself.
He glanced up. 'What about it?'
'How did you get it?'
'Which story do you want? I have three.'
'The true one.'
He looked at you for a moment. 'Exploding Snap, second year. George dared me to hold the card too long and I held it too long.'
'That's much less dramatic than the options you implied.'
'The other two are better. A dragon features in one. Completely false, but compelling.'
'I'll take the true one,' you said. 'I prefer those.'
He tilted his head. That slight recalibration he did sometimes, like you'd said something that made him reassess something else.
'Most people want the dragon,' he said.
'Most people don't know you well enough to know the truth is better.'
The words sat between you.
You hadn't fully intended them to come out like that — weighted, specific. But they had, and Fred Weasley was looking at you in the warm light of the Room of Requirement and not saying anything, which was, for Fred Weasley, a significant event.
'Is that right,' he said, finally. Not a question.
'I think so,' you said, keeping your voice level.
He looked at you for another moment. Then, slowly, deliberately — giving you every opportunity to move if you wanted to — he reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.
Just that. Nothing more.
Your breath did something it didn't have permission to do.
'I've been trying to work something out,' he said quietly.
'What?'
'Whether you'd mind if I — ' He stopped. His hand had dropped but not far, resting near your knee, not quite touching. 'Whether this is something you'd want.'
'This,' you said.
'Yeah.'
'You're going to have to be more specific than that, Weasley.'
He looked at you. 'No I don't,' he said. 'I think you know exactly what I mean.'
You did.
You'd known what he meant for weeks. Maybe longer.
'I'd want it,' you said.
The smile came back. The quiet one. 'Yeah?'
'Yeah.'
He leaned in —
The door opened.
George walked in, stopped, took in the scene with the rapid assessment of someone who had spent seventeen years reading his twin, and said 'oh' in a tone that contained a truly impressive amount of information.
Fred did not lean back. He just turned his head and looked at George with extraordinary calm.
'You're early,' Fred said.
'You told me to come early,' George said. 'To help test the — ' He looked at the components on the floor. Looked at you. Looked at Fred. 'The portable swamp.'
'We solved the containment problem,' you said.
'Did you.' George was having an extremely good time. It was written all over him. 'Brilliant. The swamp. Solved.'
'George,' Fred said.
'I'll just — ' George gestured vaguely at the other side of the room. 'Go over here. Test some things. Alone.'
'Thank you,' Fred said.
'Take your time,' George said, moving away with magnificent dignity. 'The swamp will keep.'
You looked at Fred.
Fred looked at you.
'Right,' he said, low enough that it didn't carry. 'Where were we.'
'I believe,' you said, equally quiet, 'you were being more specific.'
He laughed — surprised, warm — and this time when he leaned in there was no door opening, and he was specific, and it was — brief, because people were going to start arriving, but entirely, completely enough to confirm everything you'd been not-examining for months.
When he pulled back he was still smiling. The quiet one.
'Educational malpractice,' he said.
'What?'
'Still mine. Just so we're clear.'
You laughed, helpless, and he looked at you laughing the way you'd seen him look at things he liked — openly, without trying to manage it.
'Fine,' you said. 'Keep it.'
'I intend to,' he said. And then, quieter, just for you: 'among other things.'
✦ ✦ ✦
People started arriving ten minutes later.
George, from across the room, caught your eye and gave you a look of such extravagant satisfaction that you had to look at the ceiling to keep a straight face.
Fred pretended to notice nothing. He was extremely bad at it. His ears were red.
Harry started the meeting.
Fred sat next to you. Close. Not touching, because there were people everywhere and this was new and fragile and neither of you had decided what to do with it yet.
But close.
And when you were practicing Shield Charms and he corrected your stance — hands brief and light on your shoulders, adjusting the angle — he said, very quietly, 'better' and his voice was warm and specific and entirely for you and only you.
And when the meeting ended and everyone filed out and George said he'd see Fred upstairs with the manner of someone giving two people space on purpose, Fred turned to you in the emptying room and said:
'Tomorrow. Hogsmeade. Before the others.'
'Is that a question?' you said.
'It's a request.'
'A polite one, even.'
'I'm trying something new.'
You looked at him. Fred Weasley in the warm light, ears still slightly red, looking at you with the most sincere expression you'd seen on him.
'Tomorrow,' you said. 'Before the others.'
His whole face did something wonderful.
'Good,' he said. And then, because he was Fred: 'I'll file that under 'wins'.'
'You have a file for wins?'
'Extensive one.' He held the door open. 'You feature in it more than once.'
You walked through. He fell into step beside you.
The corridor was cold and Umbridge's latest decree was pinned to the board at the end of it and the year was heavy with things that hadn't happened yet.
But Fred Weasley was warm beside you and his shoulder was pressed to yours and you were going to Hogsmeade tomorrow before the others and right now that was enough.
When your friends dare you to test Fred Weasley’s jealousy, you find yourself in a series of increasingly bold outfits - from short skirts to scandalous dresses - only to be met with maddeningly calm reactions. While your friends are convinced Fred is simply unshakable, you can’t help but wonder if he even notices at all. But when your frustration finally boils over, Fred proves he’s been watching the whole time - with a smirk, a kiss, and a line that melts you completely.
———————————————————————
The Gryffindor common room had a way of feeling like its own little world once curfew had passed. The fire crackled lazily in the hearth, painting the stone walls gold and crimson, and the usual bustle of voices had dwindled into the softer hum of laughter and whispers. You, Angelina, Katie, and Alicia had taken over the best corner with a fortress of blankets and pillows, mugs of cocoa half-drained and biscuits scattered on a plate between you.
It was one of those nights when the girls talked about everything - Quidditch, professors, homework, and most importantly, boyfriends.
Katie had just finished recounting her latest disaster. “I swear, he actually glared at me in Zonko’s for wearing my skirt. Said it was ‘too short.’ Can you believe that? Like it’s my fault his eyes nearly fell out of his head.”
Angelina groaned. “Boys and their fragile egos. George gets twitchy if another bloke so much as looks at me in the hallway.”
“I thought you liked that,” you teased.
Angelina smirked. “Well, sometimes.”
The laughter rippled around the circle, warming the space almost as much as the fire. Alicia tucked her legs under her blanket and rolled her eyes dramatically. “Mine hated that sleeveless top I wore in Hogsmeade. Said I looked ‘too much’ for a lunch date. Like, excuse me, what does that even mean?”
It turned into a chorus of complaints - possessive comments, jealous sulking, ridiculous rules - and then, almost in unison, their gazes swiveled to you.
“Well?” Katie demanded, her smirk positively wicked. “What about Fred? Surely he’s thrown a fit once or twice.”
You blinked. “Fred?”
“Yes, Fred,” Angelina said with mock exasperation, tossing a pillow at you. “Tall, red hair, constant troublemaker, kisses you like you’re the only person in the castle…ringing any bells?”
You rolled your eyes, hugging the pillow to your chest. “I know who Fred is, thank you very much. But no. He’s never said anything.”
Alicia’s brow shot up. “Never?”
“Not once.” You shrugged like it was obvious, but your cheeks warmed under their scrutiny. “Fred doesn’t care what I wear. He’s…Fred. He’s usually too busy planning how to explode dungbombs in Filch’s office to worry about whether my jumper has a low enough neckline.”
“As if,” Katie scoffed. “Boys are always weird about it at some point.”
“Not him,” you insisted.
Angelina narrowed her eyes, that mischievous spark lighting in them. “Maybe it’s because you don’t wear anything he’d notice.”
You gasped. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, come on,” Alicia laughed. “You’re hardly parading around in scandalous outfits.”
You threw your pillow at her. “I do too!”
“Not really,” Katie sing-songed, grinning.
You were spluttering for a comeback when Angelina leaned forward, smirk turning downright devilish. “Alright, then. Prove it. Wear something a little…naughty, tomorrow. See what Fred does.”
Your jaw dropped. “You’re joking.”
“Deadly serious,” Katie said, her eyes sparkling. “We’re making this an experiment.”
“Oh, this is going to be good,” Alicia chimed in, clapping her hands together.
“Absolutely not,” you said flatly, trying to bury your burning face in your pillow.
“Yes,” Angelina countered, already buzzing with excitement. “Think of it as…research. For science.”
“Science?” you echoed, incredulous.
“Mm-hm,” she said, utterly serious. “The science of male idiocy. We need to know if Fred is some rare exception to the jealousy rule or if he’s just very, very good at hiding it.”
The chorus of agreement rose around you, their voices overlapping until you groaned.
“Please, you lot are ridiculous—”
“Please?” Katie clasped her hands together dramatically. “Do it for us. Do it for womankind.”
“For womankind?” you repeated, laughing despite yourself.
“Yes,” Angelina said solemnly. “Besides, you’ve already got the perfect test subject. He’s besotted with you, which makes him ideal.”
Your cheeks warmed at the word besotted, though you tried to hide it behind another groan. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“Not a chance,” Alicia said.
Angelina grinned triumphantly. “So it’s settled, then. Tomorrow, you wear something short. Skirt, dress, doesn’t matter. See what happens.”
You buried your face in your pillow and muffled, “I hate you all.”
Their laughter rang through the common room, bright and victorious, and you knew - even as you sat there swearing up and down you wouldn’t do it - that you were already doomed to cave.
———————————————————————
The next morning, you sat on the edge of your bed with your head in your hands, glaring at the traitorous garment lying across your knees. A skirt. A short one.
Angelina, Katie, and Alicia were sprawled dramatically across the other beds, watching you like a panel of judges.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” you muttered.
“You agreed,” Angelina sing-songed.
“You forced me!”
“We encouraged you,” Alicia corrected sweetly, propping her chin on her hand. “There’s a difference.”
Katie grinned. “Oh, this is going to be brilliant. I want front-row seats to Fred’s meltdown.”
“There won’t be a meltdown because nothing is going to happen,” you said firmly, but the way your stomach squirmed as you stood and pulled the skirt into place betrayed your nerves.
It was shorter than you usually wore - just grazing your mid-thigh - and paired with a slouchy jumper, you felt both ridiculous and exposed. You smoothed your hands down the fabric, cheeks hot. “I look stupid.”
Angelina sat up and whistled. “You look hot. Fred’s going to trip over his own feet.”
Your pulse jumped.
The common room was buzzing with early risers when you descended the stairs. Fred was leaning against the back of the sofa, head thrown back in laughter at something George was saying, that familiar freckled grin lighting up his whole face.
You swallowed hard.
“Alright,” you whispered to yourself. “Here goes nothing.”
Fred spotted you almost instantly, grin widening as he pushed off the sofa and came striding toward you. His long legs made it impossible to escape, and before you could even brace yourself, he swooped in and pressed a warm kiss to your cheek.
“Morning, love,” he said brightly, arm looping around your shoulders. He smelled faintly of cinnamon and sugar, like always.
You braced for the comment - for the frown, the teasing, something - but instead, he launched right into a story.
“So George and I were in Zonko’s yesterday, and wait ‘til you hear this! We’ve finally cracked the spell formula for the trick wands. Oh, you’re going to love it—”
And that was it.
He didn’t look twice at your legs. Didn’t even blink. His arm around you was easy and comfortable, and his laugh was so carefree it made you want to scream. By the time you reached the Great Hall for breakfast, you were seething quietly.
That night, you reported back to the girls, sprawled across your blanket fort once more.
“Nothing?” Katie asked, incredulous.
“Not a word?” Alicia echoed, eyes wide.
You shook your head miserably. “Not a single bloody thing. He just told me about joke wands for ten minutes.”
Angelina groaned and flopped back on her pillow. “He’s either completely blind or completely unfazed. And I don’t know which one is worse.”
Katie narrowed her eyes, determination sparking. “Alright. Time to up the stakes.”
You groaned into your pillow. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake.”
Alicia’s grin spread. “Skirt didn’t do it? Next time…jeans. Tight ones. And a top to match.”
The girls giggled, already plotting, and you couldn’t help but feel the creeping dread in your stomach.
Because if Fred really didn’t care what you wore…what did that mean?
———————————————————————
By the time the next Hogsmeade trip rolled around, you were regretting everything.
Katie had all but shoved the outfit into your arms. Tight, low-rise jeans that clung to your hips in a way that made you blush just looking at them, and a snug, low-cut top that left very little to imagination.
“I can’t wear this in public,” you hissed, staring at yourself in the mirror of the girls’ dorm.
Angelina leaned against the bedpost with her arms crossed, smirk firmly in place. “Yes, you can. And you will. Because this is science.”
“For womankind,” Alicia added solemnly, which made Katie snort.
You groaned and covered your face with your hands, but five minutes later you found yourself tugging your cloak around your shoulders and heading down the stairs, praying the ground would open up and swallow you.
Fred was waiting for you in the common room, hair still damp from a shower, grinning wide the moment he saw you.
“There she is,” he said, bounding over. His eyes flicked down instinctively as you reached him - just for a split second - but you missed it, too busy tugging the hem of your top (which was riding up your stomach) back down.
“Ready?” you asked quickly, desperate to deflect.
“More than ready,” he said easily, slinging an arm over your shoulder as you walked toward the portrait hole. His hand slid down to your waist as you moved through the crowded staircase, fingers pressing just a little firmer when a group of boys shoved past.
Your heart stuttered, but you chalked it up to Fred being Fred - always casual with touch, always without thinking twice.
By the time you reached Honeydukes, he was still his usual self. Joking, laughing, buying you your favorite sweets like he always did. Not a single comment about the outfit. Not even a raised brow.
At one point, as you leaned over the counter to inspect a jar of Fizzing Whizzbees, Fred’s gaze lingered, jaw tightening briefly before he looked away. But you didn’t see.
“Alright,” he said later, as you strolled back up toward the castle with bags of sweets swinging from your hands. “Now be honest. Between you and me, do you reckon George could pull off selling Canary Creams at Slughorn’s dinner party?”
You tripped on a step. “What? Fred, I…are you seriously thinking about pranking Slughorn right now?”
He grinned, utterly unbothered. “Always thinking about pranking Slughorn.”
You gaped at him, exasperated, and that was the moment you knew.
He really didn’t care.
Back in the dorm later that night, the girls were waiting like vultures.
“So?” Katie demanded, practically bouncing on her bed.
“Spill,” Alicia added.
You collapsed onto your pillow with a dramatic groan. “Nothing.”
Angelina sat up so fast her blanket fell to the floor. “Nothing? You were practically falling out of that top.”
“Tell me about it,” you muttered, cheeks heating.
“Unbelievable,” Alicia said, flopping back against her cushions.
Katie narrowed her eyes, wicked grin spreading. “Alright then. If the skirt didn’t work, and the top didn’t work…there’s only one thing left.”
You raised a wary brow. “…What?”
“The LBD,” Angelina said with a flourish, as if the three letters explained everything.
“The what now?” you asked.
They groaned in unison.
“Little. Black. Dress,” Alicia said slowly, as though speaking to a child.
You blinked. “That’s a thing?”
Katie threw a pillow at your head. “Of course it’s a thing! It’s the thing. The ultimate test. No man alive can ignore a girl in a little black dress.”
Angelina smirked, eyes gleaming. “And lucky for you…Gryffindor’s throwing a party next weekend.”
Your stomach dropped. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes,” they chorused.
———————————————————————
The dormitory was a war zone of fabric.
Angelina had practically raided her trunk, Alicia had added jewelry to the pile, and Katie was sitting cross-legged on your bed holding up a pair of knee-high boots like they were sacred relics.
“This is ridiculous,” you muttered for the hundredth time, glaring at the dress laid out in front of you. Black. Tight. The neckline plunged lower than you’d ever dared. The hemline…well, calling it “modest” would’ve been a straight up lie.
Angelina grinned like a cat. “It’s perfect.”
“It’s indecent,” you shot back.
“It’s science,” Alicia countered with what had become their tagline.
“For womankind,” Katie cheered dramatically.
You groaned into your hands, but twenty minutes later, there you were in front of the mirror. Dress on, boots hugging your thighs, hair tamed just enough to look intentional. Your reflection stared back, wide-eyed and flushed.
“You look…” Angelina tilted her head. “…dangerous.”
“Like a heart attack waiting to happen,” Alicia added approvingly.
Katie wiggled her brows. “Fred’s not going to survive the night.”
The common room was already pulsing with music and laughter by the time you descended the stairs. Red and gold banners hung from the ceiling, butterbeer bottles clinked, and students filled every corner.
But the moment you stepped into view, the air shifted. Heads turned. Conversations stuttered. A whistle cut through the noise.
Your face burned. You kept your chin high, forcing yourself to stride through the crowd until your eyes found the only person you cared about.
Fred.
He was across the room, laughing with George, a butterbeer in hand. But then his gaze landed on you.
For a fraction of a second, his grin slipped. His eyes darkened, flicking down your figure with a heat that made your knees wobble. His hand tightened around the neck of the bottle.
Then, just as quickly, the easy smile returned. He passed the drink to George, wove through the crowd with that infuriatingly confident stride, and slipped an arm around your waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“There you are,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Come dance with me.”
No comment. No raised brow. Nothing.
On the dance floor, his hand stayed firm at your waist, thumb brushing slow circles against the fabric of your dress. Once, when a Ravenclaw boy’s gaze lingered a bit too long, Fred pulled you closer, his smirk sharpening. But he said nothing.
You felt your frustration boil under your skin. Didn’t he notice? Didn’t he care?
By the time the party had started to wind down, you couldn’t take it anymore.
You tugged Fred toward the stairs, heart pounding. He followed easily, brows lifting in amusement. “What’s this then? Sneaking me away for a midnight snog?”
You whirled on him, arms crossed, trying to mask the twist in your chest. “Why don’t you care what I wear?”
He blinked, caught off guard. “…What?”
“The skirt. The jeans. This dress! I’ve tried everything. And you don’t even blink!” Your voice cracked, equal parts embarrassment and anger. “Everyone else’s boyfriends get jealous or at least say something, but you—”
Fred’s smirk curved, slow and dangerous, as if the pieces had finally clicked. He stepped closer, gaze fixed on yours.
“You think I haven’t noticed?” His voice was low, teasing but warm.
You faltered. “Well, you don’t act like it.”
“That’s because,” he murmured, brushing his nose against your temple before pressing a kiss to your forehead, “you can wear whatever you want, baby. I can protect what’s mine.”
The words sank into you like honey, melting every knot of frustration until your knees felt weak.
When he pulled back, that cocky grin was in place again, but softer now. Tender.
From across the room, the girls - watching unabashedly from their blanket pile - sighed in perfect unison.
And then he kissed you, properly this time, leaving no room for doubt at all.
The next morning, sunlight spilled through the tower windows, warming the common room in a way that felt almost cruel after last night’s chaos. Empty bottles and crumpled banners littered the floor, evidence of a Gryffindor party well-celebrated.
You shuffled into the girls’ corner still in your pajamas, hair messy, eyes heavy with sleep. But the second you sat down, three sets of eyes locked on you like you were a mouse cornered by kneazles.
“Well?” Katie demanded.
You buried your face in your pillow. “Don’t start.”
“Don’t start?” Alicia gasped, clutching her blanket dramatically. “You basically set the bar for dramatic boyfriend declarations. Protect what’s mine? Merlin’s beard, we nearly fainted.”
Angelina was already grinning like she’d won a bet. “I knew it. I knew he was holding out on us. That boy’s got steel nerves. He noticed from the start.”
You peeked out from behind your pillow, cheeks hot. “He…he really didn’t say anything, though. Until I practically started a fight.”
Katie flopped back on her bed with a sigh. “Because he’s Fred. The man thrives on winding people up. He probably loved every second of watching you spiral.”
“Ugh,” you groaned, but there was no real bite in it. Because they were right. Fred had loved it. You’d seen it in his smirk, in the way his eyes danced when you finally cracked.
Alicia leaned forward, smirking. “So? Be honest. Did the line make you melt?”
You threw your pillow at her. “Shut up.”
Angelina caught it before it hit, tossing it back at you with a cackle. “She melted. Absolutely puddled.”
Katie sighed dreamily, hugging her knees. “Honestly, I don’t blame you. If my boyfriend ever said that to me, I’d swoon on the spot.”
You groaned again, flopping back dramatically against the cushions. “He’s insufferable.”
“Insufferable,” Angelina agreed, smirk tugging at her lips. “And absolutely perfect for you.”
Across the common room, Fred lounged with George near the fire, pretending not to listen but clearly tuned in, his ears just a little too pink to be casual. When your eyes met his, he sent you a shameless wink, mouthing, Told you so.
Your stomach flipped, traitorous and warm, and despite yourself, a smile tugged at your lips.
Because damn it all…the girls were right. He was insufferable. And he was yours.
synopsis: you and satoru gojo absolutely do not have a thing for each other. you only spend time together because of your shared affection for his dragon. at least, that’s what you keep telling yourself—because there’s no way you’d ever fall for the most insufferably cocky, sharp-tongued, ridiculously charming dragon rider on the entire isle of berk… right?
alternatively, in which a dragon plays matchmaker and you save satoru’s ass.
tags: fluff, mild angst, smut (oral sex, unprotected sex, fingering, riding), action, frenemies to lovers, how to train your dragon!au. pining, idiots to idiots in love. profanity, injuries, blood, reader almost drowns, etc.
word count: 16.1k
a/n: art by _3aem on x. reposted from my old blog :)
“Piss off, Gojo.”
Satoru Gojo does not piss off. You’re fairly certain he doesn’t know how to. It’s stitched into his DNA, being an annoying twat on the good days and an all-round prick on the others.
“I would,” he says. “But Sukuna really wanted head pats and for whatever reason, he thinks mine are unsatisfactory.”
The aforementioned Sukuna, of course, refers to his dragon—the last-remaining Night Fury on the Isle of Berk.
“You couldn’t have picked someone normal to bond with?” you ask the dragon.
Sukuna blinks slowly, entirely unfazed, then shifts his massive head a fraction closer to your shoulder. His scales catch the sunlight like dark, wet marble, but the way he’s leaning into you gives him all the menace of a particularly clingy housecat. A housecat with fire breath, razor claws, and the ability to level a village if he ever got bored enough.
Satoru, stretched out on the grass beside him, grins. “Don’t blame Sukuna,” he says, resting his weight back on his palms like he owns the hill, the sky, the whole bloody island. “He can’t help liking you better.”
“Everyone likes me better.”
“Mm. Bold claim.”
“True claim,” you retort. You scratch absentmindedly under Sukuna’s jaw, right where the scales give way to smooth skin, and he lets out a deep, throaty rumble of pleasure. It vibrates through the ground beneath your feet, a sound that would send most of Berk sprinting for the hills. You barely flinch. He’s impossible not to soften toward—something Satoru has weaponised far too often.
“I’m just saying,” Satoru drawls, “you might be his favourite person on the island.”
“He doesn’t have many options,” you say.
“Wow. And here I thought we were friends.”
You roll your eyes. “We are not friends.”
“Acquaintances?” he tries, silver hair glinting in the sunlight and blue eyes far too bright and mischievous and knowing.
“Barely.”
“Brutal,” he says. “You talk to all your barely-acquaintances this much?”
“Only the ones who refuse to shut up.”
“That’s most people, though.”
“Maybe you’re the problem,” you shoot back.
It’s exhausting, really, how he manages to talk in italics, every word tilted just enough to keep you bristling. He’s the single most aggravating man on the entire Isle of Berk—and that’s saying something, considering the place is full of dragon riders who think personal boundaries is a suggestion, not a rule.
You’d like to say you hate him. Really, you would. It would make things simpler. But hate implies he occupies actual space in your head, and the problem—the infuriating, inescapable problem—is that you refuse to give him the satisfaction.
“Why are you even here?” you demand finally, because you’ve learned the only way to deal with Satoru Gojo is to stay on the offensive.
“Sukuna wanted pats,” he repeats.
“Pretty sure Sukuna can find his own way here.”
“Yeah,” Satoru says, grinning wider, “but I can’t.”
You blink. “Are you—are you implying you used your dragon as an excuse to see me?”
“No,” he says immediately, dragging the vowel out. “Definitely not. I have so many better things to do.”
“Name one.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Thinks for a second. “…Patrolling?”
“That’s not better.”
“Depends on who you ask.” He falls back fully onto the grass, folding his arms behind his head, one long leg bent at the knee. The picture of ease, like he hasn’t just dropped the suggestion that he wanted to see you and then refused to elaborate. Like he hasn’t steadily been driving you insane since the day you met him.
The wind shifts over the hill, carrying with it the salt of the distant sea. Berk stretches out below—scattered houses of stone and timber, smoke curling from chimneys, dragons wheeling in the sky above the watchtowers. Out past the cliffs, the ocean flashes silver under the sun, calm for now but never for long.
“Illegal trapping’s been getting worse,” Satory says idly after a moment.
You glance at him. “And yet you’re here annoying me instead of dealing with it?”
“Hey, I’m off-duty.”
“You’re never off-duty.”
“True,” he admits, shameless. “But my boss doesn’t need to know that.”
You roll your eyes. The boss in question is Yaga the Vast, chief of Berk, who has approximately zero patience for stragglers like Satoru and yet, somehow, keeps putting him in charge of things anyway. Probably because when he isn’t being insufferable, Satoru is annoyingly good at his job.
Sukuna shifts closer again, massive head nudging your shoulder with a low whuff. The force of it nearly knocks you off balance.
“He’s so needy,” you mutter, scratching under his jaw again.
Satoru props himself up on his elbows to watch. “You love it.”
“Do not.”
“Do too.”
“Do not.”
“Do—”
“Finish that sentence,” you warn, “and I swear I will throw you off this hill.”
He smiles, unbothered. “Can’t, gorgeous. Sukuna would just catch me.”
“Shame,” you say.
Sukuna rumbles again, louder this time, as if laughing at the both of you. Which is ridiculous, obviously. Dragons don’t laugh. Probably. You’re still scratching absentmindedly at his jaw when the shout comes from below the hill.
“Gojo! We’ve got movement near the cliffs!”
It’s one of the younger riders—Yaga’s apprentice, maybe. You don’t remember his name. He’s sprinting uphill, out of breath, waving both arms wildly.
Satoru sighs. “And here I was enjoying my day off.”
“Trappers?” you ask, already knowing the answer.
“Yeah.” He pushes to his feet. “Looks like it.”
The apprentice finally reaches the top, panting. “They spotted nets near the west cliffs,” he manages. “Could be setting up for a catch.”
Satoru dusts off his hands lazily, as though he hasn’t just been summoned to go handle the exact kind of people who would love to get their hands on a Night Fury. On Sukuna. You glance at the dragon, who’s gone very still beside you. His tail flicks once, sharp and restless.
Satoru notices too. “Relax,” he tells him softly, before turning that insufferable grin back on you. “Rain check on the head pats?”
“Not my dragon,” you remind him.
He winks. “Technicality.”
With that, he swings easily onto Sukuna’s back, all long limbs and practiced motion, like he was born in the saddle. Sukuna launches into the sky a moment later, wings snapping wide, dust kicking up in their wake. You watch them go, a dark shape against the sunlit clouds, until they’re nothing but a speck over the cliffs.
You’re still staring at the empty sky when the young rider clears his throat.
“Uh… hi,” he says awkwardly. He’s about your age, maybe a bit younger, with a nervous energy that makes you want to pat him on the shoulder and tell him to relax. He’s holding a map, which he’d pulled out of his pocket and now folds and unfolds with frantic hands. “You’re, uh, you’re the mapmaker, right? The one who lives by the sea?”
“That’s me,” you say, forcing yourself to look away from the horizon.
He nods, relieved. “Right. Yaga said to give you this. It’s the new coastline for the north. He said you’d be able to sketch it out better than anyone else.” He holds out the piece of parchment.
You take the map, unfolding it to see the jagged lines and rough sketches of a coastline you haven’t visited yet. The lines are crude, but the general shape is there. “Thanks,” you say. “I’ll get on it as soon as I can.”
“Right,” he says. “So… you and Gojo. You guys are… close?”
You stiffen. The question is innocent, but it feels like an accusation. “No. Not at all.”
He looks skeptical. “He talks about you a lot. Like, a lot lot. Says you’re the only person who can keep up with him.
You fight the urge to groan. “He’s a liar.”
“Yeah, he is.” The young rider laughs, a short, nervous sound. “But I don’t know. It’s weird. He’s always, like, looking for you. Or waiting for you.”
You don’t know how to respond to that. It’s too close to the truth. You just shrug, then look at the map. “I should get going. I have a lot of work to do.”
“Right. See you around, then.” The rider turns to leave, jogging down the hill with a newfound energy, happy to escape the awkwardness.
You look at the map, then at the sky where Sukuna and Gojo disappeared. You can’t stop thinking about the way Gojo smiled when he told you that Sukuna was just an excuse to see you. It was a joke, you know that. He’s always joking, always playing with words. But the way he said it… it felt like there was a kernel of truth in it, a tiny, infuriating admission that you didn’t want to acknowledge.
You trace the lines on the map, but your mind is elsewhere. You’re picturing him, the way he looks when he’s serious, the way he talks when he’s trying to get under your skin. You’re picturing Sukuna, the way he leans into your touch, the way he rumbles with contentment. You’re picturing the two of them, a perfect pair of chaos, a storm of annoying energy.
You shake your head, trying to clear your thoughts. You have work to do, a map to sketch. But you can’t help but wonder if Gojo and Sukuna are okay. You can’t help but wonder what he’ll say the next time you see him.
A soft breeze, smelling of salt and distant rain, carries the sound of Sukuna’s contented rumble. You look up from your work, the firelight from your cottage flickering on the parchment in your lap. The Night Fury, a silhouette against the moon, lands with a soft thud, a dark shadow in the growing dimness. You can’t help the small, reluctant smile that tugs at your lips. It’s a happy sound, that snort of his, and it’s hard not to feel a little bit of warmth toward the gigantic reptile. The smile vanishes the moment you see Satoru Gojo dismount.
He slides off the dragon’s back and lands on the packed dirt with a huff. His silver hair, usually perfectly styled, is now adorned with a scattering of leaves and twigs. He looks ridiculously pleased with himself.
“Looks like you had a hard day,” you say, voice dry. You don’t bother looking up from your map, a new survey of the eastern coast that is proving to be a nightmare of jagged inlets and hidden reefs.
“The hardest,” he replies, walking toward the fire. Sukuna follows, a low purr rumbling in his chest as he nudges your shoulder gently. You stroke the smooth scales under his jaw.
“Did you, by any chance, get your head stuck in a bush?” you ask pointedly.
He laughs. “Just a little turbulence. But don’t worry, it was for a good cause.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Oh? And what’s that?”
“Well, you know,” he says, pulling a stray leaf from his hair. “I had to make sure the trappers didn’t get away. Can’t have them messing up the ecosystem, can we?”
“But your impeccable hair and abysmal flying skills get a pass, I suppose.”
“Priorities, you know.” Satoru sits down on a log across from you, the firelight glinting in his bright blue eyes. “What are you up to? Still drawing pretty pictures of rocks and water?”
“I’m creating an accurate navigational chart for the fishing fleet,” you correct. “So that they don’t end up on the bottom of the sea.”
“Right, right. Important work,” he says. “You’d be a lot faster if you had some help.”
“I’m perfectly fine on my own.”
“I’m just saying,” he drawls, “a second pair of eyes could be useful. Especially mine. They’re very, very good eyes.”
You roll your own. “I’m not interested in your help, Gojo. Or your eyes, for that matter.”
Sukuna, who had been contently nuzzling your shoulder, chooses that moment to let out a slow, mournful sound, as if he understood the conversation and is deeply disappointed by your attitude. He nudges Gojo’s head with his own, then your shoulder again. He goes back and forth, like a pendulum. It’s slightly annoying.
“See?” Gojo says, a smug grin spreading across his face. “Even Sukuna agrees. He thinks we should be friends.”
“Sukuna thinks you should be less annoying,” you counter, reaching out to pat the dragon’s large head. He lets out a low rumble, pleased.
“That’s a matter of opinion,” Satoru says. He leans forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “He told me on the way here that he thinks we would make a very handsome couple.”
You snort. “He has terrible taste. You’re lucky he hasn’t left you for a better rider.”
“Impossible,” Satoru scoffs. “I’m the best. And he knows it.”
“And the most modest, too,” you mutter.
Sukuna lets out a deep, throaty rumble, and gently nudges you closer to the fire. The action is subtle, but a piece of your parchment slips off your knee and lands with a quiet rustle on the ground near Satoru’s feet. He bends down to pick it up, his long fingers brushing against yours as he hands it back.
“Clumsy,” he says, but the glint in his eyes tells you he’s not talking about the paper.
You ignore him, focusing on the map, but your hand trembles slightly, and the ink bleeds on the line you’re trying to draw. You let out an exasperated sigh, and Sukuna, with a loud huff, settles down between you and Satoru. It’s a deliberate move. The dragon’s nothing more than a massive, scaly chaperone.
“Look at him,” Satoru says, his voice softer now. “He’s tired. Trappers, you know. They’re more persistent than usual.”
“Did you catch them?”
“Most of them. They had nets—one almost got Sukuna. If he hadn’t been so fast, it would have been a rough night.”
You look at the dragon, who is now snoozing with one eye open, the firelight catching the dark, wet-looking scales on his hide. A sudden wave of protectiveness washes over you, a familiar feeling when it comes to the dragon. But then you look at Satoru, and see the deep weariness in his eyes, the faint lines of stress etched around his mouth, and that familiar wave of protectiveness becomes tangled with something else, something you refuse to name.
“You should get some rest,” you say, the words feeling foreign and heavy on your tongue.
He looks surprised. “Worried about me?”
“I’m worried about Sukuna,” you shoot back, and the warmth in your stomach curdles into a familiar acidity. “He needs his rider to be in top form. The last thing he needs is to be stuck with a tired, insufferable oaf.”
He laughs. “You wound me. But thank you. It’s nice to know someone cares.”
“I don’t care,” you insist, and you know you’re lying. You also know he knows you’re lying. It’s a game you play, a tense, stupid dance.
Sukuna lets out a snort. He flicks his head towards Satoru, then towards you, as if to say, just talk to each other, idiots. You want to kick him. Affectionately, of course.
“Well,” Satoru says. “I suppose I should go. Duty calls and all that.” He stands up, stretching his arms over his head before shaking it.
“You’re going back out?” you ask, a note of alarm in your voice that you can’t control.
“Nah,” he says, smiling a little softer now. “Just kidding. Yaga told me to stay put until morning, ‘cause he said I caused enough trouble for one day.”
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
He reaches down and ruffles Sukuna’s head, though his words are addressed to you. “I’ll be back tomorrow for some more pats, okay?”
Sukuna huffs happily in response.
Satoru turns and walks away, a long, lanky shadow disappearing into the darkness. Sukuna watches him go, then turns his gaze back to you, his garnet-coloured eyes flashing. He nudges your hand again. You know what he wants. He wants you to talk to Gojo. He wants you to go after him.
You sigh. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not his keeper. I’m not yours, either.”
Sukuna snorts, a clear, exasperated sound, and settles his massive head on your lap. He’s warm, a solid weight of comfort in the cool night. You don’t bother to shoo him away. You simply sit there, under the moonlight, and stare into the dark where Gojo disappeared.
“It’s a fool’s errand,” you say, dropping the rolled-up parchment onto Yaga’s desk with a resounding thud. The Chief of Berk, a man with a beard as formidable as his temperament, looks up from the horn he’s polishing.
“What is?” he asks.
“This,” you say, pointing an accusatory finger at the map. “The north coast. It’s impossible to draw from the ground. I’ve only been there twice, and I spent most of the time trying not to fall to my death. The cliffs are sheer drops. The inlets are jagged and hidden. I need to map it from above.”
Yaga stares at you for a long moment, his gaze unwavering. You hold his stare, a silent challenge. You’ve never been one to back down from the Chief, a fact that both annoys and impresses him.
He sighs. “Fine. You’re right. You’ll need a rider.” He looks around the hall, his eyes scanning for a likely candidate. Your heart sinks into your stomach when he lands on the very last person you want to see.
“Satoru!” he bellows.
Satoru Gojo, leaning against a support beam, in the middle of conversation with Yaga’s apprentice, gives you a little wave.
“Yeah, boss?” he calls out.
“You’re taking our mapmaker to the north coast,” Yaga says. “She needs to draw it from the air.”
“Pleasure’s all mine, Chief,” he says, sauntering over to the desk. “North coast, huh? A little chilly for you, isn’t it?”
You resist the urge to punch him. “I’ll manage. Let’s just get this over with.”
He claps his hands together. “Excellent! My calendar is wide open.”
The next morning is cold and brisk. A light mist hangs over the village, and the air smells of wet stone and woodsmoke. You’re waiting by the flight academy, a satchel slung over your shoulder and your sketchbook clutched in your hands. You’ve been waiting for ten minutes, which is ten minutes longer than you’d like.
Just as you’re about to turn and leave, you hear a loud, familiar whoosh of wind and the deep, throaty rumble of a Night Fury. Sukuna lands right in front of you. Satoru leers at you, seated on his back.
“Ready to fly, gorgeous?” he asks.
“I’m ready to get this done,” you correct.
You climb onto the dragon’s back, settling behind him on the saddle and placing your sketchbook and charcoal pencils carefully in your lap. Sukuna lets out a low purr, a rumble that you can feel vibrating through your body. He nudges his head back, giving your hand a soft, affectionate lick.
“He’s excited,” Satoru says. “He loves when we all go out together.”
“He’s excited about the snacks I brought him,” you say, pulling a piece of dried fish from your satchel and holding it out to Sukuna. He devours it in one gulp.
“You brought snacks?” Satoru asks. “For the dragon, and not for your very handsome and talented pilot?”
“You are not my pilot, and you are not getting any of this fish.”
He kicks his feet against Sukuna’s side, and the dragon launches himself into the air. You grip the saddle, your knuckles turning white. The wind whips at your hair and clothes, and you close your eyes for a moment, letting the sensation of flight wash over you. It’s a feeling you’ve never gotten used to, and it’s always a little terrifying, a little exhilarating.
Satoru leans back. “You’re good at this. Not screaming, I mean.”
You grit your teeth. “I’m a mapmaker, not a child. I’m used to dangerous situations.”
“Oh, I know,” he says, and you can practically hear the smirk in his voice. “You’re the one who saved my ass, remember?”
The memory of that night, of his blood on your hands, of the raw fear in your gut, flashes through your mind. You shiver, a cold feeling that has nothing to do with the wind.
“I’d rather not,” you say.
He doesn’t respond. Sukuna, as if sensing the shift in the atmosphere, lets out a low, questioning snort. He banks left, heading toward the northern cliffs.
The gentle, rolling hills of Berk give way to a brutal, unforgiving coastline. The cliffs are dark and jagged, the sea a churning mass of white foam. You pull out your sketchbook and begin to draw.
You work for hours, meticulously sketching every rock formation, every inlet, every hidden cove. You direct Satoru to turn this way and that, and he, for once, doesn’t argue. He lets you work, his body a steady, comforting presence in front of you, ensuring Sukuna’s movements are smooth and controlled.
At one point, you get so focused on a particular series of sea caves that you lean too far over the edge of the saddle, and almost lose your balance. A long, strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you back against a warm, solid chest. You stiffen, your body rigid with surprise.
“Careful,” Satoru whispers, his breath warm against your ear. “Don’t want you falling to your death.”
You push him away, heart pounding. “I had it under control.”
“Sure, you did.”
Sukuna lets out a low, knowing chuff, a sound that makes you want to smack him. You ignore him, focusing back on your drawing, but it’s hard to stop thinking about the feeling of his arm around your waist, the warmth of his body against yours.
“You’re quiet,” he says after a while.
“I’m working.”
He hums. “Right. I just thought, you know, we could talk. Get to know each other. Since we’re going to be hanging out more often, we might as well be friends.”
“We are not going to be friends,” you say for what feels like the hundredth time.
“We are,” Satoru says. “We’re a team. You and me. And Sukuna, of course.” He reaches forward and strokes the Night Fury’s head, and the dragon rumbles with contentment.
“He’s your dragon,” you mutter.
“He likes you, too. More than me, I think,” Satoru says, and there’s a flicker of something in his voice—something soft and genuine—that makes you look away from your sketch and at him instead. His eyes are fixed on you, a strange mixture of warmth and… something else. You can’t quite place it.
You look away, your heart pounding again. You can’t handle this. You can’t handle this man, this dragon, this strange, dangerous intimacy that has sprung up between you.
You land back in the village as dusk is falling. The air is colder now, and the stars are beginning to peak out. You slide off Sukuna’s back, your legs shaky from the long flight. You feel a hand on your arm, steadying you.
“You did good,” Satoru says.
“So did you,” you say.
He smiles, a real smile, one that reaches his eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners. It’s a smile that you realise you haven’t seen very often. It’s a smile that makes the hollow cavity inside your chest where your heart lies skip a beat.
You turn away, clutching your sketchbook to your chest. “I’ll bring this to Yaga in the morning.”
“Right,” he says. “I’ll see you around.”
You walk away, but you can feel his gaze on your back. You can feel the warmth of his hand still on your arm. You don’t look back.
You make it to your cottage, but you don’t go inside. You sit on the stone step, your sketchbook still in your hands, and stare at the sky. You think about the north coast, about the cliffs and the caves, but also about Satoru. About the way his arm felt around your waist, about the way his smile made you feel, about the way he wasn’t being annoying for once.
You hear a soft thud. Sukuna stands behind you, a small branch in his mouth. He drops it at your feet. A branch from a Night Fury’s nest. He jabs at your hand with his nose, his eyes fixed on yours.
You know what he’s doing. He’s trying to tell you something. He’s trying to tell you that Satoru is not so bad. There’s a place for you in his life, in their life.
You reach down and pick up the branch, then look back at the dragon. You sigh, a long, drawn-out sound.
“You’re a terrible matchmaker, you know that?” you whisper to him.
Sukuna lets out a low purr and nudges you again. You don’t know what to do. You’re a mapmaker, a person of logic and order, and this man and his dragon are nothing but chaos. There’s absolutely no way anything good could ever come out of this.
“Head pats? Again?” You shoot Satoru an unimpressed glare, though the effect is rather diminished by the fact that you’re hanging upside down, trying to fix a hole in your roof. “At least come up with a better excuse.”
“Can’t. The dragon wants what the dragon wants,” Satoru says. “And what the dragon wants, the dragon gets.”
You grunt, shoving a loose thatch of straw back into place. Your ankles are looped around a wooden beam, your torso dangling over the edge of your cottage’s roof. The world is a strange, inverted place from this angle. The grass is a vibrant green sky, the clouds are a white, fluffy ground. Satoru Gojo’s annoyingly perfect face is floating in the air below you. He’s leaning back, his hands in his pockets, watching you with a smile. Sukuna is a little ways off, chewing on a large branch.
“And what the dragon wants is for me to risk breaking my neck just so you can make a terrible joke?” you ask.
“No, no, the dragon wants head pats,” Satoru corrects, shaking his head. “I’m just here to deliver the dragon to the head pats. A simple go-between.”
“You’re a go-between for your own dragon?”
“Look, it’s a complicated relationship,” he says. “He’s a very discerning dragon.”
You roll your eyes, a motion that makes your head throb. You pull yourself up, muscles straining, and clamber onto the roof. You sit on the ridge, straddling the peak, and pull a loose piece of wood from the hole. The wood is rotten, and the smell of mold and wet earth makes you wrinkle your nose. A sudden gust of wind snatches a loose piece of cloth from the edge of the roof, and you watch as it flutters to the ground and lands directly at Satoru’s feet.
He picks it up and says, “Lost something?”
“It’s just a rag,” you say.
He examines it, shaking it out with a flourish. “Looks like a perfectly good rag to me.”
“It’s not,” you say. “It’s old and worn out. Just leave it.”
He doesn’t. He folds it carefully and places it in his pocket, before walking over to where Sukuna is lying, and pulls out a piece of meat from his saddlebag. He tosses it to the dragon.
“So,” Satoru says. “Roof problems?”
“No,” you say, “I just enjoy dangling from high places.”
He laughs, a clear, loud sound that makes your stomach feel weird. “I get it. You’re a thrill-seeker. It’s one of your many charming qualities.”
“I’m not a thrill-seeker,” you say. “I’m a mapmaker. I prefer quiet, predictable things.”
“Still,” he says, “here you are, hanging from a roof, and here I am, your friendly neighbourhood… well, whatever I am.”
You groan. “You’re a pain. That’s what you are.”
“And you’re my favourite pain,” he says. “You’re the only person on the entire Isle of Berk who doesn’t fall all over themselves to talk to me.”
“That’s because I have a working brain.”
He laughs again, and you find yourself staring at him. He’s leaning against Sukuna’s side, his arms crossed over his chest. His silver hair catches the sunlight, and his bright blue eyes are fixed on you. He’s the most infuriating man you’ve ever met, but you can’t deny that he’s also breathtaking.
You tear your gaze away, a flush of heat creeping up your neck. You turn back to your roof, your hands shaking slightly as you try to hammer a loose piece of wood into place. You miss, and the hammer clatters to the ground, landing with a soft thud on the grass.
“Fuck,” you say, eloquently.
Satoru bends to pick up the hammer, turning it over in his hands. “For someone who claims to like quiet, predictable things, you have a funny way of living on the edge.”
You scowl down at him from the roof ridge. “I’m fixing a hole, Satoru. Not fighting a dragon barehanded.”
“Could be both, if you fall on Sukuna.”
Sukuna, hearing his name, glances up, tail flicking idly. He looks like he’d catch you if you fell. Probably. Maybe. If he felt like it.
“Very reassuring,” you mutter. “Give it back.”
“Come get it,” Satoru says, grinning.
You glare at him. He leans back against Sukuna’s side, one long leg crossed over the other. He looks like he could stay here all day, bothering you from ground level while you slowly lose your mind above him. You wipe the sweat from your brow with the back of your wrist. The sun’s beating down hard, pressing heat into the back of your neck. Your hands are already splintered from the wood, your hair sticking to your cheeks. You have an entire day’s worth of mapping to do but here you are, arguing with Berk’s most irritating dragon rider over a hammer.
“Fine,” you say. “Keep it. I’ll just tell everyone you bullied me into falling off my own roof.”
“But you didn’t fall,” he says. “Yet.”
You wish you could throw something at him. Preferably something heavy. Like a rock. Or maybe the entire cottage.
Instead, you clamber down from the roof ridge to the small platform just under it, wiping your palms on your trousers. From here, the world tilts alarmingly close. Satoru watches your careful descent with the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth.
When you reach the edge, you stretch your hand out. “Hammer.”
He taps it against his chin thoughtfully. “What do I get in return?”
“Your continued survival.”
“Tempting.” He tosses it up, easy and careless, then finally lobs it towards you. It arcs through the air, spinning end over end, and you snatch it out of the air just in time, the impact jolting through your wrist.
“Show-off,” you say.
“You’re welcome,” he says.
You don’t dignify that with a response, instead crawling back to the hole and fitting the new piece of wood into place. The hammer thunks steadily as you nail it down, the sound mingling with the wind and the distant crash of waves against cliffs. Satoru hums something under his breath, a lazy, tuneless thing. It carries upward, curling under your skin despite yourself.
You focus very, very hard on the roof.
When the piece finally holds, you sit back, wiping your forehead again. Your arms ache, your knees are bruised, and you can feel bits of straw clinging to your hair. Glorious, really.
“Done?” Satoru asks.
“For now,” you say.
“Good,” he says, pushing off Sukuna’s side. “Because Sukuna’s patience is running out.”
At the mention of his name, the dragon lets out a short, sharp huff, nostrils flaring. The branch he was chewing lies in two neat halves at his feet. His pupils have gone wide, round as coins—his version of puppy eyes.
You narrow yours. “This is emotional blackmail.”
“It’s effective,” Satoru says cheerfully, already strolling over to you. “C’mon, he’s been waiting all day.”
You glance from the dragon’s enormous, hopeful stare to Satoru’s infuriating grin and feel, very distinctly, like you’re being tag-teamed.
“Fine,” you mutter, hopping lightly off the lower edge of the roof. You land in a crouch, knees absorbing the impact, then stand and dust yourself off. “But only because he asked nicely.”
Satoru bows low, one hand over his heart. “As the humble messenger of the dragon, I thank you for your generosity.”
“Shut up,” you say, but there’s no real heat behind it.
Sukuna lowers his massive head as you approach, scales gleaming like wet stone. He makes a low, thrumming sound as your hand comes to rest between his eyes, the tension in his frame melting instantly. It’s absurd, how such a creature—so powerful, so feared—can melt into warmth at something as simple as a touch.
You scratch behind his jaw, feeling the rumble travel through your palm. “You deserve a better rider,” you murmur, just loud enough for Satoru to hear.
Satoru presses a hand to his chest. “Wounded. Absolutely gutted.”
“You’ll live.”
He leans against Sukuna’s shoulder, close enough that you catch the faint scent of wind and leather and something warm underneath. “You always say that like you’re sure.”
“I could be wrong,” you say sweetly.
“Now who’s emotionally blackmailing who?”
You roll your eyes. The wind picks up again, tossing Satoru’s hair into his eyes. He doesn’t move to fix it, just grins at you through the mess like he knows exactly what kind of picture he makes—irritatingly golden in the sunlight, with the dragon at his side and the whole damn world under his heel.
“You really are full of yourself,” you say finally.
He tilts his head. “Takes one to know one. Speaking of which, did I tell you about the trappers that thought they actually had a chance against Sukuna? Even I don’t stand a chance against Sukuna, and that’s saying something.”
“Trappers?” You raise an eyebrow, keeping your hand moving against Sukuna’s scales. “I thought you lot scared them off two weeks ago.”
“We did,” Satoru says. “Or so we thought. But the funny thing about pests—” He leans lazily against Sukuna’s massive shoulder, folding his arms. “—is that they always crawl back when you’re not looking.”
You frown, not at him for once, but at the idea of it. “Where?”
“Southern Coves,” he says. “A little group at first—three, maybe four men. We figured they were amateurs, probably thought they’d make their fortune dragging a few Terrible Terrors back in cages. Easy enough. Send them running, burn a net or two. Job done.”
The way he says it—casual, dismissive—doesn’t sit right with you. It rarely does, when Satoru Gojo talks about problems like they’re inconveniences rather than… well, problems.
“But then?” you prompt.
“But then,” he says, drawing out the words, “we found another group. Bigger. With better equipment. Steel nets, reinforced cages, the whole shebang.”
Your hand stills against Sukuna’s jaw. “Reinforced cages?”
“Mhm.” He tilts his head, watching your reaction like it’s more interesting than the story itself. “Not something you find lying around unless you’ve got coin. Or connections. Or both.”
Sukuna shifts beneath your touch, nudging his head into your palm like he can sense the tension in your shoulders. You scratch harder, both to soothe him and yourself. “That doesn’t sound like a coincidence,” you say.
“It doesn’t sound like much of anything,” Satoru counters flippantly. “Could just be a few desperate men pooling what they’ve got. Could be something else. Either way, we’re keeping an eye on it.”
“And by we you mean…”
“The riders. Me, Suguru, Kento, Haibara—the usual.”
You narrow your eyes. “You mean the same group that considers dive-bombing into cliffs a legitimate training exercise?”
“Worked out fine for me,” Satoru says with a shrug.
“Everything works out fine for you,” you shoot back.
That earns you a flash of his grin—bright, boyish, and infuriating. But it fades, just a little, and he says, quieter, “Doesn’t always.”
It’s the kind of admission that makes your stomach twist, because it’s true. Riders don’t always come back. Dragons don’t always survive. Trappers—real trappers, the kind with coin and steel and a hunger that isn’t easily sated—don’t play fair.
You exhale slowly. “You think they’re after Sukuna.”
“Everyone’s after Sukuna.” He says it like it’s a joke. “Last Night Fury, blah blah blah. People can’t help themselves.”
You glance at Sukuna. His pupils are still round, content beneath your touch, but his tail lashes once, like even he knows the weight of those words. A rare thing: fear dressed up as restlessness.
An unease worms its way beneath your ribs. It feels like the calm before a storm, the air just a shade too still, the sea too quiet. The trappers Satoru described don’t seem like scavengers chasing scraps. They’re organised. Equipped. Waiting for something—or someone. You hate it. You hate that Satoru can stand opposite you, hands tucked in his pockets, as though the world isn’t about to tip over its edge.
“You should be more worried,” you say finally.
“I worry plenty.”
“You don’t act like it.”
“Would it help if I wrung my hands and wept dramatically at your feet?”
“I’d pay good money to see that,” you say automatically. Sukuna nudges you again, harder this time, nearly knocking you off your feet. You steady yourself with a laugh that comes out thinner than you’d like. Satoru watches the two of you, his smile softened into something that almost looks like thought. Then, just as you’re about to ask another question, a shrill whistle splits the air from somewhere down the hill.
“Show time.” Satoru straightens, stretching his arms overhead. “Sounds like they’ve spotted another group near the coastline.”
Your stomach sinks. Already?
Satoru clicks his tongue, turning back to Sukuna. “Up, big guy.”
The Night Fury rises in a smooth, graceful motion, all coiled muscle and gleaming scales. His wings snap open, blotting out the sun for an instant, and you step back instinctively. Satoru sings into the saddle. He doesn’t look at you until Sukuna’s already crouching low, ready to launch.
“Don’t worry too much,” he says. “We’ve got it handled.”
“You don’t know that.”
He grins down at you. “Sure I do. I’m me.”
“Again?” You stare at Yaga the Vast like he’s sprouted another head—which, considering the man’s already broad shoulders and beard thick enough to hide a small family of sparrows, would be quite a sight. “You want me to map out the north coast again?”
“Yes,” Yaga’s voice rumbles, his arms crossed over his chest. The firelight in the great hall casts half his face into shadow, making him look even more immovable than usual. “But this time, you go deeper. Past the cove, beyond the breakers, to the inlets we’ve yet to mark. Unless we map out our neighbouring areas, how will we be able to defend Berk?”
You blink slowly, as if stalling will make the task shrink back into sanity. “Defend Berk from what, exactly? The world’s deadliest flock of puffins?”
“From anyone who thinks Berk is ripe for the taking,” Yaga replies. His thick fingers drum against his arm. “We can’t pretend we’re isolated forever. Already, the trappers sniff at our borders.”
You mask the prickle of unease that shivers down your spine with a scoff. “So your solution is to send me to traipse along the most dangerous stretch of coast known to dragon or man?”
“You won’t be alone. Take that scoundrel of a dragon rider with you.”
You groan, dragging both hands down your face. “Not him.”
“As if there were any other scoundrel I could mean,” Yaga says, almost indulgent.
“Satoru Gojo,” you say, lowering your hands and scowling, “is less of a companion and more of a—what’s the word—parasite. Loud, obnoxious, impossible to get rid of once he latches on.”
“He’s effective,” Yaga says.
“He’s insufferable,” you say.
“Both can be true,” he says. “And if you want Berk defended, if you want us to have some place to safely hide, or if you want your precious maps to mean something, you’ll take him with you. End of discussion.”
You gape at him, outrage coiling hot in your chest. But before you can muster a reply sharp enough to singe even Yaga the Vast’s vast beard, a familiar voice cuts through the hall.
“Did somebody say my name?”
Of course. Speak of the devil and his Night Fury, and both shall appear.
Satoru Gojo strolls in; his hair is a windswept mess of silver, his tunic is half-untied, and there’s a cocky grin already plastered on his face. Sukuna pads in behind him, the great black beast moving silent as shadow, his eyes glowing faintly in the dim hall light.
“Perfect timing,” Yaga says. “You’ll be escorting our mapmaker along the north coast. Deep waters. High cliffs. Dangerous territory. See to it that she comes back alive.”
“Yes, boss,” Satoru replies. His gaze slides to you, and his grin widens. “Couldn’t stay away from me, huh?”
Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “Believe me, if I had a choice between this and swimming naked through eel-infested waters, I’d be halfway to drowning by now.”
“Romantic. You always know how to make a man feel wanted.”
Sukuna rumbles low in his throat, the kind of sound that could be a laugh if dragons were capable of such a thing. You swear he’s mocking you, too.
Yaga heaves a sigh. “Enough. The pair of you leave at dawn. Supplies will be waiting at the stables. Make sure you chart everything—caves, currents, shoals, nesting grounds. The more detail, the better.”
You open your mouth to argue, to plead, to hurl one last desperate objection into the flames. But Yaga fixes you with the kind of look that ends battles before they begin. You clamp your jaw shut.
“Fine,” you mutter. “At dawn.”
“Looking forward to it,” Satoru says brightly, clapping you on the shoulder. “You, me, the sea, a few deadly cliffs. It’ll be fun.”
You glare at him. “You have the worst definition of fun I’ve ever heard.”
He leans down, so close you catch the faint scent of leather and salt. “That’s because you haven’t tried my kind of fun yet.”
Before you can throttle him, Yaga clears his throat. “Gojo,” he says. “I want your usual post-mission report for this one as well. How Sukuna flies, how he fights—everything. Not a single detail should be omitted.”
“Not just that,” Yaga presses. “Every maneuver. Every burst of speed. How he responds under pressure. The trappers are adapting. If they’ve learned to counter one type of dragon, they’ll learn to counter another. We need to be ready.”
“Of course, boss.”
Satoru says it so confidently that it makes you want to hit him with the nearest tankard. He doesn’t care about reports—he’s probably never written anything down properly in his life—but somehow Yaga keeps trusting him with “observations” and “evaluations.” And somehow those “reports” always end up getting him exactly what he wants: more freedom, more lenience, more time spent to annoy you.
“I’m serious,” Yaga says. His gaze sharpens, sliding briefly to you before returning to Satoru. “I want precision. Not exaggerations, not flourishes. If there are trappers along that coast, I want to know how they move, what they use, where they hide. If Sukuna faces them, I want to know every reaction. Understand?”
It’s subtle, that pause on Sukuna’s name, but it hooks in your gut like a barbed fishing line.
“Your last report,” the chief continued, “was ten pages of what Sukuna ate, and a drawing of your own face in the margins.”
You can’t help it—a bark of laughter escapes you. Satoru grins wider, like he’s proud of the memory.
“Historical accuracy,” he defends breezily. “Someday, bards will want to know I was the handsomest man alive while Sukuna was saving lives.”
Yaga doesn’t look amused. In fact, the firelight catches on the hard planes of his face, casting the deep creases at his brow into shadows that look almost like cracks. “Enough,” he says, but this time there’s a finality to it—like stone slamming into place, sealing a tomb.
You should probably let it go. Keep your head down, accept the assignment, and try not to imagine all the ways you might die tomorrow. But Yaga’s words stick in your ears like thorns. He’s always been thorough, sure, but the way he said it makes something twist uneasily in your gut.
Why does it feel less like he wants a record of Berk’s defenses and more like he wants a catalogue of its weaknesses?
You frown, shoving the thought down before it can root itself. Paranoia. That’s all it is. Spending too much time around Satoru Gojo rots the brain.
“Sir, yes, sir,” Satoru says, snapping a salute. “We’ll chart your cliffs, your caves, your currents, your… cozy little hidey-holes. And if the trappers do come sniffing around, we’ll have a nice little map all drawn up for them, won’t we?”
It’s meant to be a joke. You know it is.
Yaga’s eyes cut to him, sharp and assessing, but then—to your surprise—soften into something close to approval. “Just bring me the report.”
You’re dismissed. Or maybe exiled. Hard to tell with Yaga.
Satoru stretches like a cat as you both step out into the night air, his hair catching silver in the moonlight. Sukuna slips behind him, shadow melting into shadow, only the gleam of his garnet eyes betraying him.
“This is gonna be fun,” Satoru says.
You snort. “You heard him. Reports, details, flight maneuvers—like you’re some glorified scribe. What’s he going to do, publish a book?”
“Who knows? Maybe Yaga just really likes bedtime stories.”
“You’re going to fall if you keep bending over like that.”
The words brush the back of your neck, almost lost to the roar of the wind. Satoru’s voice, of course, because if anyone was going to ruin the thrill of flight over the North Sea cliffs, it was going to be him.
“I’m not bending over,” you snap, leaning forward on Sukuna’s broad back to adjust the rolled parchment strapped at your hip. “I’m securing the maps so they don’t blow away. Some of us actually care about documenting this trip.”
“Mm,” he hums, far too close behind you. “You say that, but it looks a lot like you’re presenting yourself to me.”
You jerk upright so fast you nearly throw yourself off balance. “I will throw you off this dragon.”
Sukuna rumbles beneath you, wings slicing through the wind. The cliffs roll past below—jagged teeth rising from the sea, waves smashing themselves to froth at the base. A treacherous coast, all jagged rocks and narrow inlets, the sort of place even seasoned dragon riders avoided unless they had a death wish. But, you remind yourself, you’re riding with Satoru Gojo. Death wishes are practically stitched into his skin.
“Relax,” he says lazily, shifting so that his chin rests on your shoulder, bold as anything. “If you fall, Sukuna will catch you. Probably.”
“Probably?”
“Eighty percent sure.”
You elbow him hard in the ribs. He laughs. The wind whips against your face, tugging at your hair and lashing past your chin. You should be focusing on the coastline, on the cliff formations and hidden coves Yaga wanted mapped. Instead, you’re stuck with Satoru practically wrapped around you like an overgrown barnacle.
Below, the sea shifts from deep sapphire to frothing white, currents curling against each other in unpredictable swirls. You sketch the outline hastily, balancing parchment on your knee, your fingers stiff from the cold. The smell of salt, the tang of brine—it all presses sharp in your nose, mixing with the faint smoke curling from Sukuna’s nostrils as he exhales.
“You’re making that bay too small,” Satoru says, peering over your shoulder. “It’s at least twice that size.”
Your head snaps towards him. “You’re a dragon rider, not a cartographer. Shut up.”
“I’m just saying,” he says. “If you want this to be accurate, maybe listen to the guy who’s actually looking down at it.”
You jab your charcoal against the parchment with unnecessary force. “I am looking down. You think I’m staring at the clouds?”
“Wouldn’t blame you. They’re very fluffy today.”
You grit your teeth. It’s either throw him off Sukuna’s back or commit to your map and pretend his voice doesn’t grate against your ears.
The coastline curves sharply, forcing Sukuna to bank hard. The sudden tilt knocks your knee against the saddle, the parchment slipping sideways in the wind. You swear under your breath, catching it just before it can flutter away.
“Careful,” Satoru drawls. “Wouldn’t want all your precious squiggles to drown.”
“They’re maps,” you snap, tucking the roll more securely under the leather strap. “Not squiggles.”
Sukuna lurches again, this time with a force that wrenches you off balance completely. One moment you’re clinging to leather straps, the next, you’re weightless—dangling over empty air, your stomach dropping out as the sea roars up to meet you. Your scream is swallowed by the wind.
Cold air slams against your face, your limbs flailing as the ocean surface rushes closer, white spray licking like fangs. You think, absurdly, that this is it. Yaga will get his precious map back water-stained and half-torn, and Satoru will laugh at your funeral pyre.
The sea devours you whole. Salt scorches your mouth, icy shock steals the breath from your lungs, and the water closes like a fist around your ribs. You kick, thrash, but the waves drag you under, tangling your limbs. The North Sea swallows you whole, dragging you down, down, down. Your maps slip free, parchment dissolving into sodden clumps as the current claws them away. Panic claws harder.
Through the blur of bubbles, a shadow streaks above—massive wings cutting the sky. Sukuna. You can just make out the gleam of his scales as he dives, but the current twists you sideways and drags you deeper.
You feel hands.
Hot even through the freezing water, strong fingers hook beneath your arm and haul you against a solid chest. Your head knocks against leather and chainmail. You cling without meaning to, nails biting into Satoru’s sleeve as he kicks upward, legs cutting the water with terrifying strength. The world tilts again, the suffocating weight of the sea giving way to open air as he breaks the surface.
You cough, choking up brine, the cold biting so deep it feels like your bones are splintering. But there’s air—ragged, salty, glorious—and Satoru’s arms are still wrapped around you, keeping you afloat.
“See?” he says, breathless. “Told you one of us would catch you.”
“Shut—” you hack, spitting seawater in his face, “—up.”
With one arm, Satoru signals upward, and Sukuna swoops low, skimming the waves. The dragon’s vast shadow falls over you both, wings slicing the mist. With a smooth, practiced motion, Satoru boosts you toward the saddle. You land gracelessly, half-sprawled, coughing into your sleeve. Sukuna steadies his flight. Moments later, Satoru swings up behind you, water dripping from his hair.
You twist, glaring, salt-stung eyes narrowing. “You dropped me!”
“I saved you,” he says.
“If you’d stop distracting me, I wouldn’t have fallen in the first place.”
“Aw, admit it,” he says, tugging you back against him as Sukuna banks into the wind again. “You wanted me to play hero.”
Your jaw locks. You want to scream, punch him, and shove him straight off Sukuna’s back. But the truth sticks bitter at the back of your throat: without him, you’d be a corpse rolling in the tide right now.
Instead, you grit out, “The only reason you’re still alive is because I’m too cold to kill you.”
“Sure, gorgeous,” Satoru says, far too cheerfully for someone who just dove into the North Sea like a loon. He pats Sukuna’s neck. “Land over there, big guy.”
Sukuna banks again, wide wings slicing through the mist as he angles toward a rocky shelf jutting from the cliffs. It’s not much—a spit of grass clinging stubbornly to stone, slick with sea spray and battered by wind—but it’s flat enough for a Night Fury to perch. The dragon’s claws scrape against the stone before he settles down.
You peel yourself upright, every muscle trembling from the cold. Water streams from your hair and sleeves, soaking into the saddle leather, dripping in miserable rivulets down your legs. You feel like a half-drowned cat.
Satoru swings off Sukuna and immediately shivers, shaking out his hair. Droplets fly everywhere.
“Ah!” You swipe your face with your sleeve. “Do you mind?”
“Not even a little,” he says.
You clamber down less gracefully, boots squelching against stone. The moment your feet hit solid ground, the wind slices through your wet clothes. Your teeth chatter so hard it feels like they might rattle loose.
“Right,” you say, hugging your arms around yourself. “Let’s make this quick. I need to salvage what I can of the map before—”
“Before your hands freeze off?” Satoru interrupts. He crouches to scratch Sukuna’s chin, even though he’s dripping seawater like a broken barrel. “Sorry, cartographer, but your squiggles can wait. We’re both shaking. That’s a fast track to hypothermia.”
“I’m fine.” Your voice wobbles with a shiver. “We don’t have time to—”
“You’re not fine.” He straightens, eyeing you in that annoyingly perceptive way of his. “Your lips are purple. You’re shivering so hard I can hear your knees clacking. Don’t make me be the sensible one here, sweetheart—it feels unnatural.”
You glare. “If I die of cold, I’ll haunt you.”
“Oh, you already haunt me.” His grin softens the jab. “Now, strip.”
“I— Excuse me?” you splutter.
“Your clothes are soaked,” he says matter-of-factly, already tugging at the laces of his tunic. “Wet fabric sucks the heat right out of you. The best thing we can do is get ‘em off, huddle together, and hope Sukuna doesn’t roast us in our sleep.”
You blink at him, scandalised, even as another violent shiver racks your body. “You’re insane.”
“True. But I’m also right.” He pulls his tunic over his head in one easy motion, tossing the dripping cloth onto the stone. The setting sun’s light catches across his bare skin—broad shoulders, pale scars scattered across his abdomen, lean muscle shifting as he moves.
You pointedly do not stare.
“You’re ogling me,” he says.
“I’m glaring at you.”
“Your glare looks a lot like ogling.”
“Die.”
“Already almost did,” he says lightly, wringing out his sleeves. “Your turn.”
Every inch of you bristles at the command. Still, the damp fabric clinging icily to your ribs argues louder than your pride. You peel off your own tunic with stiff fingers, ignoring his wolf-whistle, and spread it on a rock to dry. The wind hits your bare skin, covered only by the slip you’ve worn inside, cold and merciless, goosebumps rising instantly.
Satoru’s eyes flick toward you, lingering longer than you like. He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t need to. The curve of his mouth says enough.
“Don’t you dare say a word,” you warn, hugging your arms over your chest.
“Not one word,” he promises. “Plenty of thoughts, though.”
You groan, dragging your hands down your face. “This is torture.”
“No, this is survival.” Satoru pats Sukuna’s flank, and the dragon obligingly lowers himself, curling his massive body into a crescent. His wings arch inwards, a living shelter against the wind. Heat radiates from his scaled belly.
“See?” Satoru gestures grandly.
You want to argue. You really, truly do. But your legs wobble under you, and the promise of warmth tugs at you. So you crawl into the nook of Sukuna’s body, pressing against his side. Satoru follows, sprawling next to you, then tugging you firmly against him. His skin is startlingly warm, even damp as it is, and his arm slides around your shoulders.
“Move,” you grumble, trying to twist free.
“Nope,” he says, tucking his chin on top of your wet hair. “You’ll freeze.”
“You’re unbearable.”
“So you’ve said. Multiple times.”
You want to snap back, but the heat of him seeps into your skin. Sukuna’s breathing is a thunderous rhythm behind you, the rise and fall of his chest as steady as the tides. Satoru’s warmth presses into your back, his heartbeat steady against your spine.
The shivering ebbs. Your eyelids grow heavy.
You think, just before sleep drags you under, that maybe it isn’t so bad—being held like this, the storm kept at bay by dragon wings and an irritating idiot who refuses to let you drown or freeze. You’d rather die than admit it out loud.
“Oh, my Gods.”
The voice snaps you awake like a slap. Your eyes peel open blearily, gritty from salt and sleep. The first thing you see is scales—Sukuna’s broad, ridged side, still warm beneath your cheek. The second is pale dawn light seeping over the horizon, turning the sea into hammered silver. The third, and the worst by far, is Yaga’s apprentice standing ten paces away, gawking at you like you’ve sprouted a second head.
You jolt upright so fast your skull cracks against Satoru’s chin.
“Ow—fuck!” Satoru lurches back, clutching his jaw. His hair is sticking up in ten different directions, his chest bare, his arm still heavy across your waist. He blinks owlishly, still half-asleep, then follows your line of sight.
“Oh,” he says. “Morning, kid.”
The apprentice—gangly, freckled, barely old enough to grow a proper beard—turns a shade of crimson so bright it could signal passing ships. His dragon, a lumbering Gronckle, looks pointedly in the other direction as though it, too, is practicing modesty. The apprentice’s mouth opens, closes, then opens again. “I—uh—you—Chief Yaga sent me—”
You scramble upright, hugging your damp tunic to your chest as though it might shield you from the apprentice’s wide-eyed horror. “It’s not what it looks like.”
The boy squeaks. “It looks like you and Gojo—”
“It doesn’t,” you snap. Heat crawls up your neck, sharp as the morning chill.
“Actually,” Satoru drawls, still lounging half-naked against Sukuna’s side, “it’s exactly what it looks like.”
You kick him in the shin. He hisses through his teeth but grins anyway. Bastard.
The apprentice makes a strangled sound and stares very hard at the cliffs instead. His ears are scarlet. “Chief Yaga said—he said it was urgent. Two dragons were stolen last night.”
“Stolen?” you ask.
He nods quickly, eyes still fixed anywhere but at you. “By trappers. They slipped past the watch posts by the southern coves. Took a Nadder and a Zippleback. Riders tried to give chase, but they were gone before dawn.”
You freeze, cold in a way seawater could never manage. Images slam unbidden into your head: chains biting into scaled hides, muzzles forced over mouths, wings bound and flailing. Dragons screaming as they’re dragged into cages.
“Shit,” Satoru says, the first hint of sharpness cutting through his lazy tone. He pushes to his feet, water-dark trousers hanging low on his hips. Sukuna rumbles beside him, wings twitching restlessly.
The apprentice swallows, wringing his hands, as his Gronckle hovers above the ground. “The Chief sent me to find you. He said you’re needed immediately—both of you. He was… angry that you weren’t at the watch last night, Gojo.”
You flinch. Angry. Of course he was. You were out here, tangled up in a mess of salt, warmth, and sleep, while dragons were dragged away into darkness. Your stomach knots.
Satoru’s hand brushes yours. “Not your fault,” he murmurs.
You want to believe him. You don’t.
“Which direction?” Satoru asks crisply.
“East,” the apprentice answers. “Towards the mainland, we think. Scouts found broken nets on the tide and claw marks on the rocks, but… there were too many tracks. More than just one ship. It’s—bigger than usual.”
You hug your tunic tighter, your unease curdling into something colder. Too many tracks. Bigger than usual. And Yaga, always conveniently aware of where the trappers struck, always pushing for maps that stretched further, deeper, as though he wanted Berk’s vulnerabilities laid bare on parchment. Something ugly stirs at the back of your mind.
“Great job finding us, kid,” Satoru says. “Go on back, tell Yaga we’re on our way to Berk.”
The apprentice nods and urges his Gronckle away. Silence stretches after his wings vanish into the horizon. The only sound is the crash of waves and Sukuna’s low, restless growl.
You finally tug your tunic over your head, the fabric clammy against your skin. “Two dragons. Gone. While we—” You swallow down the lump in your throat. “While we weren’t there.”
Satoru’s gaze flicks to you. “We’ll find them.”
You want to argue. Want to spill the unease clawing at your ribs—that this isn’t coincidence, that someone is feeding the trappers information, that Yaga’s heavy insistence on maps and watch-posts feels less like defence and more like design. But Satoru swings into the saddle, his hand extended down to you, and all you can do is shove the suspicion somewhere deep down where it won’t choke you.
Later. You’ll think about it later.
The ride back to Berk is wordless. Sukuna cuts through the dawn sky with a speed that makes your bones rattle, the wind lashing your damp hair against your cheeks. The village comes into view—first the crooked rocks of the cliffside, then the smoky thatched rooftops, and finally the wide stone courtyard where riders and dragons gather in knots of uneasy conversation.
Yaga waits at the centre of it all, arms folded across his massive chest. His scowl alone could ward off a sea storm. You’ve seen him angry before, but this—this is something else.
Sukuna’s talons scrape stone. Riders hustle across the square, tightening harnesses, checking saddlebags, shouting clipped reports to one another. Dragons bristle and shift, their restlessness bleeding into their humans. You slide down from Sukuna’s saddle, boots hitting the stones. Satoru follows, rolling his shoulders once.
“Come,” Yaga’s voice booms from the centre. “Where were you?”
“Taking the north coast maps you wanted, remember?” Satoru says. “Thought you’d be proud I was finally listening.”
Yaga’s jaw ticks. “While you wasted time drawing cliffs, two dragons were stolen from right under our noses. A Nadder and a Zippleback. Good, loyal beasts, now likely in chains.”
You open your mouth—an instinctive we didn’t know, we would have been there if—but Yaga’s eyes cut to you, and the words wither in your throat.
“And you,” he says, quieter but no less cutting. “Distracted.”
Your cheeks burn hot as a furnace. You force yourself not to look at Satoru, not to flinch under Yaga’s disappointment.
“Careful, Chief,” Satoru says, stepping forward. “Sounds almost like you’re blaming us instead of the ones who actually stole the dragons.”
Silence. Riders shuffle uneasily at the edge of the square, pretending to busy themselves with tack and gear. Yaga exhales. He gestures with a curt hand, and says, “Enough. We’ve no time for excuses. Gojo, you’ll take Sukuna east. Track the trappers. If they’ve gone towards the mainland, we need to know which paths they’re using. Don’t engage. Don’t be reckless.”
“Reckless?” Satoru echoes. “Chief, that hurts me.”
“It’s meant to.”
Yaga turns to you. You think—hope—he’ll send you with Satoru. You’ve flown the coasts enough times now, you know the currents, the cliffs, the possible landing points. Together, you’d be faster.
“You,” Yaga says instead. “Stay here. The maps you made—finish them. Copy them properly, mark all the coves and hideouts. We’ll need every detail if we’re to tighten our defenses.”
“But—” You start. “With all due respect, I should go too. I was with Satoru when we—”
“No.” Yaga’s eyes harden, the finality in them brooking no argument. “We need accuracy more than we need an extra set of hands in the sky. Your maps will serve Berk better than you will.”
Heat floods your chest: anger, shame, suspicion all jumbled together. The same suspicion that had gnawed at you when the apprentice spoke of too many tracks, bigger than usual. The same suspicion that whispers now: why does he care so much about these maps?
Satoru’s hand brushes yours again, quick, almost hidden. When you glance at him, his expression is unreadable, but his mouth quirks, almost imperceptibly, in reassurance.
“Don’t worry, gorgeous,” he says aloud, stretching his arms. “I’ll bring your lizards back safely. Maybe even some extra, if they’re feeling friendly.”
“Go,” Yaga growls.
Satoru vaults back into Sukuna’s saddle. The Night Fury launches skyward in a storm of wings and air, climbing so fast your stomach flips just from watching. He doesn’t look back, but you feel his absence immediately, like the ground beneath you has shifted.
“Chief,” you try again, forcing the tremor out of your voice, “if there are more ships than usual, if this is bigger than—”
“Finish your maps,” Yaga cuts you off, turning away.
You stand there for a long moment, your fists clenching around nothing, as riders murmur and scatter and dragons snort restlessly at their sides. Something in your gut twists again, sharp and certain. Yaga doesn’t just want you out of the mission. He wants you blind, and you don’t know why.
Satoru Gojo doesn’t arrive back with the rest of the riders and it takes you about four hours to swallow down your pride and admit that something has gone terribly, horribly wrong.
At first, you tell yourself he’s late because he’s lazy. Because he got distracted chasing a gull or decided to nap on Sukuna’s back somewhere over the cliffs. That’s his style, isn’t it? Careless, infuriating, utterly impossible to pin down. But when the other riders return—faces set in grim lines, dragons shuffling uneasily on the packed earth—there’s no trace of him.
The knot in your stomach hardens into stone.
The courtyard empties slowly, mutters and wary glances trailing after you as you linger by the dragon pens. You can’t ask them where he is, not when your throat is tight with fear. You can’t ask Yaga either—at least, not openly, when you already suspect he doesn’t want you to know the answer.
Instead, you find the apprentice.
He’s lugging a basket of fish towards the Gronckle pens, shoulders hunched. You stride over and plant yourself in his path.
“Where’s the Chief?” you demand.
The boy nearly drops the basket, mackerel slopping over the edge. “Wh-what?”
“Yaga,” you say. “Where is he?”
He stammers. “He—uh—he’s in the great hall, I think. With some of the elders. I’m not supposed to—”
You move before he can finish. The great hall looms at the centre of Berk. Its roof rises steeply, carved dragon heads snarling from the beams. The heavy double doors are shut, but a warm glow seeps from the cracks—torchlight, flickering against the chill dusk. You shouldn’t be here. Yaga will flay you alive if he catches you sneaking where you don’t belong. But the thought of waiting, sitting idly while Satoru doesn’t come back doesn’t sit right with you.
You slip inside.
The hall stretches wide and long ahead of you, the walls lined with shields and old weapons that gleam in the light. Long tables stretch out across the floor, empty, a few littered with tankards and scraps of parchment. The far end is dominated by Yaga’s chair, carved from mahogany, massive enough to dwarf even him.
It’s empty.
You turn away from the chair—because on the nearest table is your map.
Or rather, it should be there. The stack of parchment you left after your last session of furious sketching is gone, only a faint smear of charcoal dust staining the wood. The straps you’d used to tie them together still sit at the edge of the table, neatly coiled, but the maps themselves have vanished. Your stomach lurches.
The map of the north coast. The one you risked half your life to sketch, nearly drowned for. Every cove, every inlet, every hidden path marked out in careful strokes of charcoal—gone.
Your hand curls tightly around the strap left behind, the leather cutting into your palm. The room spins, your thoughts snarling into one conclusion: if Yaga has the maps, he didn’t take them to protect Berk. And if he doesn’t have them, then someone else does. And Satoru still hasn’t come back.
You hurry out of the hall, past the empty pens, past the wary stares of villagers who pull their cloaks tighter as you barrel through. The sky is already bruising into night, gulls wheeling overhead in harsh cries that grate against your nerves. You don’t think. You just turn—towards the cliffs, the only place that makes sense. The north coast, where your maps pointed. Where Satoru isn’t supposed to be.
The path narrows as you climb. The wind rises, sharp and cold, tugging at your tunic. The sea roars below, white foam smashing itself against black rock. Each gust shoves at your balance, each step rattles your teeth. You know these paths—you’ve sketched them, charted them—but tonight they feel alien, hostile.
Your lungs burn. Your legs ache. Still, you push forward, clutching your side, muttering curses under your breath.
A shadow moves above you, massive fast, cutting across the purpling sky. The figure drops lower, angling towards you. You stumble to a stop, heart hammering, and tilt your head back.
Sukuna.
The Night Fury flies through the dusk, scales glinting dark blue where the light catches. His cry rips through the cliffs—sharp, haunting, enough to send a flock of puffins exploding from their nests. The wind from his wings slams into you, sending you staggering backwards.
He’s alone. The dragon banks sharply, almost skimming the sea, and you see a saddle still strapped tight, leather dark with seawater, reins dangling loose.
He lands on the cliffs just ahead of you, talons tearing furrows in the stone. His wings flare wide before folding in, each movement rippling with tension. He’s restless, furious, his chest heaving and his tail lashing like a whip.
“Sukuna,” you breathe, your voice cracking.
He turns at once, those twin rings of garnet eyes locking onto you. Recognition flares, but it’s not soft. It’s sharp, wild, like he’s on the edge of bolting right back into the sky. His nostrils flare, smoke curling as he huffs out a growl.
Your legs move before your mind catches up. You rush towards him, arms out, words tumbling uselessly from your mouth. “Where is he? Where’s Satoru?”
Sukuna lowers his head, nostrils flaring again as though scenting the wind. His scales are slick with salt, his wings ragged from the flight, his whole body coiled tight with an agitation you’ve never seen in him before. He paces, restless, claws scraping sparks against the stone. The saddle’s empty. Satoru’s gone.
The thought claws at your skull, frantic and ugly, but you push it down, shove it away, refuse to let it root. “Take me to him,” you say. “You hear me? Take me to him!”
Sukuna freezes. His head tilts, eyes narrowing, sharp and assessing. You think he’ll refuse, that he’ll vanish into the sky without you. But he shoves his massive snout against your shoulder, hard enough to nearly knock you flat. His wings flare again. It’s not an invitation. It’s a command.
Your hands fumble with the saddle’s straps as you clamber up, fingers numb, stomach twisting. The moment you’re seated, Sukuna surges forward, leaping into the air and spreading his wings. The world drops away beneath you, cliffs shrinking, sea spreading endless and merciless below. Wind tears at your face, your hair, your clothes. You clutch the straps tightly, the air freezing your cheeks, your heart slamming so hard you can’t tell if it’s fear or relief.
Sukuna doesn’t soar, doesn’t play with the air currents or bank lazily just to terrify you the way Satoru likes to. He cuts through the night like an arrow, wings beating ruthlessly, each downstroke flinging you forward until your stomach lurches. The North Sea yawns before you, and the cliffs crawl past in uneven shadows.
“Where are you taking me?” you shout, though the wind steals most of it away. Sukuna’s neck stiffens, his flight angled low, purposeful.
The further north you go, the rougher the landscape grows. The cliffs rise higher, crueler, sharpened by centuries of waves gnawing at their base. The moon breaks through the clouds in flashes, silvering the rocks. You’ve charted these shores on parchment, every inlet and alcove, but in the dark, they look unfamiliar.
Sukuna dives. The drop rips the breath from your chest and tears your stomach into your throat. You can only cling and pray as he folds his wings tight and plummets. At the last possible instant, he flares his wings wide, landing with a shuddering crash onto a stretch of uneven stone, claws biting through moss and shale.
You scramble down, your boots skidding on slick rock as Sukuna growls. Ahead, the cliffs hollow into a cove, a natural amphitheatre of stone and sea. Torches burn inside, small orange flames that lick against the rock, wrong against the wild dark.
In the centre of it all: Yaga.
The Chief of Berk stands with his arms crossed, broad shoulders squared and cloak snapping in the wind. His great beard glints ruddy in the torchlight. But it isn’t him that makes your heart stutter. It’s what’s at his feet.
Satoru.
He’s on his knees, wrists bound in thick rope, head tilted at an insolent angle that doesn’t quite hide the blood streaking down his temple. Even half-slumped, gagged with a strip of cloth knotted cruelly between his teeth, he radiates infuriating carelessness—eyes narrowed, expression hovering between boredom and mockery.
You make a sound—something strangled, something useless—and stumble forward, only for Sukuna to block you with a sweep of a wing. He growls again.
“Finally,” Yaga says. His voice booms off the rock, heavy, immovable, the kind of voice that fills halls and commands loyalty. “I was beginning to think you’d abandoned him.”
“What are you doing?” you manage to ask.
“What I should’ve done the moment that creature set foot on Berk.” His eyes cut to Sukuna. “That dragon is too dangerous to be left in the hands of a fool. Or worse, shared between fools. Give him to me, and I may let Gojo live.”
Satoru makes a muffled noise behind the gag, rolling his eyes so hard you half-expect them to stick. You can almost hear his voice anyway: Don’t listen to the old man, gorgeous. He just wants my dragon ‘cause he doesn’t have one of his own.
Your chest feels too small, your pulse hammering against your ribs. “You—you can’t mean that. Sukuna’s not a weapon. He’s not—”
“He’s a Night Fury,” Yaga says. “Do you have any idea what that means? The power he carries? No village could stand against us if he were ours. No trapper would dare threaten us. Berk would be untouchable.”
“He’s not yours,” you say.
Yaga’s gaze flicks past you. “And yet here he stands, listening to your commands. Think, child. You’ve seen the cliffs, the danger at our borders. Berk is one storm away from ruin. I won’t gamble its survival on the whims of a dragon who answers only to Gojo.”
Satoru gives a muffled, derisive laugh that earns him a kick to the ribs. He tips his head back, gag muffling whatever clever retort he tries to spit out.
“Is that why you funded the trappers to surround your own village, Yaga?” you ask, mustering up all the courage you own.
Yaga stills. His boot rests against Satoru’s ribs, his shadow thrown long against the cove wall. His lips twitch beneath his beard—not surprise, not shame. Annoyance.
“You shouldn’t know that,” he says slowly. “The apprentice talks too much.”
“You set them on us. You set them on him.”
A sound splits the night—metal ringing against stone, boots crunching over gravel. From the shadows at the edges of the cove, men appear. Rough-spun leather, ragged furs, nets rolled thick over their shoulders. Their faces gleam with salt and grease, their eyes hungry. Dragon trappers. You know them by the stink alone: fish oil, blood, old smoke. They slip from the dark like wolves, more than a dozen, their movements practiced, circling.
The torchlight catches iron chains coiled in their fists. Hooks. Bolas. Shackles built for wings, not wrists.
“You’re working with them?” you say.
“I’m using them,” the chief says. “They have the means, the tools that I don’t have.”
You think of the maps gone from the hall, the apprentice’s trembling mouth, the sidelong glances of riders who returned without their strongest, without him. Pieces snap into place with a sickening clarity.
“You sold us out,” you whisper again. “You sold him out.”
“I did what I had to. Berk survives because I make hard choices. You, girl—you make sketches. You play at your little maps, but I—I see storms on the horizon. Dragons beyond counting. Trappers fattening themselves on our weakness. Do you think a village of fishers and smiths can stand against that? No. But with a Night Fury—with that beast, Berk rules the seas.”
Sukuna’s growl reverberates through the rock beneath your feet. His pupils pinprick, his wings hitch upward, every line of his body coiled to strike. You know he understands enough: tone, intent, threat. He does not know, yet, how to forgive.
“Tell me,” Yaga says, low and inexorable, “what’s one boy’s life against the safety of a whole people?”
Satoru chooses that exact moment to lurch upright against his bindings, muffling something sharp and entirely unhelpful through the gag. You catch the roll of his shoulders, the tilt of his chin. One boy? Try national treasure, old man.
You almost laugh.
Chains rattle. The trappers are closing in. Their boots scrape the shale, torches lifting higher, nets poised to fly. The scent of pitch and iron stings your nose. There aren’t raiders in passing—they’re hunters, professional, and they’ve been waiting.
You step forward, planting yourself between them and Sukuna’s flank before you even think it through. “If you think he’ll ever obey you, you’re a bigger fool than I thought,” you bite out. “Sukuna isn’t a weapon. He isn’t yours to wield.”
“He will be.”
The nearest trapper lunges. A net arcs through the air, weighted corners sparking as they whip forward. You throw yourself sideways, but you needn’t have bothered—Sukuna’s blast rips it to cinders mid-flight. The explosion lights the cove for a split-second, dazzling white, searing afterimages into your vision. Rock shatters, smoke plumes, men scream.
The Night Fury roars.
The sound is primal, thunder given flesh. Sukuna surges forward, plasma bursting from his jaws in ragged, relentless blasts. Trappers scatter like startled crabs, some diving for cover, others spinning their chains desperately to keep him back. One man screams as his bolas ignite mid-spin, molten metal splattering his arm.
You drop to Satoru’s side in the chaos. He turns his head sharply, eyes catching yours, blue in the firelight, furious and alive. Your fingers fumble at the knots. The rope is soaked with seawater, swollen tight, cutting into your palms as you fight with it.
“Hold still,” you hiss, though he’s hardly moving.
He snorts through his gag. The knot slips at last. The rope slackens, and Satoru jerks his wrists free with a hiss. He tears the gag from his mouth, coughing once before grinning up at you, that same insufferable smile that somehow hasn’t dulled even after being tied and bloodied.
“Miss me?” he drawls.
You shove his shoulder. “Get up.”
“Oh, I plan to.” Satoru’s gaze flicks past you, to Yaga still looming at the centre of it all.
Sukuna lashes his tail, knocking two trappers flat, and whirlls his head back towards you both, plasma building in his throat again. The trappers rally, more of them pouring from the shadows at the mouth of the cove, their nets glowing with oil to withstand fire, their bolas gleaming with sharpened edges meant for wings. Their shadows jitter grotesquely against the cove walls, wolfish and endless. Sukuna’s blasts have rattled them but not broken them—they circle tighter, nets at the ready.
A horn splits the night.
It’s high and keening, rolling down from the cliffs above: Berk’s call to arms.
Shapes tear through the dark sky. Dragons. Not one, not two—a little less than a dozen, wings beating hard, riders silhouetted against the clouds. Their cries cascade through the air—the iron thrum of Nadder wings, the heavy, beating thunder of a Gronckle, the shriek of a Zippleback.
The riders dive. Bolas meant for Sukuna snap backward, suddenly tangled in fire. A trapper screams when a Deadly Nadder’s spines pin his arm to the cove wall. Yaga’s apprentice clings desperately to his dragon—far too small for this fight, a Gronckle, wings buzzing frantically—but his horn blast keeps sounding, rallying the others.
“Traitors!” Yaga bellows. His face is red with fury, veins bulging in his temple. “Do you side with him over your own chief?”
“Over a traitor, yes!” the apprentice shouts back.
The cove fractures into chaos—dragons wheeling, trappers shouting, nets burning in mid-air. Sukuna tears through them, plasma lighting up the night. You turn towards Satoru, only to freeze.
Yaga’s hand clamps down around your arm, thick and brutal, yanking you off your feet. The world spins; your back slams against his chest, his arm like an iron band around you. He drags you towards the cliff’s edge, gravel skittering into the black maw of sea below.
“Stop!” His roar drowns even the dragon cries. “Or she falls!”
Sukuna halts mid-pounce, talons gouging sparks in the stone. The other riders hover, their dragons’ wings beating the air in slow, heavy pulses. Even the trappers hesitate, chains slack in their hands. The sea crashes below, white foam gnashing against the rocks, a drop so sheer it makes you feel nauseous.
Yaga’s breath rasps against your ear. “The Night Fury, girl. Give him to me or you’re gone.”
You twist, fighting against his grip, nails digging into his arm, but he’s immovable, a wall of muscle and conviction. He jerks you closer to the edge, and the heel of your boot slips on loose gravel. Your weight tilts towards the abyss.
Somehow, impossibly, you make eye contact with Satoru—astride Sukuna. His white hair gleams in the torchlight. Sukuna crouches beneath him, plasma pulsing faintly in his throat, tail still twitching.
Satoru’s lips move.
Eighty percent.
You blink, barely comprehending. “What?” you croak out.
Eighty percent.
Suddenly, you know. He wants you to trust him. He wants you to fall. It’s insane. It’s impossible.
The apprentice screams your name from somewhere above. The riders shout warnings. The trappers lunge forward, seeing their chance. Yaga tightens his grip, preparing to hurl you like discarded cargo into the sea.
You make the choice first.
Your knees buckle, and you let yourself go slack. His grip loosens in shock—just enough. You wrench sideways, twist hard against his hold, and throw yourself forward into the air.
The sea roars up to meet you. Wind tears your scream to shreds. There’s only the black water yawning wide, jagged rocks slick with foam—until Sukuna dives down, his wings folded tightly. He rockets down the cliff face, plasma sparking in his jaws. You glimpse Satoru’s silhouette against the stars, leaning low in the saddle, eyes locked on you.
The air sears past your skin, the spray of the sea already stinging your face. Claws close around you.
Sukuna’s talons scoop you from the air. The force of it nearly rips the breath from your lungs, but the relief, the sheer surge of it, blinds you more than the wind. He angles upward in a steep climb, wings snapping wide, hauling you clear from the rocks and the ravenous waves.
You’re pressed tightly against his chest, his claws curled just enough to cage you without harm, his scales hot with exertion. Above you, astride the saddle, Satoru twists in his seat, grinning down at you.
“See?” he calls. “Told you. Eighty percent.”
You want to kiss him. You also want to scream. Instead, all you manage is a hoarse, furious, “You’re an idiot!”
Your first kiss with Satoru Gojo occurs because of Sukuna.
Not because you wanted it to. Gods, no. You’d rather have wrestled a Gronckle with one arm tied behind your back than admit you were even remotely tempted by the smirk plastered across Satoru’s stupid face. But Sukuna, traitorous beast that he is, decided that enough was enough.
It starts when the Night Fury refuses to let either of you down. You’re sore from the fight, ribs aching where Yaga had grabbed you, salt still drying and sticking to your skin. You’ve been through enough for one night, and all you want is the ground. Just solid ground beneath your feet.
Sukuna, it seems, has other ideas.
He lands not on the village cliffs, not near the dragon pens, but on the highest bluff overlooking Berk. A windswept place where he knows neither of you can escape quickly. He lowers his head, eyes narrowing with that calculating look he always gets when he’s three steps ahead of everyone else.
You try to slide off the saddle. His tail lashes, blocking your path.
“Really?” you snap, shoving at the scaled wall of muscle. “I’ve had enough for today.”
“He just doesn’t want us to leave,” Satoru supplies. “Can you blame him? We make such a great team.”
You whirl on him. “You nearly got yourself killed.”
“Nearly. Keyword.”
Your teeth grind. The wind snaps your hair into your eyes, the sea growls far below, and Satoru is—well, Satoru. All flippant grins and infuriating calm, as if Yaga’s betrayal, the trappers, the near loss of Sukuna, none of it left so much as a scratch on his spirit.
You jab a finger at his chest. “You think this is funny? You were gagged and tied and—”
“—and you swooped in and saved me,” he says. “Admit it, you couldn’t stand to see me suffer.”
“You—” you splutter. “I— That’s not—”
Sukuna rumbles, wings settling around you both like a barricade. His eyes gleam faintly in the dark, twin garnets pinning you where you sit. You realise too late: he’s cornered you.
Satoru tilts his head. “You hear that? He’s saying we should kiss and make up.”
“He is not,” you say flatly.
“He definitely is,” Satoru insists. He leans in just slightly, enough to test the boundaries, enough for your heart to betray you by stumbling over itself. “C’mon. Wouldn’t want to upset him. He’s had a rough day too.”
You glare, but the problem is that Sukuna seems to agree. He nudges the both of you closer with the blunt force of his snout, nearly toppling you into Satoru’s lap. The dragon huffs smoke, satisfied, before curling into the stone and laying his head flat as though to say, Now behave.
You should shove Satoru away. You should storm off, make the climb down the cliffs yourself, risk the dark. Anything but this.
The adrenaline of the fight still thrums through your veins. Your pulse hasn’t slowed since you saw him bound on his knees, blood dripping from his temple, smirking like a madman even then. You remember the feel of the ropes cutting your palms as you freed him, the wild terror that maybe you’d been too late.
Maybe that’s why you don’t shove him away. Maybe that’s why you let him close the distance, why your lips meet his halfway in a kiss that’s less a decision and more a consequence, inevitable as the tide.
It’s clumsy, at first. You’re too angry, he’s too smug. But he softens into it, just a little, and you hate the way the ground seems to tilt under your feet, how the world narrows to salt air and warmth and the reckless promise of him.
When you finally break apart, breathless, Satoru grins like he’s just won a war.
“Knew you liked me,” he says, blue eyes sparkling.
You shove him hard in the shoulder, though your face burns. “That was for Sukuna,” you say.
The dragon rumbles again, smug as any beast can be. Satoru only laughs, tipping his head back, and pulls you in for another kiss.
It’s ecstatic, the feel of Satoru’s tongue lapping at your folds.
His tongue is wet and hot as it laps over the sensitive nerves, and you can feel the way he hums happily as he laps at the juices that drip onto his waiting mouth. You’re sure his face is going to be covered in your slick by the end of this, but it seems like he couldn’t care less, if his moans and groans are any indication. Your fingers tangle in his white strands of hair, gripping hard to keep him where you want him. His arms are wrapped around your legs, keeping them open as he feasts on your cunt. You can see the muscles in his back flexing as he tries to get closer, get deeper, and you can only hold on for dear life, feeling the way he drives you higher and higher towards your orgasm.
Satoru is making a mess of himself, and you know he has a thing for being covered in your slick.
The moment the thought passes through your head, you can’t help the cry that escapes, a full-body shiver wracking through your body. He groans into you, the sound vibrating against your skin, and you feel his tongue move in a way that you know has him spelling his name, over and over again. You tug at his hair, trying to move him, but his arms tighten and he doesn’t budge.
You let out a moan, trying to speak. “Satoru, I—I need you. Inside me. Now.”
He wraps his lips around your clit, sucking harshly. “One more, gorgeous. Give me one more, and then I’m all yours.”
You whine, feeling the heat in your stomach build, and Satoru continues to eat you out. Your back arches off the bed, and you grip his hair tighter. Your thighs start to close around him; he lets go of one of your legs to press two fingers into your heat, pressing right into that spot that has you crying out his name, curling his fingers as his tongue flicks rapidly over your clit. Your body shakes, and you cry out his name, feeling the way your cunt tightens and throbs around his fingers.
Satoru groans, moving his face away from your core and watching as the aftershocks of your orgasm make your body tremble. He pumps his fingers slowly, prolonging your pleasure, and you whine at the sensitivity.
He smiles softly, kissing the inside of your thigh, before removing his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and licking the juices that cover them. He lets out a pleased moan, eyes locked onto yours, and moves to kiss you.
His lips are warm, and you taste yourself on his tongue. It only serves to rile you up more when you feel the way his cock throbs where it presses against your thigh. You raise your legs to wrap them around his hips, and you push him lightly. Satoru moves willingly, letting out a moan as he lies on his back. He grips the sheets in anticipation, watching as you straddle his lap. He groans, feeling the way your cunt settles on his thighs. You smile, running a finger down his chest, and he bucks his hips in response.
You let out a gasp when the tip of his cock rubs against your folds. He moans.
Satoru’s hands grip your hips tightly, and his thumb rubs circles on your skin. You can feel the way he trembles under you. Your hand wraps around his cock, pumping lightly; he whines. You position the tip at your entrance, rubbing it against your clit, and moan.
“Stop teasing,” he groans, and you grin.
“Or what?” you taunt, grinding against his length. “Are you going to punish me, Satoru?”
He growls, hips jerking upwards. You gasp, feeling the tip rub against your folds, catching at your slit, and try to lower yourself. But Satoru tightens his hold, not letting you sink further onto his cock. You glare at him.
“I should,” he says, and suddenly his arms are around you, flipping you onto your back.
He settles between your thighs, his arms framing either side of your head. His hair falls into his eyes, and you can feel his cock brushing against your folds. You move your arms to wrap around his shoulders, nails scratching lightly down his back.
Satoru groans, burying his head in your neck, nipping lightly.
“Fuck,” you breathe out, feeling his hips jerk.
The tip of his cock rubs against your clit again. He lets out a breathless laugh.
“I will,” he responds—only to be interrupted by a loud, keening wail from outside your cottage door.
The sound is so piercing, so demanding, that for a moment you think some villager has wandered into mortal peril right outside your door. But no—no, you recognise that guttural, almost petulant cry. You and Satoru both freeze.
“Was that—” you start.
Another wail, louder this time, rattles the hinges of your cottage, followed by the unmistakable scrape of claws against wood.
Satoru drops his forehead against your collarbone. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
The Night Fury wails again, insistent, tail thudding against the doorframe. You bite back a laugh, half-giddy, half-exasperated, and say, “I think someone wants attention.”
Satoru lifts his head, hair mussed and eyes narrowed. “He’s the worst cockblock in history,” he mutters. “Tell him to go hunt some haddock or terrorise the chickens, or—Gods, literally anything else.”
The next sound isn’t just a wail. It’s a low, mournful croon that slides under your ribs and squeezes. Sukuna isn’t just loud—he’s lonely.
You soften, even as Satoru makes a strangled noise of despair above you. “Satoru…”
“No,” he says, rolling off you onto his back. “No, no, don’t you dare give him those eyes. He doesn’t deserve those eyes. I was right there, gorgeous—right there.”
You’re already tugging your tunic back over your shoulders, laughing despite the ache in your belly. “He’ll tear the cottage down if we don’t.”
Satoru throws an arm over his face, groaning into the crook of his elbow. “I hate him. I actually hate him.”
But when you slip to the door and crack it open, Sukuna is there, his massive head lowered to the threshold, those garnet eyes glowing with expectation. He snorts the moment he sees you, bumping his snout against your chest.
“Alright, alright,” you murmur, your hands automatically smoothing over his warm snout. “Head pats. Happy?”
Sukuna rumbles, pressing harder into your palm. Satoru groans again. “Unbelievable. My dragon just stole my girl. I’m doomed.”
You glance over your shoulder to find him sprawled on the bed, hair a disaster, chest heaving, the blankets thrown over the lower half of his body. He’s sulking. You grin.
“Maybe he just knows when to step in,” you tease, scratching gently at Sukuna’s scales.
“Step in? He barged in.”
Sukuna lets out a little huff and nuzzles harder against your hand.
Satoru groans once more, louder this time, dragging the pillow over his face. “I’m moving out.”
a/n: thanks for reading! i have a habit of turning sukuna into animals lol he was also a horse in my old gojo tangled!au
satoru is obsessed with the idea and making you do things you wouldn’t do.
he likes the fact that you’re sweet and quiet and only save your giggles for him, but he also likes when you’re gagging on his dick with tears filled to the brim dripping out of your eyes with your hand in between your thighs.
his eyes glued to yours with mischief, his stomach swirling with butterflies because of how easy it is to get you to do things with him and him alone.
you and satoru are one and the same, both perverted freaks; the only difference is that you never explored it.
way too sweet and fragile before, not even realizing when satoru asked you to come study at his place it meant him being balls deep inside of your mouth giving you instructions.
you didn't even touch yourself alone; that’s when satoru knew he had a gem, his own personal doll to corrupt and bark orders to, knowing you would do them.
the first thing he did was have you sit in his lap while he showed you porn of women that looked exactly like you, talking you through the video while his hand slowly slid in between your thighs, rubbing you through the thin fabric you had on for panties.
“already that wet just from videos? "fuck, you’re cute.”
this was his own wet dream come to life, having you unexperienced, wet, and horny in his lap waiting for what came next.
the first thing he ever made you do was try to touch yourself while he watched, knowing you had no prior knowledge on how to do it, his eyes glued to your hand and how it trembled while your index and middle fingers made contact with your slick that coated your slit.
“there you go, you’re a pro already.”
a sly smirk on his face while he watched, saliva coating in his mouth and his palms getting sweaty watching.
as much as he wanted to swoop in and put his hand over yours guiding, watching felt better, naughtier, like a guilty pleasure. he wanted to see you ache and get frustrated with yourself because you couldn’t properly get yourself off.
the more this went on, the more stuff he started bringing to you.
“it’ll feel good, i promise. if it doesn't, you can slap me.”
before sliding in between your thighs and licking down your slit, gathering all your sweetness that coated his tongue and fingers that slipped into you.
gasping as time went on, his tongue flicking repeatedly on your clit and his fingers curved inside.
every time he put his hands on you, a wave of shame hit you, but still, you stayed, doing every naughty thing he wanted.
It's your ten year high school reunion and there's just one person you're don't want to see, your first love - Satoru Gojo. He was the football captain, you were the cheerleader, it was that high school love that consumed you, only for it to all fall apart when Satoru broke your heart. Even after all these years, you still resent him for it, you hate him, in fact - so how do you two end up in the backseat of his sports car!?
˚⊹♡ pairings- ex bf! gojo x reader
˚⊹♡warnings- a little angsty, past emotions, high school sweethearts, you were a cheer captain and he was an allstar player, flashbacks, idiots in love, insecurities, teasing, mutual pining, longing, oral ( f receiving) fingering, squirting, riding him in the backseat, love confessions, happy ending <3
this one just randomly popped into my head out of nowhere, comments/rbs always appreciated if you enjoy! Wc- 7.3k
Art creds right here!
Ten years - it's been ten years since you saw him, your first love, your first kiss, the first everything.
High school reunion and truly the two of you look the same, he's a little buffer, his shoulders are broader, perhaps his jaw has sharpened ever so slightly - but it's undeniably him and you. Satoru Gojo - the top football player in the school and you - the pretty cheerleader who was always with him.
On him, near him, on top of him in the front seat of his sports car, smacking your head and giggling as he fucked up into you, stretching you out on his cock. He'd been sweet that first time, even as you all snuck around and parked in the middle of nowhere, even with the cramped confines.
Yet he'd been there - kissing you deep, messy and slow, pumping you up and down that veiny length as you took more and more from him, kissing you with his tongue ring clicking against your teeth. You'd whined out, desperately arching for more, shattering and fluttering your eyes shut.
The memories heat you up as you stand there across from him, trembling with your thighs pressed together, nails pressing into your palms, seeing him catching up with all his friends. He'd gone to university, but you'd gone out of state, and that was when it had all fallen apart.
The pain is there, lingering, eating at you - yet those feelings linger, the first love, the youth you all had where you couldn't get enough of each other, just for it all to end.
When those eerie blue eyes catch you across the room, however, he's not smirking, not laughing and shoving his friends, no he's got them locked on you now. Suguru and Nanami pause, peering over at you, then at each other, as you turn and rush to grab a drink.
You can't even stand to be in the same room with him after ten years.
You run into Shoko and Utahime, they give you a hug and the three of you throw back a shot, laughing a bit as you catch up with them.
“You two together, hmm?” Your lips twitch up in amusement, they look at each other and then kiss. “Stop that, you’re making me jealous!”
“Have you decided to stop being into men?”
“No I wish,” you pout and lean back, letting Shoko grab you another shot. “It’s been nothing but hell.”
“Another shithead?” Utahime asks, frowning a bit.
“Yeah, but it was three years…” You shake your head. “I shouldn’t talk about it, I’ll cry again, and I am not crying with Gojo at this party.”
“Ah, Gojo,” Utahime makes Shoko laugh. “What, I can’t stand him!”
“He’s not that bad, just an idiot,” she grabs her pack of cigarettes and starts smacking them on her palm, raising a dark brow as you look over at him, turning quickly when he catches you staring.
“You still have it bad, all these years, sweets?”
“No! Shoko!” You cover your face and shake your head. “Never again, I haven’t even spoken to him.”
“In ten years?” Shoko asks, surprise clear on her features.
“No, I’ve not even been in the country for five years, but he never reached out to me, and neither did I, aside from when his parents were sick and it was on the news. I did write to him, but he just… hearted it. I’m sure he had a lot going on.”
And that fucking hurt, that you couldn’t even comfort him, that you knew he faced a fuck ton of responsibilities now. Yet all these years Satoru hearted one of your photos, and reacted to the only message you sent – you swear the heart must have been a misclick, too.
It hurts so bad, that you were too stubborn to reach out in the darkest times, that he wouldn’t leave your memories. Sure – it faded, you went and got your master’s degree, you went abroad, now you’re back home, though, and you couldn’t help but wonder if you’d run into him somewhere. Yet, Satoru had been doing a lot of traveling himself this past year.
You’d know, you stalked his IG.
How pathetic after a decade to still want to know about him, but there was nothing to be done – since the breakup you’ve been even more so thinking of him.
Of how nothing ever felt like him touching you, him inside you, him looking at you the way he did. Yet it’s always overshadowed by the fact that you never heard him say those words, just three words that you craved so badly as a young girl. Even now, the words that spill from your lips never feel the same as that confession.
“He takes care of the company now, I think that’s hard for him.”
“He’s still just a dick,” Utahime says to Shoko, she laughs and shakes her head at her. “Sorry, but he is.”
“You two always hated each other,” you muse, peeking again to see him walking over. “Shit!”
“I’m… gonna smoke,” you gasp and Shoko grabs Utahime. “Outside… bye, baby!”
“You brats!” You hiss as they laugh and rush out, you tense as you smell his goddamn cologne the closer he gets.
Bergamot.
It was so distinctly him – even when he had none of it on, his smell on clean skin just did something – especially with raging hormones as a teenager. You clench your thighs just inhaling him, trying to ignore his very presence, but he’s already standing next to you, murmuring your name.
“Gojo.” He raises a brow, he’s just gotten hotter, his jaw is so cut it’s unfair, his blue eyes peeking at you.
Suddenly you’re nervous, tugging at your dress – you’re not eighteen anymore, your tits don’t sit up quite like they did, your hips widened, you’re just… different. And Satoru looks the same, if not more cut.
You become conscious of everything, almost holding your breath as he takes you in, smiling at you. His girl you’d seen him with was a fucking actress, you’re just a small town girl, nothing glamorous. Surely he wanted-
Why do you care what he wants?
Why is he sending you spiraling just coming near you?
“What do you want?” He sighs at that, the cocky grin off his face, easing back when you push at his chest just a bit, hand pausing before you tug it back, staring down into your drink.
“That’s the greeting I get, sweetheart? After a decade?”
“Should just smack you.”
“I’d probably like it,” you snort and roll your eyes, making his tentative little smile come back, sitting next to you. “Can’t I get a hi?”
“Hi,” you narrow your eyes now. “And bye.”
“God you’re mean,” he leans close, lips brushing against your ear, your heart hammers in your chest. “It’s hot on you.”
“You’re so full of it,” you lean back and sip your drink, narrowing your eyes at him. “As if you don’t have a girlfriend or five.”
“Yeah, no,” you raise a brow. “I was engaged, but that was over as of… let’s see,” he calculates in his head. “A month now.”
“Oh,” you frown, looking down at your own finger, the little change of color where the band once was. “Me too, but like two months.”
“Shit, I’m sorry,” you shrug a bit, seeing his eyes dart to your finger.
“He fucked my former best friend – and she got pregnant.”
“What!?”
“Yeah,” you throw back the rest of your wine, shaking your head. “Go ahead, laugh at it.”
“Why would I fucking do that?” You look at him and feel your heart pound in your chest at his face, at how he looks at you in that moment.
Fuck you missed him, didn’t you?
“You were mean then,” you whisper, and he falters, looking down, hurt clear on his features. “So mean to me at the end.”
“I know that,” it kills him to think of then, how upset he had been that you weren’t going to his university, the sheer upset of you moving, the fear of how desperately in love he was already.
He never even got to tell you.
His parents were pushing him to marry even back then, and it was anyone but you – a pretty middle class girl wasn’t up to ‘their standard’. It had killed him to try to keep up with that, but even so he never wanted to lose you – though he was scared shitless by what he felt for you, by the sheer obsession he had.
Even ten years ago he was searching for you, pictures of you where you’d moved, trying to keep tabs – fuck, last year he saw you with that fiance and almost got sick from it. His fiance was just someone his parents pushed enough, and with him having to take over their place soon, he’d gone along with it.
It’s not like he could ever love anyone after you.
There was nothing like what he felt, countless women underneath him, on top of him, bent over with their asses arched, but nothing came close to the breathless way he held you, how your lips brushed together. He wondered often if it was because you were his first love, you were so many of his firsts, no he wasn’t a virgin, but he didn’t do all the things you two did before you.
Before that it was awkward, fumbling around, he’d usually been so nervous he’d let the girls take the lead, but everything about you made him want to – the way you fell apart when he learned to eat pussy with every flick of his tongue on you. You didn’t know that, of course, he ended up being sort of a prodigy at it rather quickly.
Satoru may have been a jock, but he was also very much a nerd at heart, so he studied it all extensively – porn wasn’t even for jerking his cock, it was to learn how to make you squirt. It was to make his girlfriend feel good.
Satoru was good at making you cum.
Yet he failed in so many other areas of your relationship – royally failed, especially that day you said good bye at the airport, and he was so very fucking hurt by you. It rushes through his head – and is if he is on the same wavelength –you say it softly.
“That day at the airport, I can’t forget that,” you shake your head. “Call me petty, a ten year long grudge holder, I agree.”
“You’re not…” He trails off then, cupping your face in a way he shouldn’t.
How does Satoru remember your scent still? After a decade it’s as vivid as ever, the scent that if he even caught a whiff of it he’d search for you, even now.
That’s what scared him the most – how obsessed he was then.
How hopeless in love he was, and scared of getting hurt – only to hurt you.
*****
Ten years ago
You were trembling, tears streaming down your face – you get it, why Satoru didn’t think long distance could work, some fucking promise to be friends, but staring at him now has you furious. You see him holding back, his own eyes glassy with unshed tears, fists clenched at his sides.
“You’re happy I’m going far away,” you whisper, clutching your luggage as he glares.
“I’m not fucking happy, what?”
“You are,” you laugh then, swiping at your cheeks, hating those trails that revealed just how upset you were. “Why’d you take me here? To make the break up more permanent?”
“I don’t want to…” He didn’t want to lose you, it’s on the tip of his dumb ass eighteen your old brain to say it.
– I don’t want to lose you. –
Yet those words never spill – he just cups your face, thumb brushing a tear away, looking into the face of the girl he’s terrified of. He’s scared to feel it all, to lose you to someone, to be put under all that pressure to marry and cause you more pain. Then he didn’t truly know how to handle it.
“Wanted to feel better by saying goodbye?”
“We were friends for years before this,” he desperately cups your face, leaning low as the rush of people walk past you all, headed toward their flight, and the attendant is making her announcements. “I just want what’s best for you, how would us being across the country ever going to be okay?”
“I’d have made it work,” you had shut your eyes, tugged him close by his letterman’s jacket, the one you used to wear all the time after you both went on dates. He’d wrap it all around your shoulders, enveloping you in that scent, the warmth. Now it’s a cruel joke to have it underneath your fingers.
“I’m your first boyfriend, what if you…” He had swallowed down that bile in his throat at the thought. “What if you regret only being with me, what if you wanted more experience?”
“You think that?” You asked, lost in his eyes, unsure how he thinks you’d ever want a boy but him. “No, I-”
‘Boarding flight 111 now, five minutes to board.’
You curse, turning to leave when he slams his lips down on yours, and for just a moment you’re done for, you’re melting in his arms, hands slipping up his chest as he presses you right against one of the pillars, uncaring of who walked by. You meet his kisses, exhaling and letting his tongue slide in, the familiar barbell dancing on the roof of your mouth.
His hands are firm on your waist, pulling back and looking down at you. “I’m doing this for you.”
You glare then, shoving at him. “For me!? Leaving me?”
“You’re the one leaving!”
“No, I’m going to college, you’re the one who won’t try! I can’t believe I let you kiss me again!” you rush off and he grabs your wrist, you jerk back and glare up at him again. “I’m done. Satoru, just let me go – don’t hurt me more.”
“I don’t want you to-”
“You don’t know what you want,” he lets your wrist go, his own eyes glazing over with emotion, pretty even under the harsh lights of the airport. “You don’t get to tell me what I’ll want in the future, you don’t get to decide that for me, and you sure don’t get to tell me that this is ‘for my own good’. It hurts, and you have to deal with that.”
“Please, just,” you can’t. You can’t fall into his arms, how would you let him go? “Just keep talking to me, keep-”
“It’ll kill me,” you stepped forward and tiptoed then, kissing his lips softly, tasting the salt of both your tears. “It’ll kill me to have to talk to you when I can’t have you.”
“Sweetheart-”
“I love you,” he faltered then, you’d not said it because he hadn’t, but there was no stopping it now. “I’ll miss you, Toru.”
You rushed off before he could say anything, tears hot down your cheeks, Satoru had rushed to catch you, but you were…
Gone.
*****
“I shouldn’t have broken up with you,” you pause, leaning back in shock. “Though now you’re probably glad I did.”
“You… you’re… saying sorry?”
“Is it so surprising?” He rubs the back of his neck, you’re in shock clearly. “Guess so, I wasn’t one to admit I was wrong then.”
“Why do you say you shouldn’t have?” He sips his own drink, eyes shutting for a moment. “You feel bad how it happened?”
No, Satoru knows he’ll never feel that way about anyone – and a decade of loneliness has only made him regret that shit more. He could have three babies with you by now, have given you anything you wanted – he stalks your pages, he knows you work constantly, and he loves that. But another part of him wishes you didn’t have to, that you were taken care of.
You’d probably smack him and call him a misogynist for that shit, and he loves that about you.
He still loves that girl from high school, the woman sitting here with her face just a bit more defined, with her tits so soft and pretty looking, hips he bets would feel so good to grab as he bent her over. Thighs that he has to touch, they just look too smooth with whatever shimmery lotion you put on them.
He gives into the urge, fingertips brushing on your skin, eliciting a shaky little breath from your lips, your eyes catching each other. “Yeah, you could say I feel bad about how I did it. I never said…”
He’s not really gonna apologize is he?
“Shh,” you put a finger to his lips, he smirks a bit. “Don’t make me like you, Toru.”
“Toru, fuck, been forever since I heard that,” he grins all dopey and cute, taking your wrist in his hand, long fingers wrapping it. He presses a little kiss to your fingers, a gesture he used to do forever ago, pausing as it feels too natural.
“I don’t want to like you.” He nods a bit, thumb brushing over your knuckles, eyeing the place where that ring was.
“He was an idiot.”
“Yeah?”
“I’d know, I’m a big fucking idiot,” you laugh a bit, nodding. “Don’t agree with me!? Brat.”
“Well, you are,” you sigh then, he nips your finger hard with his sharp ass teeth, and Shoko and Utahime walk back in, watching you both.
You have the eyes of your entire graduating class on you both.
Satoru and you, the perfect couple – that perky cheerleader and the star player, voted in the yearbook to be the best couple in fact, most popular, the best looking, you name it. You and Satoru won so many they had to give them to other people – and all for what?
To hate looking at your yearbook?
To look at how happy you were?
“Do you ever wonder…” He eases your hand down now, but he doesn’t let it go. “If it was just the first love, the hormones, the high school puppy love?”
“Puppy love…” You’ve never even heard him say that word – love. Though he means it differently, it gets you. “I guess everyone’s first love is kind of epic.”
“Nah, not really,” he sips on his drink, a little droplet clinging to his lips, one of his thighs brushing against yours and you barely hold back a gasp at the contact. “I haven’t found many people that had… what we did.”
“A toxic ass relationship, nasty breakup?”
“That was some of it,” he admits, heart racing like he’s some inexperienced boy and not a grown man – you just make him feel that way.
“Yes I wonder,” you sigh, admitting it finally. “I wonder if it was hyped up in my head, if the nostalgia and the… pain of you breaking up mess with me more. All the what ifs.”
“I hurt you.” It’s a quiet little statement.
“You hurt me, and I hated you,” he looks down where your hand brushes on his thigh, covering it with his huge one. “You were a dick.”
“I know, I just-” you lean forward and kiss him before you can stop yourself, making him tense up, his hand on the small of your back tugging close as he relaxes into it, exhaling against your lips. You pull back with a little dazed look, lips glossy. “What did I do to deserve that?”
“I was trying to see if that’s what it was,” you whisper softly. “Puppy love.”
“Ah,” he tilts your chin up, kissing you again, your earrings fall back, brushing the side of your neck as he tugs you close until your ass is half off that barstool. “We should see, yeah? If it’s just nostalgia.”
“Yeah just for um… closure,” he laughs a bit, and you glare. “Closure and I’m horny and single.”
“I’ll take it,” fuck he’d take any of you. “For true nostalgia we should…”
He’s kissing down the side of your neck, your eyes flutter closed as his mouth leaves a wet trail, his tongue flicking over your racing pulse. You cling so tightly, it’s hard to let go, whining out and arching your hips, thankful there is loud music reverberating all over.
Satoru heard it, though, leaking pre and pulsing from your taste, your scent, the softness of your skin.
Fuck he can’t ever do this and hope to be ‘normal’.
But there was no way he didn’t take one night with you.
“Should what?” You murmur, biting down on your lip when he gently nips behind your ear, your nails cling to his jacket tightly.
“For old times sake, I’d say we go to my car,” you laugh then, shaking your head as he pulls back, kissing your lips again. “Lemme drink your pretty little cunt up again, finger you till you squirt all over my new seats.”
Fuck.
Fuck him, really.
“In your car? Are we in high school?” He looks around and you laugh then, shaking your head. “Fine, but I’m not as flexible, I haven’t tumbled since college.”
“I bet you still are,” he teases. “Used to fold you right in-”
“Now.”
“Now?” You hop down with his help, turning and just walking. “Wait!”
It’s moments and you all are devouring each other, stumbling against the cool brick wall outside as the night air brushes against your skin, you’re shivering as he walks you to his car – by walking, that meant him carrying your ass, cock pressing your needy cunt as your thighs wrap his hips.
The car is nicer than his in high school – a fancy ass Audi – you aren’t one to know anything about cars, but the damn thing looked like it was exactly what Satoru would drive. The expensive leather hits your senses as he slides you in, your mouths are all over each other, needy and desperate.
"Missed this," you almost don’t believe it, that he ever could, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip before trailing his mouth down your jaw. "Missed you."
“You don’t…”
“No?” You sigh, shaking your head as Satoru shifts, maneuvering you both until you're lying back across the wide seats, his body covering yours, an even heavier weight than you remembered, pinning you down with his hand on your wrists, his mouth claiming yours in a bruising, possessive kiss.
It's a tight fit even with how surprisingly big the interior is, the cramped space reminding you of every stolen moment you had in his old car, sneaking before curfew, fuck you two would ditch school and go drive in that car, you’d lay your feet in his lap and just let him drive you around with the tops down. The memory of his smile, of his laugh, of his kisses all come together as he captures your very breath.
This isn't the sweet, messy kissing of teenage versions of you and Satoru – this is pent up need, a decade of frustration poured into a single, desperate kiss, his hands all over you, huge palms taking you over. Satoru’s tongue is delving in and out of the hot recesses of your mouth, tongue gliding right along yours, the click of his tongue ring against your teeth shooting every bit of memory back.
God you remember when he pierced it.
You remember him buying that vibrating tongue ring so he could eat your pussy out – and oh, he did it every time he could, no one has made you feel that way since, no one could figure your body out like him. The nostalgia hits as much as the need, the pleasure, your nails digging into the corded muscles of his shoulders over his dress shirt.
“Need more,” you whisper out, pausing then as he looks at you under his lashes. “Just tonight, right?”
He doesn’t say anything – as if he’d take only one night and be fine with that.
"Fuck, I've thought about this so often it’s pathetic," he laughs out without humor, hands slipping up your hips and bunching that little dress up your hips.
“You thought of me?” You ask, and he stares at you then – swollen lips all pretty and glossy in the night, ruining him.
You don’t think he remembers?
You don’t think he regrets it all?
He kisses you softer, nipping a plump lower lip between his sharp teeth, drinking up your little gasp. "Thought about this mouth, this body, the way you used to squirt all over me."
“Satoru…” You shake your head, moaning softly when he tugs your neckline down, hands squishing your pretty tits. “You don’t mean it.”
“No?” You shake your head, eyes rolling back in your skull when his tongue swirls around your nipple ever so slowly, tongue ring flicking that sensitive peak. “You think I forgot you, huh?”
“I know you did, ah!” His fingers find you, sliding your panties aside and swiping up and down in that mess. “Toru…”
“God please,” he’s plunging them inside you, she clamps right down, spasming as he finds that spot he remembers in those tacky walls, watching your face as he presses over and over. “Call me that again.”
“Sh-should call you dickhead,” he laughs breathlessly, curving those fingers again so that your head smacks back, almost hitting the handle in the car door, he kisses your lips as he fucks his fingers into you, the stretch making you ache. “Ngh!”
“Tight as ever, god, how…” he marvels as he plays with your cunt, all pretense gone when he looks down at you, breaking the kiss, breathless from you. “I’ve thought of you an embarrassing amount of times.”
“Don’t say it,” you sniffle just a bit. “I can’t handle it.”
“The truth?”
“I can’t believe you thought of me too…” You trail off, emotional even as you are soaking wet and needy, Satoru keeps kissing down, lower, lower, feeling his breath against your skin makes you jolt. “You didn’t.”
“I did, sweetheart, I missed this so much, the sounds you make… how soaking wet you got,” he’s running his thumb on your clit, gauging your reaction, shoving your thighs even higher. “How pretty you looked when you fell apart f’me.”
“You can’t remember,” he sighs and watches you get closer, getting you so, so close until he knows it’s not enough. He’s shoving you up, damn near folding you in half. “Ah! Toru I can’t bend like that?!”
“No?” he murmurs, big hands gripping your thighs bruisingly, pushing them up and apart, you blink a bit, gasping when he’s licking the trails of slick from your inner thigh, inhaling your cunt and bumping your clit affectionately almost. “God, your scent drives me fucking crazy, why do you have to smell s’good?”
“Do I? I – ah! Satoru, what are you…" He places an open mouthed kiss on your messy, dripping entrance, peeking up at you. “You’re um…”
“I’m starving,” he teases softly, kissing it again, you feel that pleasure shoot up your body until you’re dizzy, weak from it, so exposed to him when he tugs those panties further aside, on one side of those puffy lips. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever fucking seen.”
“No…”
“Yeah, and I’ve seen alot,” you glare and he chuckles, resting his hands on those knees and flicking his tongue to gather the drops of arousal falling down between your slit. “What, ya jealous?”
“No!?” Yes.
“No?”
“No,” he smirks just a bit and then he folds you in half, those broad shoulders pressing against the backs of your thighs, forcing your knees to your chest, your dress hopelessly shoved up.
“See? Still a cheerleader,” you want to laugh but you’re smushed.
“I so am not, ah!” You're completely exposed to him then, utterly vulnerable in a way that makes you nervous.
“Relax,” he says then, softly, peeking up at you and kissing your inner thigh. “If you want me to stop, just tell me. It was enough I got to kiss you again.”
You falter, that boy you fell in love with – the sweet, nerdy one? The jock who was also an entire nerd? Goofy and yet ultimately serious Satoru Gojo, leaning his head against your inner knee, nuzzling you damn near. You’re weak then, as every feeling you’ve shoved down for over a third of your life comes back full force.
“We can go back in, or just look at the stars,” he eases up, and sees how nervous you are. “You’re so beautiful, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not in high school now,” you whisper, he eases up your body then, brushing your cheek and shaking his head.
“Neither am I, sweetheart.”
“Yet you look even better-”
“You’re even sexier, even prettier than the first time I saw you,” you kiss him again, lost in his every kiss, his every touch, afraid that he’ll just disappear, clinging to him so tightly you don’t know if you can ever let go. “You are.”
“You haven’t seen me all naked…”
“I wanna,” he grins and you giggle, even as he’s kissing up your cheeks. “I wanna see every part of you.”
God you can’t take it – it feels just like that first date all over again. “Yeah?”
“Mhm,” he slides your dress up and off you then, breath catching as he takes in your body – you’ve only gotten sexier, it’s so evident when he just looks down at you, folded in half in his damn car and the prettiest thing he’s seen.
You cover yourself a bit then ease your hands off, breasts rising and falling as Satoru looks at you, his gaze heating you up before his fingers can touch. “You’re seeing all of me.”
“I am,” he grips a tit and squishes it in his hand, that familiar barbell flicking an areola, having your back arch in the cramped confines of the car, still humming softly underneath you. “Is it bad if I say I jerked it to your IG?”
“Satoru!” He’s chuckling now, grinning all big as you smack at him. “We were having a touching moment!?”
“Yeah I know,” he’s back down between your thighs, shoving them high and sighing.
“Did you really?” His lips curve up in amusement, watching your slick pussy drip down.
“You love that, huh?”
“No!?”
Yes.
“How often?” He’s laughing now.
“I’m not tellin’ ya, no way.”
“Hmmph,” he’s too gone then, every bit of this moment the very thing he’s searched for.
He could have had it.
He’ll think of that later, the hot regret of letting you go, of being young and dumb and then too fucking stubborn, for now you’re his, underneath him, looking up in that way that you used to – like he was the very stars in the sky. The ones peppering the sky overhead and shining through that little sky light in his car, illuminating your pretty body for his gaze.
“A lot. Happy?” He whispers, you just bite your lip, not answering, letting his lips graze your entrance once more.
“Satoru!” Your eyes roll back in your skull, pleasure shooting as the tip of that tongue swirls your clit lazily, like he’s got all the time in the world.
"Look at this pretty little cunt," he breathes out softly, feeling your slick coat his tongue, lapping another filthy stripe achingly slow. "Still so fucking perfect.”
“You d-don’t have to…”
“S’perfect,” he whispers, holding back what he truly wants to say.
Mine.
You’re not his, he can’t get possessive and psychotic, even when faced with your winking hole and the soft give of your thighs underneath his fingertips. He buries his face in you, his mouth hot and messy as it drinks up every bit of those juices your pussy is pouring, lavving a broad, flat stripe up your slit and slurping you up, eliciting the prettiest whines for his ears.
“Mmm, that’s it,” he whispers, flicking his tongue on your clit and groaning as he parts those lips. “She’s jumpin’ all around, fuck… look at her.”
You cry out, your fingers tangling in the soft white strands of Satoru’s hair, only for him to place them on your thighs, looking at you in that way only Satoru Gojo can.
“Hold ‘em up f’me,” he’s slurring, mouth just full of that messy cunt, swallowing it as he watches you do just that. “Good girl.”
Fuck him.
Fuck him truly and completely, for what those damn words do to you, how they have you a needy mess for him. He groans at the sight of your manicured nails pressing on the back of your thighs, the vibrations rushing on your pretty pussy, and then his tongue is inside you, fucking your hole as if he’s never forgotten how.
“Toru!” You’re quivering, thighs threatening to close, he breathes , that barbell smacking your spongy spot over and over, with the same intensity he used to use with his cock.
Your first time with him flits through your mind, he’d made sure to lick your pussy for thirty minutes, even then he’d been worried he’d hurt you – even then he’d eased into you, watching your every movement. That Satoru and this one merge – the jock and the cheerleader now gro business people.
But you’re still just the two of you.
He's lavishing every crevice, every bit of your cunt like it’s worship – his tongue, his lips, the sharp edge of those fangs of his scraping against your clit just making you scream out, weak from it. He bites it again, groaning as your juices spill over his mouth, his chin, down his neck.
Satoru wants to drown in you.
"You like that, huh?" he murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak, his chin glistening embarrassingly with how much you’re gushing. He swirls two fingers down it, raising a thin white brow. "Like me eating this pussy?”
“Yes… ah!” He’s curving his fingers up, rutting his cock along the leather seats, dying to bury it inside you.
“Missed this, didn't you? Missed my tongue on you?"
You can only nod quickly and let out a pathetic little moan, wishing you could play coy or tease – but how can you, when he’s taking you over. One hand pumping fingers into you, his tongue finding your clit again, sucking it into his mouth with a mean little hum, and the cold metal of his tongue ring just flicking.
“Toru! I’m so… I’m…”
He pulls back and sighs.
You’re so beautiful like this.
“Cum for me,” he says softly, curving up one more time, and you shatter for him, peak crashing into you so hard you see stars – ones that aren’t the ones hanging in the sky. No, they’re right behind your eyelids, pussy spasming as moans escape those lips that hold you in that kiss.
Satoru eases back, curving his fingers a few more times, every slide sensitive. “Please…”
“Please what, baby?” He whispers – he hadn’t called you that since the last time you saw him, brushing your hair back and kissing you, your juices spilling into your own mouth with a push of his tongue.
“Need you.”
“I’m here-”
“Need more,” he pauses, blushing a bit and making you giggle. “What, you think I don’t want more?”
“I didn’t know,” he trails off now, sitting up and dragging you on his lap, undoing his zipper as you’re on your knees, head smacking the ceiling, Satoru chuckles and puts his hand right over it, sighing. “You want my cock inside you?”
“You’re such a jerk,” he grins now, running his hands down your waist. “You gonna make me say it?”
“Nah but it’d be fun to hear,” he frees his cock, watching the blush dance across your cheeks when faced with his pearly pink cock, thick and veiny, leaking all that white. You gather some and swirl it on your thumb, sucking it off. “God…”
It’s moments when he’s got you positioned on his cock, slamming you down in one mean stroke, filling you so full you feel him everywhere – in your stomach, so fucking deep your cervix hurts. But fuck you want it, you want more, but he holds you down for a moment, hands brutal on your hips.
“Fuck, don’t move yet,” he barely bites out those words, looking up at you underneath that fringe of lashes, breaths coming in short pants, fogging up all the car windows. “Please, baby. Hold on a sec.”
“Feel good, Toru?” You tease, he glares and bites your shoulder. “Ah! Sharp t-teeth…”
“Jus’ stay here for a minute,” he’s mumbling against your skin, exhaling at the feeling of your pussy wrapping around his cock. “You’re so warm, so tight… god you feel s’good…”
You’re holding there, cunt gripping him so tight he’s gonna bust, and he was not doing that after ten damn years. He has stamina now, he can’t bust inside you in one minute – has it even been a minute!?
“Wanna move, please,” you’re damn near whining, wriggling as he pins you even more firmly. “Toru!”
“You’re bratty still,” he murmurs, lifting you up and slamming you back down, that mess of slick pouring all over. “You want me to cum in three pumps?”
You blush then, realizing that one key thing – he’d never cum inside you, the two of you were careful to make sure it never happened. “I um… inside me?”
“Only if you wanted… god imagine breeding your cunt,” you suck in a breath as his hands press into your hips. “Breedable fucking hips, bet you’d have so many babies for me.”
“Babies!?”
“God yes, bet you’d give me three, hah…” he’s fucking lost it now, fucking up into your cunt, your head smacks his ceiling, your hand up to brace yourself as he begins to move, feet planted on the floor of the car, cock gliding in and out of your mess even faster. “Sorry baby.”
“Sorry? You’re psychotic, j-just once,” he holds you down and runs his thumb on your clit then, watching your eyes flutter closed as you cum again, this time milking him. “Ngh!”
“So beautiful, fuck,” he’s looking right at you with those blue eyes, your arms wrap his neck, letting him lift you up and down him, huge hands just using you, you’re quivering around him, cunt squelching in the backseat of that car, his lips slamming on yours and drinking down your whines.
You hear the faint noises of the party with your ringing ears, his thumb brushing faster, your tits bouncing right in his face. “Breed k-kink tracks for you…”
He chuckles, grinning up at you, painting those pretty patterns until you’re overstimulated, thighs twitching on either side of his hips, the open leather belt pressing on your heated skin. His lips are swollen when his tongue runs across them, as if to catch any lingering juices he can, his brows drawing together as he gets closer, cheeks flushed pink in the dark.
“Should I pump you full? Hmm?” Your answer is to roll your hips, making his own eyes shut, those fluffy lashes sweeping across his cheeks. He’s pinning you down, slipping that thumb in between your lips and letting you suck as his cock twitches. “I used to jerk it to your cheer pictures b-before we w-went out…”
“Toru, you freak,” you’re breathless, struggling to take that stretch, whining out as his veiny length brushes your walls, white pre kissin’ your cute little cervix with every pump. “You did?”
“Yeah,” he’s full of confessions, you guess, but that one has you blushing, even mid fuck, giggling a bit until he slams hard, your head falling back. “You love it.”
“Cum inside,” he moans – you don’t have to tell him twice – cock pumping your hole full, so much your walls are just coated, those puffy ropes flooding you. “Ah!”
You’ve never been so full, his warmth rushing in hot and sticky as you kiss him desperately, needy, shaking as your teeth click together, your mouths messy and dripping saliva. It’s filthy, the sounds of your whines mixing with the squishing and clicking of his cock pumping impossibly more, his moans filling your mouth, tongues dancing along each other as his cock keeps twitching.
“F-fuck…” He’s whimpering in your ear as he holds you tight, burying his face in the crook of your neck, arms wrapping your waist as he bucks his hips up and fucks more cum inside you. “God I love you.”
“Wha-? Huh?” You must be fucked out and hearing shit, you barely blink any sense into yourself, as he pulls back, looking at you and sighing.
“I should have said it then, not let you leave thinking…” He swallows now, cupping your face with one hand, thumb slipping across your cheek reverently. “That I didn’t.”
“You can’t… I didn’t… you…” You’re trembling now as it all hits, breaths mingling as you hardly hold back. “You did then?”
“Of course I fucking loved you, how couldn’t I?” You kiss him then, tears slipping down between your mouths, salty on his tongue as his hand slips up the curve of your spine, the two of your hearts racing in your own ears. “I never stopped.”
“Don’t say that…” You pull back now, hands on his wrists. “That’s impossible, it’s been t-ten years and… you don’t know me now, and…”
“Do you still love me?” He asks, voice breaking, still intimately joined with you, easing you off and eyeing the mess that pours, sighing. “Fuck I shouldn’t ask that.”
“Yes,” he blinks a bit, looking up in shock as you go back to sitting on his lap, cunt pouring him right back down on his cock. “I never stopped loving you, even though I hated you, too. I hated you so much for so long… but I never quit loving you, Satoru.”
“I hated me too, s’okay,” you shake your head. “I did, for being so dumb. For letting you go – pushing you away.”
“We were so young, Toru… so young.”
“There was all that time we could have had this,” he sighs now, nose brushing yours, looking into your eyes with utter devotion. “I can’t let you go again. I can’t let this be once, this? I’ve never felt anything close to you.”
“I know…” you’re kissing again, forgetting about anything else, and soon you’re in Satoru’s pretty penthouse, fucked out after he’d lifted you right up on that glass, so many stories up.
After he’d ate his cum out of you, and you’d lapped your pussy off – after your friends started texting you both, making sure you’re all right since you two had disappeared. After Satoru orders you food, and the two of you are laughing in bed, and you’re in one of his big shirts, does he bring out that jacket, making you pause.
“Toru…”
“This was yours,” he exhales and throws it over your shoulders, tugging the lapels closed and kissing your head. You’re all flushed and pretty, your hair a tangled mess, that mascara long gone, swallowed by that letterman’s jacket. “You’re so beautiful like this.”
“I get to keep it this time?” You tease, but the emotions are rushing still, tummy fluttering as you toy with the snaps, the familiar scent bringing you right back.
but when i touch her i feel like i’m cheating on you.
fluff
oikawa tōru who fell for you at first sight then fell even harder when you told him, “you’re really charming, it’s getting in my nerves.” it’s like his eyes had a built-in tracker just for you starting at that point.
oikawa tōru who got approached by his fan girls after he fell in love with you and immediately told them that he now has a wife, she just didn’t know that she’s married to him, but does it matter?
oikawa tōru who’s been crushing on you ‘til the end of time refuses to talk to girls, even his fan girls since he thinks that he’ll be cheating on you if he talks to them about anything more than stuff about school.
oikawa tōru who’s—if asked about you—will go on an endless monologue about every nook and cranny of your personality, sure he loves your looks, but he can’t all be superficial right? everything is for his beloved y/n-chan.
oikawa tōru who’ll look at you with hearts in his eyes no matter what you do. you’re being loud? amazing! you’re being mean? oh how he loves you. you failed a class? you did your best, you’ll always be his smart y/n! you passed your exams? time to celebrate! you have a stain on your face? you look perfect even when you’re messy, it’s unfair for his heart!
oikawa tōru who’ll shamelessly express his love for you, unless you seriously tell him to stop. he knows how to read you like a book so he knows when you’re being serious and when you aren’t, even if you don’t show it.
oikawa tōru who has a list of every favorite you have. favorite movie? check. favorite foods and drinks? double check. favorite person? quintuple check, quintuple because that’s how many syllables his name has!
oikawa tōru who tracks your off days. he knows when to tease, when to be serious, when to listen, and when to speak his mind about your problems.
oikawa tōru who’ll never push you into liking him back or reciprocating his feelings quickly, and urges you to not be pressured by his love. he’d rather admire you from afar—albeit violently sobbing—than make you comfortable with his feelings.
oikawa tōru who still waves to his fan girls but barely talks to them as he sincerely believes he doesn’t have to talk to any girl unless it’s you, or unless he has to talk to them about group projects, thought it never goes farther than that.
oikawa tōru who’s aware that what he’s doing can reflect horribly on you as people might assume you’re telling him to do it, so he announces it on the PA system.
“ahem—is this thing on? hello everyone who looks like wilted grass, and hello to my beloved y/n-chan! i’ve heard rumors talking about my y/n-chan controlling my actions which is definitely NOT true. i do this out of my sheer devotion for her. she’s my wife and i’d like for her to feel secure—” iwaizumi interrupts, “she’s not your wife—”
“she’s my wife at heart, iwa-chan! ow!” cue to one huge smack!
“didn’t feel that one bit, y/n-chan. i just did that so iwa-chan sounds strong. but if you wanna kiss my forehead then i don’t see why not— okay, reverting back to my topic. if anyone talks bad about my wife, i’m gonna spike a volleyball on your foot and make sure it’ll turn into mush.”
huge silence.
“okay, bye! see you in a minute, y/n-chan!” is all you hear before a huge blanket of a boy drapes himself over you.
oikawa tōru who looks nervous as you stare him down in the courtyard after his announcement. “okay, in my defense, i did it all for love.. i didn’t want anyone thinking that you’re controlling me—in which, you definitely could, just say the word—i don’t want anyone viewing you in a bad light because of me. even if.. even if you don’t like me back, i’m happy that you give me an ounce of your attention. i just— i just can’t stop loving you.” his voice falters slightly, shoulders slumping, his lower lip quivering just a bit. “i can’t get you out of my head. i don’t want you to get out of my head, please don’t push me away. just let me stay beside you even if you don’t share the same thing i feel. i don’t want a life without your presence in it.”
oikawa tōru who wraps his arms around you and sobs as you finally break, telling him you like him back, and that he’s stupid for even thinking otherwise.
oikawa tōru who’s over the moon while walking you home, gently rubbing circles on the back of your hand. “i can’t believe you like me back, y/n-chan. i thought you were just tolerating me.”
“at times.”
“WHAT?”
“i said i love you.”
oikawa tōru who goes back to sobbing at that, hugging you tight outside your house. “i love you, i love you, i love you, i love you.” he murmurs.
oikawa tōru who—after a few minutes—finally lets go of you to go back to his house, but not before pecking your lips. he runs away, giggling like a school girl.
oikawa tōru who’s actually also your neighbor, so you hear him fan girling about you to his mother who squeals with him.
oikawa tōru who never lets go of you and his dream, which is now also you. he drags you to argentina with him, he saved up so he could take both of you. he begged your parents to get their permission until they agree (they weren’t planning to decline anyway).
oikawa tōru who still shamelessly talks about you on media, he has your name on a sweatband. he’s known as “tōru the loverboy” because that’s what he’ll always be, just for you.
a/n: i’ll be busy this week right until friday or when my presentation finishes :(
ren kaji x hirgai!sister reader, wc: 5k, req? no.
note from sunnie: could be read as a standalone or as a continuation of this kaji fic. manga spoilers for the noroshi arc/kaji backstory. canon typical violence & descriptions of injuries/bruises (not reader)
“Can we talk about it?”
“No.”
“Ren.”
He doesn’t answer. Honestly, you didn’t think he would.
“I just…” You can’t finish your sentence. You know what you want to say, but you don’t think you could be that selfish. What’s happening is bigger than just you and Ren, but it doesn’t feel like it. Not at this moment, in his room.
Instead, you frown at Ren and hope he can read your mind.
Predictably, he ignores that, too.
He can’t ignore you forever, though, because you’re in his bed, laying pressed against him, and Ren has always been a sucker for you. He’s trying his best, though, and you give him credit for it. He hasn’t looked away from his phone once, even when you set your open palm over his heart while he lays on his back.
You feel his heartbeat, and it’s racing.
Curled into his side with your head settled on the junction of his shoulder and arm, you can see his phone screen perfectly. He has the Bofurin groupchat open, reading through the plans for the night for the umpteenth time.
Because tonight, Chika Takiishi and Yamato Endo are supposed to invade the town.
Your brother, Toma Hiragi, sends a text to Ren separately from the thread, and you watch him tap on the notification. He’s not trying to hide it from you—like he’d ever be able to—and you know this is his silent way of letting you in.
Toma’s text is about you, and you read it silently next to Ren. Something about making sure you know to stay far, far away from the fight happening in town. Another thing about making sure you understand just how dangerous this all is. Like you’d ever be able to forget.
“Tell him I’m staying the night here,” You murmur, voice quiet in the already tense atmosphere. He doesn’t respond, still trying to act like you aren’t staring a hole into the side of his head to get him to talk, but you watch as he types with one thumb a response to your brother, exactly what you said.
His other arm is wrapped around your body, holding you close.
“At least let me walk with you to the bridge,” You try to bargain, even if you truly know it’s futile. With your palm pressed over his heart, you at least need to try. “I’ll come back here right after, swear.”
“No.” He repeats his one syllable answer—the only word you’ve been able to drag out of him the last ten minutes. His denial is firm, so you drop it. For now.
Instead, you shuffle closer to him, like you could convince him with how close you are. His arm around you starts trailing up and down your side, his hands far gentle with you, now, then they will be with Endo’s men in just a few short hours.
You know you’ll have to patch him up later, and you know he’s doing it to protect the town—protect you—but your stomach sours at the thought regardless. Logic can’t win out when your Ren is the one on the line.
“I have to go soon.” His voice is a low murmur, rumbling his chest where your palm and cheek are pressed against him. You don’t want to acknowledge the fact that he’s right, because the moment he’s out of your sight you know you won’t be able to relax. It’s bad enough your brother already left for the flood plain an hour ago, dropping you off at Ren’s house on his way.
“Hm.” You hum, not moving despite knowing his words were a request for you to untangle yourself from him. You’re not ready to let him go—or to give up the argument. “Let me walk you halfway.”
There’s a moment of silence. You feel Ren’s fingers flex from where he’s holding you tightly.
“C’mere.” He sighs, and you feel the way his chest deflates with the movement. He doesn’t sound irritated, like you had thought he would with your incessant request to go against what both he and your brother want. But he does sound firm in his decision.
You push yourself up onto one elbow, hovering above Ren. He doesn’t let you keep the higher ground long, curling the hand that’d been holding his phone around the back of your neck to tug you down and close enough to kiss. You press your lips against his easily, using the hand on his chest to brace your weight above him.
He doesn’t kiss you long, especially with his phone buzzing as frequently as it is, but you don’t pull back far when you separate.
“Listen,” Ren isn’t looking away from you know, and you would shiver under the full weight of his stare if you weren’t wearing his sweatshirt and flushed from his affection. “The only way I’ll be able to fight with a clear head is if I know you’re safe.”
“You can’t expect me to sit on my ass the whole night.” You pout, brushing hair from his forehead and kissing the corner of his lips like you could convince him by overloading him with your touch. It’s worked before, but never with something this big.
“Not the whole night.” He runs the pad of his thumb across your cheekbone, touching you so softly it almost looks like he’s revering a deity. There’s a glint of something bright in his steely eyes and you can almost predict what he’s going to say before he opens his mouth. “Who else is gonna patch me up after?”
“Not funny,” You hum, leaning down to kiss him again. This is his way of letting you in, of including you in the part of his life—the fighting—that he’s terrified to let you see. But you don’t want to just sit around and wait for the call that he was hurt. Or worse. “Enomoto will kiss you better if you ask.”
“Shut up.” His thumb tugs across your bottom lip, like he’s reprimanding you for your words. As if he wasn’t the one who insisted on bringing up the fact he’s most likely going to get hurt. “Y’know I can’t let you come.”
“I know,” Sighing, you relax your weight and bury your face into the crook of his neck. You hear him huff, feel the way his lungs expand and compress with the movement, but you don’t risk getting up. Because if you do, you know he’s going to leave. “But you don’t have to put the image of you getting hurt in my mind right before you’re supposed to go.”
Ren doesn’t answer. Instead, he squeezes you once before flipping you over. He hovers above you briefly, and now that you’re the one laying flat on your back, he looks more sure of himself. This is where he wants you to be.
Safe, in his bed, waiting for him to come back.
And if he’s going to risk his safety for the town, the least you can do is give him this security.
“I love you,” You tell him, fingers carding through the hair on the back of his head. Ren sighs, kissing you once before forcing himself to stand tall. You curl up instantly in the absence of his warmth, and you know you’ll be restless until he returns. “Come back to me.”
“I love you, too.” Ren picks up his headphones from where he abandoned them on his nightstand the moment he climbed in the bed beside you an hour ago “And you know I will.”
You want to say I know, but he’s already halfway out of the room before the words start to reach your lips. So you let them go unsaid. And you let Ren go, too, so he can do what needs to be done.
But you were right. You don’t rest at all while he’s gone. Midnight comes and goes. You hear fireworks at the start, and check your phone as if hearing from Ren or Toma so soon would be a good thing.
And you wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Toma’s call comes in around three in the morning. You answer on the first ring, because you’ve been waiting in Ren’s bed for hours for some kind of notification.
Your brother is breathing heavily through the line, but he doesn’t sound panicked, like Bofurin lost and the town is about to be destroyed. No, you know that hasn’t happened because Ren didn’t come to protect you.
“Come to the school. I’m sending Matsumoto to come pick you up.”
Your stomach drops. Because if Matsumoto is the one coming to get you—where’s Ren?
“Can you c’mere a sec? And bring bandages!”
That’s how you really meet Ren Kaji for the first time.
You’re young, in your final year of elementary school. Quieter than you’ll grow up to be, but you still have your sharp tongue. Your brother—and his best friends Matsumoto and Yanagida, by extension—are your primary victims.
“Stop telling me what to do!” You call back, but you’re padding into Toma’s bedroom one day after school regardless. “What do you need—oh.”
You pause, because it’s not the usual trio in your brother’s room. Toma is there with Matsumoto and Yanagida, obviously, but there’s someone new, too.
Someone you recognize.
“Kaji’s here?” You question pointlessly, because you see who’s sitting in the corner of Toma’s bedroom. You can’t say you’ve ever actually had a conversation with him, but you’d be surprised if anyone in your grade doesn’t know who Ren Kaji is. He has a reputation, but not the most flattering one.
And now he’s in your brother’s room, curled in on himself.
“You know him?” Toma asks. Kaji lifts his head from where he’s hiding in the hood of his sweatshirt, and you see the fresh bruises and cuts that mark his face.
“We were in the same class last year.” You half-heartedly explain, coming into the bedroom fully and shutting the door behind you. Despite your initial attitude, you had brought the first aid kit your brother mentioned. Just because you were going to give him hell for ordering you around doesn’t mean you weren’t going to get what he needed.
“Oh, yeah.” Kaji finally speaks, voice far quieter than you’d assume from him. You’ve heard the whispers around school, how he flies off the handle at every insult and snaps at everyone.
You think that might be bullshit, because the Ren Kaji sitting before you looks entirely too pathetic for such a reputation.
“I’m assuming these are for you.” You direct your comment to Kaji, settling down on your knees beside him. With the amount of times Toma, Matsumoto, and Yanagida have come home from fights at school, you know the contents of the first aid kit like the back of your hand. You don’t like them fighting so often, but you know they’re standing up to bullies.
You know, because they’ve stood up to your bullies.
“Don’t.” Kaji snaps at you the moment you get close enough to reach for his hands. The skin on his knuckles is split open, and though bandages won’t stick there, you could at least clean it. But he doesn’t let you touch him, jerking away and burrowing his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. You see him actively shrink away from you, and you know you need to rethink your approach. “I can do it myself.”
“Yeah,” You shrug one shoulder causally. You make sure to move slower, after his reaction, but you still pull out the bandages and antiseptic wipes. More carefully; not touching him yet. It’s entirely obvious that something has happened that made him so skittish. And if the rumors swirling around school are even close to the truth, you get it. Get him. “I bet you could. But you’re hurt, and I want to do it.”
You sound so sure of yourself, like there never really was another option.
“Besides, Kaji, it’s not like you’re going to hurt me, or anything.”
“You don’t know—” Kaji snaps, but you don’t even let him finish before you’re holding up a palm to silence him. Honestly, if his lip wasn’t busted, you probably would have pressed your hand over his mouth to shut him up.
“Idiot,” You huff, rolling your eyes and barrelling on before he has the chance to get offended. You don’t care that you have an audience of three, because you know your brother called you in here to help Kaji for a reason. Toma knows where the first aid kit is, with all the fights he gets into. “It’s not that I think you’re some righteous guy that would never lay a finger on a girl. I’m not stupid. I barely know you.”
Though, it’s not like you’ve ever been one to believe your classmates when they talk about how feral Kaji is. You watched him doodle stars in his notebooks too often last year when you were classmates to think he’s a horrible person.
“I know you won’t hurt me,” You give him a flat look, making sure he understands that you’re not lying and you won’t take any of his shit. “Because Toma would have you laid out flat before you even got the chance to touch me.”
Kaji pauses, then looks from you to your brother.
“That’s true,” Toma nods, conceding to your point with his arms crossed and the faintest hint of a smug grin on his face.
“Now,” You focus your attention back on Kaji. He’s looking at you again, closely, and you can’t help but think that he seems a little pathetic and a whole lot desperate for human connection. “Hold still.”
Miraculously, he does.
Kaji lets you clean his cuts and bandage him up without complaint. He doesn’t say anything at all, actually, and neither do you. Matsumoto doesn’t know how to stop talking—never has, honestly—and you’re applying Kaji’s last bandage when your brother’s best friend opens his big mouth.
“Ha! Look at how fast you tamed him.”
“Shut up—” Kaji starts to snarl, but your stern words interrupt his attack when you turn and glare at Matsumoto.
“He’s not an animal.” You hiss, delicate fingers not once pausing their gentle press on the bandage’s adhesive. “He doesn’t need to be tamed.”
You feel Kaji’s stare on the side of your face, but you don’t look away from Matsumoto. It doesn’t matter that he’s your senior, or that he’s practically another brother with how often he comes over to your house. You don’t like what he said about Kaji, and you want it known.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean it like that.” The older boy murmurs, and Yanagida gives you a silent nod at the fact that you somehow managed to make Matsumoto quiet. Toma snorts a laugh, but you ignore him in favor of turning back to Kaji. You’re still frowning, but the look on his face is far more…
Open.
He doesn’t thank you. Not that you thought he would, but you see his gratefulness in the way he doesn’t protest against you doting on him. He watches you closely, but there’s no crease between furrowed brows. Instead, he’s simply looking, like he might solve some problem in his mind by tracking the way you chew on the inside of your cheek in focus.
You meet his eye, once, and you swear you see something like hope alive there.
Kaji doesn’t look away from you very often after that.
“Why are you soaked?”
You find Toma first, standing outside the door to the second year class A homeroom, and that’s the first thing you can think to ask. He’s drenched, head to toe, and scratches mar his face.
Matsumoto opens his mouth to explain, but Toma sends him a look sharp enough to get him to shut it. Which, that’s worrying, because your brother is hiding something and he doesn’t keep things from you.
“Nevermind me, I’m fine.” He’s not, but you’ll let Toma lie for now. It’s three in the morning, and you were called to the school for a reason. “Kaji got it bad.”
Your blood turns to ice in your veins, and you almost trip. But instead of freezing, you speed up, and throw yourself into the classroom despite your brother trying to slow you down to talk to you.
Which is bullshit if he thinks you’re going to listen to him when he just told you that.
There’s a decent amount of Ren’s classmates in the room. They’re all in rough shape, all in various stages of bandaging themselves and each other up. But you couldn’t care less about them right now, honestly.
You see Enomoto first, because he’s being loud. Kusumi is beside him, flailing his arms around, pointing to his phone and clearly trying to communicate something. You know your best bet at finding Ren is with them, and your hunch is proven correct when you get close and you see your boyfriend slouched in a desk chair and looking far worse than anyone else.
Bruises litter his face, and though you know he’s already made an effort to clean most of the blood away, red flakes in scattered places. His forehead looks the worst, and you think you might need to take him to the clinic.
“Ren,” You’re breathless when you call out to him, and if you had been able to pay attention to anyone but your boyfriend, you would have seen the way Kusumi and Enomoto deflated in relief at your arrival. But you only see Ren, who stiffens at the sound of your voice, as if on edge.
“I told you not to call her.” Ren’s voice is low, quiet. But he’s not glaring at anyone, though you think that might be because he can’t meet the eye of anyone in the room.
“Shut up.” You snap. It feels like there’s a vice around your throat, constricting your breathing. This is like one of your worst case scenarios—and Ren doesn’t even want you there. Not that you’ll listen to him. Most of your relationship is you reading between the lines, knowing that despite what he says, he’s entirely soft for you and secretly wants affection, always.
“I’m fine.” Ren lies. He’s not good at it, and especially never to you. But you know his wounds go beyond physical, since you’ve been patching him up since elementary school. This reaction isn’t normal. “Go home.”
“Bullshit.” Frowning, you cross your arms tightly over your chest. You’re still wearing his hoodie, but suddenly it doesn’t feel warm enough. There’s so many eyes watching your conversation with Ren, your brother and majority of the second years included, and you know Ren won’t be honest with you with such a large audience. You risk looking away from Ren long enough to meet Toma’s eye, knowing he can command the room easily. “Can we have the room?”
“Kusumi, walk her back—” Ren starts, still not looking at you.
It’s really starting to piss you off.
“No.” You cut him off, because if he finishes that thought you think you’ll lose your mind. In no way will you let Ren send you off like that, when he’s in such a state—physically and mentally.
Toma listens to you, because he’s always known best how to act around Ren when he gets into one of his moods. Well—best after you.
While the room clears out, you busy yourself by snagging the first aid kit Enomoto had been trying to use to help Ren before you arrived. You drag a chair in front of your boyfriend’s seat, and just as Toma’s filing out of the room, leaving you alone with Ren, he tells you that he’ll see you in the morning.
You want to reach out to Ren, to press your fingers or lips or maybe both to any inch of uninjured skin. You’d struggle to find any, but after worrying about him for hours you don’t care. You just need him, need to prove to yourself that he’s safe and with you, where he belongs, again.
But there’s still a wall Ren’s keeping up between the two of you.
“You shouldn’t be here.” He opens the conversation first by trying to shut it down immediately. Your pout deepens, somehow, and you ignore his unsaid command for you to leave. He doesn’t mean it, and you know him better than that.
“Toma called me.” You reply instead, telling him without so many words that you held true to your promise, that you stayed inside and safe until you were called. It had been his one request, and you honored it despite the fact that it felt like you were going to pull out your hair in stress the whole night. “Toma told me to come, and had Matsumoto pick me up at your house.”
Your hands shake as you open a fresh antiseptic wipe, and you don’t know how to make them stop. It’s probably only serving to freak him out, more, truthfully.
“I don’t need your help.”
“I don’t think I asked.” It’s hard to hide the tears burning your eyes now. And you know Ren can see them, hear them in your words, because his gaze finally finds your own for the first time since you arrived. “Requetsed or not, I’m here. Don’t shut me out.”
It’s silent after that. The moment doesn’t even have its usual soundtrack of rock music from Ren’s headphones. They’re discarded on the desk nearby, and you’re surprised he hasn’t reached to tug them on and block out the rest of the world with them yet.
So it’s not completely over, yet. He’s giving you an in.
“Fine.” He sighs, more defeated than you’d like him to be.
But you leave it be, for the moment. He has too many bruises, too many cuts, for you to think about pushing him to talk just yet. For your own sanity, in order to even out your own breathing, you need to take care of him.
So, you patch him up in silence.
“We should go to the clinic in the morning,” You murmur. You do your best to clean him up, but you can’t help but worry about him. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this bad—not even his first year, when that massive fight happened right after he was named grade captain.
“Hm,” Ren hums, but he doesn’t look at you. His fingers are tapping an anxious pattern on the tops of his knees, and as you press one final bandage over his cheek you grab his hands in yours. You’re careful about the split skin on his knuckles, but you needed to feel him.
“What happened on that bridge?” You ask, voice quiet enough that you can still hear the voices of other Bofurin members in the hallway. They’re not eavesdropping, just passing through, so you ignore them. Your heart drops when Ren shakes his head, not telling. It’s been a while since he’s closed down on you. You almost don’t remember how to navigate this. Almost. “You scared me. Ren, please don’t shut me out.”
You shift, sliding out of the chair and kneeling onto the ground, forcing him to look at you by moving into his line of sight. You want to hold his face, but he’s so broken from the fight you don’t want to risk causing more pain.
Even if that hurts you.
“I don’t deserve you.” You almost don’t hear him, he’s so quiet. But your attention has been focused on him for years, so it’s impossible to miss anything he says.
“Stop talking like that.” Your words sound more broken than angry, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut to keep from crying. He sees it, because you hear the shuddering breath he releases. “It’s me, Ren. You can tell me anything. I just want to understand why you’d say that, after everything.”
He pulls out of your hands, and you panic for only a moment before he sets his palms on your cheeks, cradling your face. He’s gentle, reverent, and you know it’s been hours since he’s done anything gentle with his hands.
You let him adjust to holding you. He tries to pull you up, pull you into his lap, but you know better. If his face looks that bad, then you know he’s hurting everywhere. He’s strong, but you can’t handle knowing that you’d be causing him pain on fresh bruises.
Instead, you silently compromise and sit on the desk beside him, and he slots himself between your knees and wraps his arms around your waist. He rests his cheek against your leg, so close his face is almost pressed against your stomach. You trust him to find a position that doesn’t hurt his injuries.
You trust him.
“I… lost myself. Again.” He says once he settles, the words a vibration pressed against you. Instantly, you know what it means. That side of him he tries so hard to hide, to fight against. The anger that’s led to him wearing headphones to block out the world and carrying lollipops to choke down his temper.
The beast.
“So?” You try not to ruin the atmosphere, keeping your voice quiet, but you’re practically desperate for him to understand how little that bothers you. You’ve known Ren for far too long to judge him for something he actively works to fix. “I’ve seen it before.”
“We weren’t…” He cuts himself off, not finishing his sentence. Instead, he presses his face harder against your leg. You frown, because there’s no way that doesn’t hurt.
“Weren’t, what?” Your hands find their way to his hair, gently carding through. He’s due for another dye job, but that might have to wait, because you feel bruises on his scalp, too. You think your heart snaps in two.
“Together.” Ren finishes his thought, and you know something in your chest caves in. You pick up on the implication of his words immediately, but he continues anyway. “We weren’t together. It was before you loved me.”
“Shut up.” Your words have no bite. He doesn’t need any more harshness. Not tonight. You keep your touch gentle in his hair, where any other night you might’ve tugged on the strands to brattily reprimand him for thinking so little of you. “You think I didn’t love you, even back then?”
“What?” Ren’s voice sounds neutral, but you’ve been caught in his orbit for so damn long you hear the hope clinging to his words. He tilts his head up, propping his chin against the top of your leg so he could look at you while keeping his body close.
“I think I’ve always loved you. Even if it wasn’t romantic at the start. I care about you too much for that not to all be love.” You’re not lying. Not about this, and never to him. Ren Kaji is far too important of a person to you to ever consider hurting. “I love you because of the way you are, not despite parts of you.”
“I wasn’t strong enough.” He responds, voice weak. It’s impossible to not see the way his eyes shine with tears unshed. He believes you, but he believes himself, too. And you know you can’t fix that tonight, his unending well of self doubt, but you can start. “Kusumi and Enomoto, all my other friends, got hurt because I wasn’t enough. And they know how to defend themselves. What if you had been there?”
And, you think, that’s the real problem.
Ren’s worried about the what ifs. The endless situations that could have happened if you were there. If you were caught in Noroshi’s fire, and unable to defend yourself. You’re not a fighter; Toma and Ren have fought for you for your whole life, you’ve never needed to be one.
But you know he’s also thinking about if you would have been caught in his path.
He’s told you before, how when he slips up and lets that well of anger take hold of him, that he almost blacks out. He hates it, how he loses control and hurts everyone around him.
Which, if you were there—would include you.
“But I wasn’t.” You remind him, the hand that’s not brushing his hair from his face settling over his cheek with the utmost care. Your thumb brushes across his lips, like you could coax his worries out with your touch alone. “You can’t worry about what could’ve happened. Think about what you have. And what you have, is me.”
Maybe you’re putting too much weight on the value of you.
Ren doesn’t think so. Between one heartbeat and the next, he’s pushing himself to stand between your knees while you’re perched on the desk. One of his hands finds a home on the side of your neck, thumb tucked just under your jaw to angle your head the way he wants it while the other settles against your cheekbone. And then he’s kissing you as if he thought he’d never get the chance to again.
You’re careful with him, always, but you find yourself gripping the front of his hoodie to pull him close. He smells of sweat and fear and tastes like blood and peach. It’s an awful combination but it’s him, so you think you’ll spend the rest of your life longing for it.
“I love you.” He breathes into your open mouth, face pressed so close to yours that you can feel his bandages brush your skin. You hate that he’s hurt but so, so glad that he’s back with you.
“I love you, too.” You repeat, pulling back far enough so you can look at him properly. He’s still hurting, but you think he will be for a while. All you can do is hold him, and that’s not a job you’d ever pass on. “Even when you make me mad. Especially then, I think.”
“I’m sorry.” Ren admits, leaning forward to press his weight against you, arms going around your middle as if he hadn’t demanded Kusumi take you home as soon as you arrived.
“You better be.” You mean your words as a tease but you don’t have the energy, so it comes out more defeated sounding than you’d like. You press closer to Ren, and try not to think about all the ways tonight could’ve gone much, much worse. “Can we go, now?”
synopsis: the thing is, gojo satoru has no intention of marrying someone his clan elders pick for him. there’s a simple solution, of course! why get married to a stranger when you can whisk your best friend away to las vegas for a weekend and elope?
tags: fluff, smut (oral sex, fingering, riding, unprotected sex, one orgasm denial), mild angst, best friends to lovers, vegas wedding!au. idiots to idiots in love, profanity, alcohol consumption, discussions of arranged marriage, attempts at humour, crack taken seriously, mutual pining.
word count: 7.1k
a/n: the art in the header is by m00__ry on instagram & the fic title is from the 2008 movie of the same name. thank you to @saezzi for beta reading!
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #1 – ARSON.
For the record, none of this is your fault.
It’s all Satoru’s fault, and you’re pinning all of this solely on him because he gets on your nerves and he’s also a liar. A compulsive liar with no concept of shame or mortification or guilt, because the whole world revolves around his thick head and you, unfortunately, are no exception to this rule. It was a nasty trick, really, coercing you into going on vacation with him.
You should’ve known something was up when he specifically bought only two first-class tickets to Las Vegas and your flight was at midnight. He’d insisted the two of you sneak out of the Kyoto Jujutsu Tech compound where you’d stayed for the duration of his visit to the Gojo clan, and hadn’t bothered to inform Shoko or Utahime or Yaga.
And so, again, you reiterate firmly and resolutely: none of this is your fault.
Your predicament—standing in a parking lot behind a Denny’s at nine in the night with a small fire going in a trash can nearby—is entirely, absolutely, positively Gojo Satoru’s fault.
“I want a divorce,” you tell him.
“We’ve been married for forty-seven minutes.”
“Forty-seven minutes too long.”
“You’re burning our wedding certificate!” Satoru says. “How are we supposed to file for divorce if there’s no proof we even got married?”
“I’ll figure it out,” you say, poking at the certificate with a stick you found on the ground. The corner of it curls and blackens satisfyingly. “I’m very resourceful.”
“You’re committing a crime is what you’re doing,” he says.
“You committed a crime first.”
“Getting married isn’t a crime—”
“Fraud is.”
Satoru opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again, at a loss for words. This is a rare and precious occurrence—Gojo Satoru, speechless! You would be savouring it more if you weren’t currently a married woman in a Denny’s parking lot in Las Vegas at eleven o’clock in the night.
Satoru had told you it was a vacation. He’d shown up at your room in the Kyoto compound at half-past ten with a bag tucked under his arm and said, simply, “Come on. We’re leaving.”
“Leaving where?” you’d asked.
“Somewhere that isn’t here,” was his cryptic reply.
You’d been in Kyoto for six days. Six days of watching Satoru navigate the Gojo clan and their elders with their careful smiles and careful words. Nearly a week of watching something tight and unhappy lodge itself behind Satoru’s eyes while he pretended, convincingly, that everything was fine. You knew he wasn’t; you’d watched him perfect his act for years, after all.
So, you went. You told yourself it was because you’d never been to Las Vegas. This, at least, is true.
You’d grabbed your bag and followed him out through a side entrance of the compound at nine forty-five, and you didn’t inform any of your friends or superiors. Because of this, your phone has been periodically buzzing in your pocket for the last several hours and you’ve been ignoring it, which is a problem that is also, for the record, Satoru’s fault.
The flight was actually wonderful. First-class seats entailed warm socks and warm food and a window seat, because Satoru had graciously sat by the aisle. When you were flying over the Pacific, he’d fallen asleep with his head tipped back and his sunglasses still on. He looked younger when he was sleeping, you’d thought. More like the version of him you’d met when you were both too young and foolish to understand what being a sorcerer actually meant.
After you landed, Satoru took you to a casino and then to a fancy place for lunch, and then to another two casinos—if he wasn’t careful, he’d turn into a gambling addict soon—and then he took you to a chapel on the Strip with fake flowers zip-tied to the pews and an officiant named Francis who had red hair and smelled like cigarettes and convenience store chewing gum.
Francis had cried a little during the vows, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. Satoru had found this enormously gratifying. You, however, had been in something of a dissociative state.
“It’s not fraud,” Satoru says now, in the parking lot, watching you cremate your marriage certificate. “We did actually get married. Francis witnessed it. There are photos.”
“There are photos?”
“Francis had a camera.”
“What?”
“I think it’s just something he keeps on him professionally.”
You stare at him. He has the grace to look slightly sheepish. His sunglasses are still on. His suit jacket is open, and his tie, which had been done up neatly for the ceremony (clearly he’d planned far enough ahead to wear a nice tie) is now loosened and slightly crooked. The cheap gold ring on his finger—wrong hand; he’d fumbled it in the moment and jammed it on before either of you could correct it—catches the light from the parking lot fluorescents.
“That’s it!” you say, snapping your fingers at him. “That’s our proof to file for divorce! Take me back to the wedding chapel, Satoru.”
“No way,” he says. “I’m taking you to dinner first. We need to commemorate our first night of being married.”
“We’re behind a Denny’s,” you point out.
“I know,” Satoru says. “Denny’s is a perfectly acceptable dining establishment, but I meant somewhere nice. There’s a steakhouse on the Strip that has a three-month waitlist.”
“Then we can’t go there.”
“I called ahead.”
You gape at him. “Three months ago?”
“No,” he says. “I called ahead on the plane. You were asleep.”
“I wasn’t asleep for that long—”
“Yeah, you were asleep for, like, four hours. You even snored a little.”
“I did not—that’s not the point! The point is, you planned this. You planned all of it, the chapel, the restaurant, the—” You gesture at the ring on his finger, the ring on yours, the dying fire in the trash can—“everything.”
“Not everything. I didn’t plan for you to burn our wedding certificate in a fit of rage.”
“That’s your fault by proximity.”
“That’s not a legal standard.”
“I’m making it one.”
Satoru smiles, quick and bright. You have a long and storied history of making Gojo Satoru laugh when he isn’t expecting to, and it used to feel like winning something. It still does, if you’re being honest.
“Come on,” Satoru says, nodding towards the street. “Dinner first, Francis later. We can get the photos after and then you can file for divorce. I won’t stop you.”
“You’d better not,” you say.
“I said I won’t.” He holds his hands up, the picture of innocence. “I’m a man of my word.”
“You’re really not.”
“I’m a man of some of my word,” he amends.
The steakhouse is situated on the upper floor of one of the larger casinos on the Strip, lined with dark wood and low, hushed lighting. You are seated by a window. The Strip sprawls below you in every direction, extravagant and relentless, all that light going nowhere at tremendous speed.
“Were you really that confident I’d say yes?” you ask once the menus have been set in front of you.
“I was… hopeful,” Satoru says. It’s not a word you can recall him ever applying to himself before, in all the years you’ve known him; it sounds odd. You pick up your own menu and look at it without reading it.
What you’ve learnt about Satoru and what most people tend to miss is that underneath all the grinning and grandstanding and carelessness, there is someone who wants things very badly and has learned not to show it. You’ve known this for years. You’ve watched him want things, and watched him bury it under layers of grandiosity until it’s almost invisible. Almost.
“The elders have been at it for two years,” he says finally, without looking up from the menu. “The meetings, the candidates. They’re all very suitable women from very respectable families. Good for the clan’s interests.”
“You never told me it’d been going on for that long.”
“Didn’t want to make it a thing.”
“Satoru—”
“It’s fine. It’s just—” He sets the menu down and looks out at the Strip, all that light below. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life performing for someone who sees me as a resource. I do enough of that already. I knew it was going to happen eventually and that they were going to stop asking and start insisting. So. Vegas.”
“Vegas,” you echo.
“You were the obvious answer,” he says matter-of-factly. “You already know what you’re getting into with me. You don’t have any illusions. You—you’re my best friend. There isn’t anyone I’d rather be stuck with.”
“Stuck with,” you repeat. “Incredibly romantic.”
“I said what I said.”
The waiter arrives and Satoru orders for the two of you. You look down at the ring on your finger and think about how it came from the little rotating display by the chapel door, five dollars American. It fits almost perfectly except for being on the wrong hand.
“Er. You fumbled the ring,” you say.
“I was nervous,” he says.
Gojo Satoru, nervous. Gojo Satoru, who treats most of human experience as something happening at a slight remove, who has never, to your knowledge, shown up to anything in his life uncertain of the outcome—nervous!
“Were you,” you say.
“Briefly,” Satoru says, with great dignity. “It passed.”
“Of course.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“Of course.”
The fountains in front of the Bellagio are in the middle of their routine, water arcing up in great pale columns against the dark. The light from them moves across the window in slow, repeating patterns. Satoru’s eyes catch the shifting light. You swallow hard.
“We’re not arguing about the divorce, by the way,” you tell him.
“We’ll see.”
“Satoru.”
“We’ll see,” he says again pleasantly. You’re going to say something else, something firm and unambiguous, but he’s already put his cutlery down and is walking out, and you’re already following.
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #2 – BREAKING AND ENTERING.
The supposed 24/7 active wedding chapel has a sign tacked onto the front door when you arrive later, which reads, Under maintenance. We apologise for the inconvenience!
“Fuck,” you groan.
“Language,” Satoru says. “Maintenance at midnight. Huh. That’s strange.”
“That’s what I’m focusing on right now, yes, thank you.”
You press your face briefly against the chapel door’s small window. The lights inside are off. Through the glass you can just make out the shape of the pews, the flowers zip-tied to their ends, and the little altar at the front where Francis had stood several hours ago and wept openly into his handkerchief. How are you supposed to get the photographs of your husband—you are using that word provisionally under extreme protest—looking at you like you’re the only fixed point in the room?
“He might live here,” Satoru says.
“Francis?”
“Some of these places have a back apartment for the officiant. We could knock.”
“We’re not knocking on a man’s door at midnight,” you say.
“It’s nearly one.”
“That makes it worse!” You step back from the door and look at the sign again. There’s a narrow alley running along the left side of the chapel, squeezed between the chapel building and the 24-hour tattoo parlour next door. You only notice it because Satoru’s already walking towards it. “What are you doing?”
“Recon,” Satoru says. “Just looking.”
He disappears around the corner. You stand on the pavement with your hands on your hips before deciding to follow him. The alley is cramped and smells stale. There’s a dumpster and a stack of plastic chairs leaning against the chapel wall. Satoru stands with his hands in his pockets, looking upward with his head tilted back.
“No,” you say.
“There’s a window.”
“I see that.”
“It’s open!”
It appears to be a casement window on the chapel’s ground floor, propped out at an angle, about eight feet off the ground and just wide enough for a person to fit through.
“That could be a bathroom window,” you say. “We’d be breaking and entering.”
“The window’s already open,” Satoru says. “Technically we’d just be entering. The photos Francis took are currently somewhere in that chapel developing in a back room, unattended.”
“If we get arrested,” you say, “I’m blaming you entirely.”
“Obviously.”
“I will give a statement to the police and it will contain your full name and a detailed account of everything that’s happened tonight, starting with the chapel and working backwards to Kyoto.”
“Sure. Boost or be boosted?” Satoru asks, turning to the chairs. “I’d say I’ll boost you, but I want it to be on record that I think you’d make a better lookout.”
“I’m not being a lookout.”
“You just said—”
“I’m coming with you.”
He pauses, glancing at you, his expression softening just a little bit. Warm and amused—gone before you can fix it in place.
“Obviously,” he says, smiling, and starts stacking chairs.
The window is, in fact, not a bathroom window. It opens into a small storage room at the back of the chapel, with folding tables against one wall, boxes of artificial flowers stacked against the other, and a mop in a bucket in the corner. Through a door on the far side, you can see the chapel proper. The dripping you can hear means the maintenance situation is a ceiling problem, probably towards the front.
“There’s a whole back operation,” Satoru says, impressed.
“We need to find the darkroom,” you whisper.
“Why are you whispering?”
“Because we’re trespassing.”
“Right, yes,” he says, lowering his voice. “The darkroom will need ventilation, so it’s probably towards the back.”
“How do you know anything about darkrooms?” you ask.
“I went through a photography phase in my second year of middle school. It was a whole thing.” He opens the storage room door and peers through into the chapel. “All clear.”
You follow him through. The chapel at night, empty and dim, is a different place entirely from what it was several hours ago. Smaller, somehow. Without Francis and the lights, it’s just a room with cheap flowers and worn carpet.
“Back room’s through here,” Satoru says softly; he’s already at the door behind the altar. You cross the chapel quickly, not looking at the pews or the aisle, not doing anything so foolish as standing in the dark and sentimentalising about a five-dollar ring and a laminated vow card.
The back room is small and smells sharply of chemicals—developer and fixer, mostly. There’s a red safelight along the wall that Francis has left running, bathing everything in a dim glow. A long workbench runs along one wall, and on it, clipped to a line strung above the bench, are your photographs.
Four of them, hanging in a row, damp and gleaming slightly under the monochromatic light. Even from across the room, you can make out the chapel and the altar. Neither of you says anything for a moment, until Satoru walks to the bench and stands in front of the photographs. You make your way and stand beside him.
The first one is mid-ceremony. You’re both facing Francis, and you can see Satoru in profile—head tilted, shoulders set. The second one is the ring exchange; you can see immediately why it’s blurry. You’d both been laughing, actually, you remember that now, because Satoru had fumbled the ring and said something under his breath, and you’d bitten down on a laugh and not entirely succeeded. Francis had captured exactly that, the two of you with your heads slightly bent towards each other.
In the third one, Francis had asked you to face each other for a photo, and while you’re looking at the camera, Satoru’s looking at you. You look—Francis had said surprised, and yes, there is that, but there’s also something else, something you would rather not name.
Satoru is looking at you the way he was looking at you in the chapel, the way he’s been looking at you in these odd unguarded moments all evening.
“We look like idiots,” Satoru says.
“Francis was right,” you say. “We both look surprised.”
“Were you?” he asks.
“Yes. Were you?”
“No,” he says, then adds quietly, “Maybe. About—about other things.”
In the fourth photograph, you are outside the chapel, looking at the ring on your hand, and Satoru is looking at you looking at the ring. Francis had captured the angle so cleanly that you can see Satoru’s full expression, soft in a way his face almost never is in front of other people, private. You realise you’re holding your breath.
“We should take them,” Satoru says.
“We can’t just take them,” you say. “They’re developing.”
“They look pretty developed to me.”
“Satoru, they’re damp—”
“They’ll dry.” He’s already carefully unclipping the first photograph from the line. “Francis has the negatives. He can print more.”
“You don’t know that Francis has the negatives, and besides, we’re stealing from him.”
“We’re borrowing from Francis.” Satoru holds the first photograph carefully by its edge and looks at it in the red light before setting it down on the workbench. “Hand me something to put these in. There should be a folder or an envelope on the bench somewhere.”
There’s a paper envelope at the end of the bench, brown and flat. You pick it up and hold it open. Satoru slides the photographs in one by one.
“We need to leave Francis a note,” you say, “and money. For the printing. For—everything.”
“How much do you think midnight darkroom theft runs these days?”
“What?”
“I’m asking genuinely.”
“A lot,” you say. “Leave a lot.”
You find a notepad on the workbench next to a jar of pens. Francis, you write. We’re sorry for the unauthorised visit. We needed the photos tonight, so please print yourself copies. Enclosed is payment for the developing, the breaking-in, the trouble, and your time. Thank you for everything. It was a beautiful ceremony.
You fold the note and put it on the workbench. Satoru takes his wallet out, removes a quantity of cash that makes your eyebrows go up, and weighs it down with the jar of pens.
You go back through the chapel and through the storage room and back out the window into the alley. Satoru drops down behind you and lands easily on the ground. The night air is warm, and the Strip is still brightly lit not thirty feet away. You hold the envelope against your chest. The photographs inside are still slightly damp.
“For the record,” you say, “this is also your fault.”
“The chapel was closed,” Satoru says reasonably. “I didn’t plan that part. Plus, we have the photos, so. Seems like it worked out.”
You look at him with his loosened tie and ruffled hair and think, He’s going to be completely insufferable about this for years. You are going to have to hear about the Vegas chapel break-in for the rest of your natural life and possibly longer.
“Come on,” you say. “You said the hotel’s three blocks away.”
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #3 – VANDALISM.
There is only one bed. It’s not, on its own, an unusual situation. You’ve shared sleeping arrangements with Satoru before—field missions and overnight calls that left two sorcerers and one room. You’d use a pillow wall, most of the time.
The difference is that you are currently married to him.
“You booked a room with one bed?” you ask.
“They may have assumed, given that I made the reservation under a recently married couple’s names, that we would want,” Satoru says, gesturing at the bed, “the one bed.”
The bed in question is enormous, dressed in white linen and piled with decorative pillows. There’s a bowl of strawberries on the bedside table. The whole room smells faintly of roses.
“Did you request the honeymoon setup?” you say.
“The woman on the phone seemed very enthusiastic about it.”
“That’s not an answer!” You look around the room, hands on your hips. “Well, there’s a couch. You can use that.”
It’s one of those small, decorative couches present in hotel rooms to fill a corner, hold throw pillows, and look tasteful in photographs, but not to sleep on.
“I’m not going to sleep on it, but noted,” Satoru says, striding towards the minibar, shrugging his jacket off and draping it over the back of the chair by the window. “Whiskey or gin?”
“Whiskey,” you say. “We can put a pillow wall down the middle.”
“We’re married,” he says, crossing the room with two small bottles. He sits down on the other side of the bed. “It seems a bit prudish.”
You take the whiskey from him and twist the cap off. Satoru has his own bottle balanced between both hands, still unopened, and he’s looking out the window at the city below. You’ve spent enough years watching him, but it doesn’t seem to change anything; the flutter in your heart remains the same, as does the contentment you feel in your chest.
“I want to see them again,” you announce.
Satoru looks at you. “The photos?”
You reach for the envelope on the nightstand and slide the pictures out carefully, holding them by the edges. They’re drying, stiffening slightly. You hold them in your lap and he leans in slightly.
“You should’ve warned me,” you say quietly.
“About which part?”
“All of it.” You tap the third photograph’s edge, gently. “This.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “If I’d warned you, you’d have said no.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you,” he says, not unkindly. “You’d have thought about it too long and decided it was too complicated, and then you’d have spent months being strange about it, and then we’d have gone back to normal, and—” He stops, turning the bottle in his hands. “…I didn’t want to go back to normal.”
“It’s still a bad idea,” you mumble.
“Probably,” he agrees. His hand shifts on the duvet between you, the tip of his little finger coming to rest against the back of yours. “Hasn’t stopped being true, though. Whatever it is. You know what I mean.”
You do. That’s the problem: you’ve always known what he means, even when he’s being deliberately oblique about it. You’ve known him too long and too well for any of it to not make sense anymore. Which means, you understand now, that you’ve also known you’re in love with him for longer than you thought.
You look at the fourth photograph—Satoru, standing outside the chapel, watching you look at the ring on your hand.
“You could’ve just said something,” you tell him. “At any point. Like a normal person.”
“I took you to Las Vegas and married you,” he says. “That’s me saying something directly.”
His hand turns over and covers yours, warm and assuaging, and whatever reservations you’d been carefully maintaining for years simply crumble.
You close the remaining distance. Satoru’s free hand comes up to your face before you’ve fully moved, which means he was thinking about it too—has been thinking about it, probably, for longer than tonight, longer than Vegas—and he’s kissing you.
He kisses you decisively. There’s a certainty to it that shouldn’t surprise you—this is Satoru, who does nothing halfway—but it does, a little. But what surprises you more is how easy it is. How it doesn’t feel like a change in anything so much as a long-overdue acknowledgement of something that’s been there all along.
When you pull back, his forehead drops to yours. His sunglasses are still pushed up on his head, and you reach up and take them off without asking. He lets you.
“Hi,” Satoru says.
“You’re still wearing your sunglasses indoors at midnight,” you chide.
“I said hi.”
“Hi,” you say.
He smiles; it reaches his eyes. “So,” he starts.
“Do not say ‘I told you so.’”
“I wasn’t going to. Probably.”
“Insufferable,” you say, and kiss him again, which is both a rebuke and a surrender but mostly just because you want to. He makes a sound against your mouth that might be a laugh, and his arms come around you properly this time.
The decorative pillows go first. There are seven of them, and they go in ones and twos without either of you paying much attention—one knocked off when his arm comes around you properly, two more when you shift closer, the rest sliding off the edge in a soft succession of thuds. One of the small whiskey bottles, empty now, rolls off the mattress and lands on the carpet. You don’t notice any of it; you’re somewhat preoccupied by Satoru taking your face in his hands and tilting it and kissing you until you forget what you were arguing about.
You suspect that he’s thought about this for a long time, the same way you have.
“You’re thinking,” Satoru says against your mouth.
“I’m not.”
“You are. I can tell. You get this little—” He pulls back just enough to look at you, and traces something between your brows with one finger. “Here.”
You stare at him. “I hate that you know that.”
“No, you don’t,” he says. He’s right, and you hate that too, so you tell him so by pulling him back down by the front of his shirt.
He lets you tug at him willingly—more than willingly, with an enthusiasm that sends you back against the pillows and makes you laugh, briefly, before his mouth finds your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, and the laugh turns into a gasp. His hands are at your waist, warm through the fabric.
His tie joins the pillows on the floor; you get the knot loose while he’s working on the matter of your buttons. His shirt is untucked and you run your hands on his waist, his ribs, the warm plane of his stomach. Satoru groans against the side of your neck, and you shiver. He tosses your shirt aside, too, and his eyes darken when his gaze lands on your chest. He takes his time with your nipples, rolling them around with his thumbs, before taking one of them in his mouth.
He moves lower, pressing kisses to the underside of your breasts, moving down to your navel. When he reaches the waistband of your jeans, he looks up, pupils blown wide and asks, “May I?”
“Yes, yes, please.” You nod frantically, helping him pull your jeans and panties off when he unbuttons it. You’re already wet and needy.
“You’re so beautiful,” Satoru says, gazing up at you before littering kisses on your inner thighs, so close to where you want him.
“Satoru, please,” you say. “I need you.”
He blows on your wet core, making you shiver. “Need me to what?”
“I need you to, hah, just—”
Satoru latches onto your clit, sucking and swirling his tongue around the bud. You moan, your hands flying to his hair and gripping the silver-white strands. He alternates between quick flicks and long, broad strokes, keeping your folds spread apart with two fingers while his other hand traces patterns along the underside of your thigh.
“Fuck, fuck—” You curse when his tongue moves in a circle right around your clenching hole. Satoru doesn’t stop. If anything, the sound of your voice breaking, the way you curse his name, only spurs him on. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you. He’s always known how to push your buttons. But this is different; this isn’t a playful tease during a mission.
He dives back in, his tongue flattening out to lap at you with broad, wet strokes that cover everything from your clit down to your opening. You arch your back, your hips lifting off the mattress instinctively, trying to press yourself harder against his mouth.
“Satoru… please, I’m—”
“You’re what?” he mumbles against your skin. He doesn’t wait for an answer, sliding two fingers deep inside you. You let out a strangled cry, your toes curling. His fingers are thick and warm, and he curls them, hooking them upward to find that sensitive spot that makes your vision blur. His thumb remains locked into your clit, rubbing circles on the engorged bud.
The sensation is overwhelming. It’s too much and yet not nearly enough. You can feel the tension building in your lower belly, a tight, simmering coil that winds tighter and tighter with every second.
“Right there,” you moan, your fingers knotting into his hair. “Right there, Satoru, don’t stop, please don’t stop.”
Your breath comes out in short, jagged gasps, your chest heaving. Just as you are about to orgasm, Satoru stops. He doesn’t just slow down; he pulls his fingers out of you with a sudden, wet pop and removes his mouth from your heat entirely. You freeze, your eyes snapping open. “Satoru, what the hell—”
He’s hovering over you, braced on his elbows, his hair messy and falling over his forehead. A slow, smug smile spreads across his lips, though his breathing is just as heavy as yours.
“Not yet,” he whispers.
“I hate you,” you groan, your hips twitching involuntarily, searching for the friction he just stole from you. “I actually hate you so much.”
“Liars don’t get to come,” Satoru teases, though his hand reaches down to gently stroke the skin of your inner thigh.
He shifts, moving upward to kiss you. He tastes like you, and you moan into his mouth, before he pulls away just an inch, his gaze dropping to your drenched core. “I want to feel you,” he murmurs. “I want to feel how tight you are around me.”
Satoru slides backward, just enough to strip off his trousers and underwear in one hurried motion. His cock springs out, thick and flushed. Your mouth waters simply looking at it, while he pumps it once, twice, thumb circling the tip. He doesn’t lie back down. Instead, he sits up, leaning his back against the headboard of the enormous bed, his legs spread wide. He reaches out, grabbing your waist with those large, strong hands and pulling you forward until you are hovering over him.
“Ride me?” he asks.
The need for friction, for fullness, for him overrides any lingering frustration. You shift your weight, guiding his cock to your entrance. As you slowly lower yourself down, the feeling of his cock filling you, stretching you open, sends a fresh wave of pleasure through you. You let out a long, shuddering moan as you sink down completely, inch by inch, your pelvis flushing against his. Satoru lets out a choked sound, his head hitting the headboard with a thud, his eyes screwing shut.
“Fuck,” he moans. “You’re—you’re so tight. I can’t—”
“Shut up,” you whisper, though there’s no heat in it.
You begin to move, a slow, grinding rotation of your hips. You watch his face—the way his jaw clenches and his nostrils flare, the way he looks at you with warmth and wonder. You quicken your movements, bouncing on his cock. Satoru’s hands move from your waist to your hips, fingers digging into your skin, helping you ride him. He thrusts upwards, tilting his hips and dragging his cock against your walls.
“Look at me,” he groans. You look down, your eyes locking onto his. “I love you,” he says.
You feel the coil in your belly snap. Your orgasm washes over you as you clench around his cock, milking him. Satoru moans, his back arching off the bed as he thrusts upwards one last time. “I’m going to come,” he says. “Let me—”
You slide off his cock and he comes, his release spurting onto his stomach, a little bit on your thighs. You collapse against his chest. He wraps his arms around you tightly, pulling you into the crook of his neck.
For a long time, neither of you speaks. Eventually, Satoru shifts slightly, kissing the top of your head.
“So,” he whispers. “Shower?”
You lift your head slightly, looking at him with tired, happy eyes. “Already?” you say with faux innocence. “I thought you’d want to fuck me on that stupid couch first.”
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #4 – EMBEZZLEMENT.
Hopefully Satoru didn’t mind you swiping his credit card from his wallet while he was fast asleep, one arm thrown over his face while the other was stretched out beside him. You’d wriggled out of his grasp carefully, pressing a gentle, barely-there kiss to the tip of his nose, before digging through his jacket’s pockets for his wallet and pulling out his black card.
It’s for a good purpose, you console yourself, hurrying through the streets of Las Vegas with a jewellery shop’s location pulled up on your phone.
Las Vegas in the early morning is a different city entirely from the one that had swallowed you whole last night. It’s not quiet, exactly—it’s never quiet, you suspect—but it’s quieter, the frenetic energy of the Strip mellowed into something slower. The crowds have thinned, at least.
You walk with your hands in your pockets, Satoru’s black card tucked safely between two fingers. The morning air is warm and dry, and the sky above the glow of the Strip is beginning to lighten from black to the deep bruised blue that comes just before dawn.
The jewellery shop is three blocks from the hotel, according to your phone. It’s a small, well-lit place that stays open through the night, catering to those Las Vegas visitors who find themselves in need of jewellery at unusual hours, which you now understand is a larger demographic than you’d previously considered.
You walk and think about the rings. The ones currently on your fingers are not adequate. They’re soft metal, the gold already slightly scuffed from one night of existence, and they’ll tarnish in a week. You’d noticed this morning, while Satoru was still asleep: the way your rings sat a little loose, the way it had already lost some of its shine. It’s more of a placeholder than anything else.
The thought of replacing them had arrived while you’d lain in Satoru’s arms, listening to him breathe and looking at the ring.
You aren’t scared, though you’d expected to be. You’d expected to wake up this morning with the full weight of what’s happened landing on you like a dropped beam, and to spend the subsequent hours dealing with the considerable wreckage of your own panic. It seemed like a reasonable response to having been married to your best friend in Las Vegas by a crying man named Francis and then having the matter become rather more settled than a marriage certificate alone would suggest.
But when you’d woken up with Satoru’s arm around you and the photographs on the nightstand, what you’d felt was something almost irritatingly simple: you’d felt like yourself.
The jewellery shop is small and bright, jewellery arranged in lit display cases along the walls, a pudgy man behind the counter. He looks up when you come in, takes in the look of you—your clothes from last night, slightly slept-in, your hair not fully combed—and nods pleasantly.
“Morning,” he says. “What are you looking for?”
“Wedding rings,” you say. “Two of them, please. Something that’ll last for a long time.”
He nods again. “Do you know the other person’s size?”
You think about Satoru’s hands—the ring sliding onto his finger in the chapel, his hand covering yours on the duvet last night, the warmth of his arm around this morning. “I can estimate,” you say.
He shows you to a case along the left wall. The rings inside are simple, for the most part—plain bands in gold and silver and white gold, some with small details, most without. You find two plain bands in white gold, clean-lined and unornamented, substantial enough to last.
“These,” you tell the man behind the counter.
He nods. You produce Satoru’s black card and spend a figure that makes you wince slightly but not reconsider, because the point isn’t the cost and you’re sure Satoru will agree with you about this when he wakes up and finds both you and his credit card gone. You leave the ship with the rings in a small white box and stand on the pavement outside for a moment in the warming air.
You pull your phone out and type in the search bar, Chapel of Eternal Love, and punch in the number attached.
“Hello, Chapel of Eternal Love, Francis speaking—”
“Francis,” you say, smiling. “I have a favour to ask.”
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #5 – MARRIAGE.
Francis, it turns out, is delighted. He’d gone quiet for a moment when you explained what you were asking, and then said, Give me an hour, and hung up before you could confirm the details.
You make your way back to the hotel with your ring box in your pocket and the morning brightening steadily around you. The casino lobbies you pass are still going—slot machines, a scattering of determined gamblers, staff moving between stations—but the Strip itself is relatively peaceful, the night’s crowd entirely dissolved and the day’s not yet arrived. You have the pavement to yourself. It’s a strange and pleasant feeling, Las Vegas in the interstitial hour.
Satoru is awake when you get back, sitting up in bed with his hair in complete disarray and the duvet bunched around his waist. When you open the door he looks at you blankly.
“Morning,” you say.
“My credit card,” he says.
“Is fine.” You cross the room and hold it out. He takes it without looking at it, still watching you. “I needed it for a purchase.”
“What kind of purchase requires you to leave the hotel room at—” he glances at the clock on the nightstand—“six forty-seven in the morning?”
“The important kind.” You sit down on the edge of the bed and take the white box out of your pocket, setting it on the duvet between you.
Satoru picks the box up and opens it, and doesn’t say anything at all, which is the loudest thing Gojo Satoru can do. “You stole my credit card,” he says finally, “to buy us wedding rings.”
“I borrowed it,” you say. “To replace the ones we got from a spinning display rack for five dollars each.”
“I liked those rings.”
“They were tarnishing,” you say. “There’s more, by the way.”
You tell him about Francis. He looks surprised at first, and then warm, so utterly warm when he tugs you closer to him and kisses you again, and again, and once more for good measure. Satoru closes the ring box and holds it in both hands, the way he’d held the whiskey bottle last night before he’d covered your hand with his.
“I thought you wanted a divorce last night, and now you’ve stolen my credit card and called Francis.”
“Yep.”
He looks at you for a long moment. The morning light filters through the curtains and he looks extraordinarily, unfairly beautiful, even just woken up.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay?”
“Yeah.” Satoru sets the ring box on the nightstand, next to the photographs. “Okay.”
Francis has decorated the chapel when you arrive. You’re not entirely sure when he found the time—it’s been barely two hours since your phone call—but the maintenance issue has apparently been resolved, because the lights are on when you arrive. The door is unlocked; when you step inside you find that Francis has replaced the zip-tied artificial flowers on the pews with fresh ones, white and small. There are candles lit along the windowsills. The worn carpet, in the warm light, looks less worn somehow, or perhaps you’re simply disposed to see it differently today.
Francis himself is standing at the altar in a clean shirt, his red hair combed and his camera in his hands. “You came back,” he says.
“We came back,” you confirm.
Francis looks at the two of you—Satoru in a fresh shirt with his tie done up neatly again, you in the best thing you could assemble from your bag on short notice—and grins. “The rings, did you—”
You produce the white box.
“Right,” Francis says. “Right, yes. Let’s—shall we?”
Here is what you think about, standing at the altar of the Chapel of Eternal Love for the second time in less than twenty-four hours:
You think about the first time, yesterday, and how you’d stood here in something close to a dissociative state, your brain running through the situation at high speed. You think about the parking lot behind the Denny’s and the small fire in the trash can. You’d meant it when you said you wanted a divorce, though you realise now that you were frightened of what being married to your best friend entailed.
Satoru had let you burn it, too. He hadn’t argued because he’d known you’d come around. Not from arrogance, but because he knew you, the same way you knew him, all the way down to the things you didn’t say aloud.
You think about the darkroom, the four photographs drying on the line in the red light. Climbing back out through the chapel window into the warm Las Vegas night and holding the envelope against your chest, the photographs still damp inside it. You think about the rings in the spinning display by the door—you can still see them from where you’re standing, the little rack with the remaining rings. They were the beginning, it turns out.
You turn to look back at Satoru. He’s smiling at you.
Francis clears his throat gently. “Shall we begin?”
The vows are the same ones from the laminated card. Francis offers alternatives—he has a small binder with options—but Satoru shrugs, so you use the same ones. When Francis gets to the rings you open the white box yourself. You take Satoru’s ring out and hold it; he holds out his right hand out of habit before catching himself and switching to his left, and you both laugh helplessly. Francis gulps and pulls out his handkerchief. You put the ring on the correct hand this time.
Satoru takes yours from the box and looks up at you—there’s that expression, the one from the photographs, the one you have a name for now. He slides the ring onto the correct finger and holds your hand for a moment after.
Francis is fully crying now. He dabs at his eyes without embarrassment and beams at the two of you over his handkerchief with radiant approval.
“I’ve never had anyone come back,” he tells you. “In twelve years, you’re the first.”
“We forgot something the first time,” you say.
Francis tucks his handkerchief away and straightens up. Smiling, he announces, “You may now kiss,” and so you do.
a/n: the real mvp of this fic is francis who was also unironically my favourite person to write. thanks for reading!
The clock is striking midnight, but you find yourself in the arms of none other than the most eligible man in the nation - Prince Gojo. Teaching you how to dance and then sneaking a kiss, it's almost enough to make you forget who you really are. When reality comes crashing and all Satoru is left with is a pretty earring that fell on those steps, can he ever find the girl in the mask?
pairings - prince! gojo x cinderella! reader
warnings- first time kisses, literally a fairy tale, love at first sight, fingering, no sex bc our man is making us wait for the wedding. Fluffier than any of my usual and maybe my sweetest Gojo <3 - 5.2k wc
This is part of @jazzthatonewriterchick's ain't no fairytale event! congrats on your following, and TYSM for inviting me! <3
yummy ass prince gojo art is by my bb @levitonin plz go follow them on x and here they're insanely talentedd!
You step into the elegant ballroom as you clutch your gown in your hands, the delicate material crimping in your tight grip. It's scandalous for you to be here - the illegitimate daughter of a high lord, the stepsister to the real ladies.
Are you an imposter? Are you a dreamer? The questions swirl in your mind as you peer up at the pretty chandelier dangling above the room, casting its soft glow upon everyone swirling over the marble floor in pretty pirouettes.
That's when you lay eyes on him - Prince Gojo, it's the official season where he will indeed be looking for a match, and every girl along with every hungry mama is after him. Partly he seems fine with the attention, grinning and laughing, winking so that girls had to fan themselves
Yet, another part?
He seems almost as out of place as you once the flock is off, waiting for their number on their dance card, leaning back against the wall and talking to his advisor. It was known that Prince Gojo would soon enough be King, and with that must come many duties.
You can't help but find yourself lost in his pretty features, almost otherworldly, especially when his eyes catch yours from across that ballroom, drifting across your face and neck with enough intensity to make you blush underneath your glittery mask. You quickly turn and rush outside to grab some sort of air when he starts to near you, your heart racing in your chest.
"Wait up," you hear his voice then - perhaps it makes the man all the more attractive, deep and husky, hitting your core and making you feel flustered. "Are you alright?"
You turn slowly, the moonlight is glittering on his pale skin, making him look much like the statues in this very garden, clutching your gown tighter. "I... I just needed some air, Your Highness.
His lips curl into this devastating smile, but it's softer than any royal should be, as he drinks you in, pretty blues in a myriad of shades assessing you carefully. "The ballroom can be overwhelming, can't it?”
"It can indeed…”
Your heart hammers in your chest as he takes another step closer, the scent of bergemot and something distinct to him filling your senses. You've hardly been around a man aside from the servants who have befriended you, and you certainly weren't in such proximity as this, almost stumbling off the stone steps when he catches you.
"Oh! I'm so sorry, your highness!"
"Careful, sweetheart," he murmurs softly, brushing over you with his voice, lilting as the wind catches it, his long fingers taking your wrist over. He's so very tall anyone would feel small compared to him, but he's..
He's sweet.
"I don't believe I've had the pleasure of meeting you before," he says softly, taking in the beautiful glimmering blue gown, it was not in 'season' or 'fashion' so to speak, moreso something that was left in one of his mother's wardrobes, but it fit you perfectly. "I think I'd remember such a meeting. What’s your name?”
Your name.
You can’t tell him – what if it got back you snuck away from your stepmother? She’d have you sweeping that damn chimney for the rest of your existence.
Your pulse rushes in your ears, stepping just a little closer, knowing you're probably terrible at pretending to really be nobility, or any sort of lady, feeling the heat of his palm through your satin gloves. "I'm... um, just a guest."
"Every guest has a name," he says, his gaze drifting down to the little chain on your neck curiously, his hand falling off. "Tell me, what brings someone so lovely to hide in the gardens rather than dance?"
"I'm afraid I cannot dance," Satoru blinks curiously, the way the moonlight hits your face and bounces off that silver mask has him almost blushing, the rise and fall of your chest in that snug corset, your own faint blush heating up your skin - out of every girl tonight, you're just...
Different.
"Cannot dance? Nonsense," he smirks and holds out a hand now, tilting his head. "I'll teach you."
"N-no! I'm utterly unteachable... I... oh!" Satoru tugged you in his arms, and you fell against his hard chest, a hand on that elegant blue uniform he's wearing. "Prince Gojo..."
"Call me Satoru."
“Oh I could not ever,” you are panicking being this close to him, his heat, his hard chest so strong as you stumble and damn near trip over your feet. “I’m stepping all over you!”
“It’s fine,” you could literally walk on Satoru and he’d just thank you, with those pretty glass slippers that click gently as you move. He picks you up and grins as you gasp out. “I’ve got you.”
“You cannot just…” he’s lifted you off the ground now so that your feet are on his, moving and guiding you with a little chuckle. “I’ll hurt your feet!”
“Nah, I’m fine,” he’s more than fine – Satoru thinks he’s fucking in love at first sight.
The nonsense of fairytales, but how else does he explain how perfect your corseted waist feels in his arms? How you’re looking at him and making him melt? Satoru’s in love with a girl and he doesn’t even know her name. Perhaps it’s the champagne and how pretty you are, perhaps his advisor Suguru was right and Satoru was a dreamer.
Yet you’re like a dream waltzing rather clumsily on his feet.
He finally manages to speak, to act like any of this is normal, his lips quirking up at the corner. "You're a natural, see?"
"I'm just standing on your feet!” You’re giggling though, the sound and your smile making him ache. He can only wonder how beautiful you were without half of your face covered, even more pretty than those eyes and those lips?
Yet it’s more, something about you drawing him in, he tightens his hold on you, your body pressed to his, clearing his throat as he tries to focus.
Tonight was supposed to be ‘the end’ so to speak – find a boring, perfect debutante for his bride, he had been dreading it for months, yet all he can think of right now is how much he is enjoying being in this garden with you.
"Details."
“No? Actual facts?”
“Semantics, sweetheart,” you laugh again, shaking your head.
“You’re nothing like I’d think a Prince to be.”
“Is that good or bad?” He asks, stopping his movements and easing you off his feet, not releasing you, no, he’s got you firm against him still. The music from the ballroom is fading, just a little hazy in both of your ears, intermingling with his soft chuckle and your little pleased sigh.
“It’s good, very good,” you can’t say it – that you are so wary of nobility because of your step mother, because you’re hidden merely because your mother was a mistress rather than a wife. “You’re just… different.”
“I could say that about you,” his lashes lowered just a bit, hand on the small of your back sliding up where it’s bare, ever so scandalously. "I think we've earned a break from the lesson, yes?”
You manage a little nod, swallowing nervously as Satoru’s silk gloved hand slides from your back to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling gently in the hair that’s coiffed and pinned. He tilts your head back gently, having you meet his gaze, your own hands sliding to his chest, hidden by the alcove so that you’re just out of sight.
If you’re going to have one night of freedom, shouldn’t it be a good one?
How can you think like this!
"You're blushing again," he murmurs, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin just below your ear. "Even your ears are warm. Is it the dancing, or is it me?"
You can't form a coherent thought, let alone any sort of words for an answer, just looking up at him and wetting your lips nervously, tongue slipping over the plump of your lower one.
“Asked you a question, princess.”
“Oh I’m so far from that,” you whisper, he chuckles as he thinks to himself how your hips would give him perfect heirs, how he’d love those lips to be glossy from his saliva rather than anything else.
“Every girl here wants to be the next princess,” he says, nose brushing yours as he bends down. “Not you, though.”
“Not me…”
Gong. Gong. Gong.
“Oh!” You look at the giant clock ticking overhead, enormous and pristine, loudly echoing in your ears. “It’s almost midnight. I should… go.”
“A curfew?” He asks, even more curious, nobles party until well into the morning, but you’re leaning up now, hugging him around his neck, making him falter.
“Thank you for tonight, Satoru,” god how your name sounds on his lips, pressing a kiss on his cheek and pausing, a breath away from the corner of his mouth. He tilts your chin up, studying you carefully.
“Running away already?”
“I must soon…” You trail off and look right at his lips, sighing. “Perhaps one minute more.”
“May I kiss you, before you disappear?” He asks then, you nod quickly, seeing the lashes casting shadows on his high cheeks as he bends down, closing the distance and capturing your lips.
The first press of his lips is impossibly soft, a tentative movement that he pulls back from quickly, exhaling, the breath ghosting over your mouth, grip tightening as he paints soft kisses against them. You whine out before you can stop yourself, making him moan and pause for just a moment.
“Oh I’ve… never kissed…”
“I’m your first kiss?” He asks softly, you nod and tug him down again, making him chuckle. “Did you like it, princess?”
“I do very much,” he kisses you again, his tongue slipping on the seam of your lips as if it’s seeking entry, tasting of champagne and something sweet – scones, you think, the mixture hypnotic somehow.
Your first kiss is with Prince Gojo.
You both stumble a bit until you fall onto him in the gardens, he lands on his back with a soft thud on the grass. You’re gasping as you lose your balance, Satoru chuckles as he catches you on his body, holding you tightly, lips pulled into a full grin that makes him look even more handsome.
“Hmm, I’d like to see you without this mask.”
“Sir you’re very bold,” he raises a brow, hands on your hips – god imagine kissing you between your thighs, holding them firm?
“Says the lady on my lap.”
“Oh, you’re a tease!” You lean up and his eyes are glittering , leaning up on his elbows and nuzzling your nose with his. “Mngh…”
“The sounds you make,” he whispers, you’re straddling him with your skirts strewn all across you, heat pressing on his length, you probably don’t even know what it is but you grind on it, making him hiss. “Just from a kiss, I wonder how you’d sound if I kissed you here.”
His lips press on the rushing pulse behind your ear, you’re rolling those hips once more, fingers entangled in his silky locks, his breath sending trembles across you, the whine that escapes your lips almost makes him lose it.
“Fuck…”
“Oh dear, I’m so-”
“Don’t move, god,” he moans and grips you rougher than he meant to, arching up as he kisses up the side of your neck, lips drifting over your frantic, racing little pulse, your nails press into his shoulders, holding still as his breath ghosts your collarbone, fingertips brushing across your neckline.
“It feels so good,” you can’t help but move again, making him suck in a breath, kissing you deeper, your arms wrapping his neck as your tongue slips in and out of his mouth, exhaling as you move with him, feeling this need building inside that has you hot, dizzy. “Satoru…”
“Don’t leave,” he whispers, lips glossy from your kisses, sighing and cupping your face gently. “Stay. I’ll tell your chaperones.”
Chaperones.
As if you had those.
“I cannot…”
“We will pause,” he says, barely holding onto his last thread, eyes looking up at the pretty masked girl sitting on his lap, sitting up fully and studying you carefully. “I must know more about you, anything… especially your name-”
Gong Gong Gong.
“I’m so sorry,” you stumble off his lap, questioning yourself then – hearing your stepmother and stepsisters in your head making fun of you.
As if you fit in?
Tonight was an insane idea, one your fellow servants had for you, these glittery slippers and your mother’s old gown weighing heavy as you stand, almost stumbling as your heel digs into the earth. The Prince stands with you, steadying you with a hand on your upper arm, his lips parted.
“There’s nothing interesting about me,” you whisper, tears slipping and glimmering in your eyes.
“I find that impossible to believe.”
You smile, lips trembling, before kissing his cheek, your own lashes closing, sticky droplets of tears falling from them. You murmur your name for his ears, before rushing away, holding onto your dress as you ascend the narrow steps towards the ballroom, hearing him call it out.
“Don’t go! Please, just…” You turn and he can’t see your face then, not with the lighting of the ballroom as your background, casting a shadow of your figure.
“Thank you, my Prince,” you turn once more, Satoru rushes up the stairs then, pausing when he sees a glinting bauble on the step by his dress shoe. He picks it up, studying it carefully, his gaze flickering to where you’ve completely disappeared.
Your name was not familiar, it was not a family he’d ever heard of, a name he’d ever heard either.
Just who were you?
*****
“Hurry, miss, hurry!” Your fellow servants are rushing to undress you from the big gown as your carriage, rickety and loud, has made it just before your step family.
“Turn!” You do just that and let them unlace the back of it in quick little motions, the fellow women studying you once they put back on your maid attire.
“Miss, did you…”
“I um…” You’re blushing now, giggling as if you’re intoxicated from that sip of champagne, nodding.
“You kissed!” You shush one of them, even though the three of you are breathlessly laughing. “Tell us, tell us!”
“He was so handsome, so sweet,” you sigh, all dreamy, looking in the mirror and smoothing your apron down your front, touching your ear then. “Oh dear, I lost one of mama’s earrings!”
“She would have wanted you to have fun,” you get emotional then, as they fix up your hair – they still take care of you when they can, remembering how things were before your father remarried, when you were the lady of the house despite the mother you had not being ‘nobility’.
Your mother – all you have is a little photo of her in a locket.
“Was she kind, mama? Would she…” You swallow just a bit. “Like me?”
“Of course she would, miss,” they turn to you then, trying to cheer you up. “Who kissed the lipstain off.”
You blush furiously, before leaning over to whisper. “A prince.”
“A prince!?”
“Shh!” You hear it then, the hooves of the horses on the cobblestone path, turning your head to peer right back at the noise, the one earring you have left firmly in your palm. “We must act normal… but…”
“But?” You turn to them and your eyes well up with emotions, taking each of their hands.
“It was the best night of my life.”
*****
“This earring,” Satoru smiles days later as he has tea across from several young ladies – four daughters in one family, all matching your height and some of your features. He assesses them carefully, searching for any sign of you – since the name you gave him existed in no public records.
Where was the masked girl with the one earring?
“It’s mine!” One girl exclaims, giggling and standing. “It must be mine, your highness.”
“Ah, I see,” he stands and walks over, peering into her eyes, hoping for anything to click like it did before – it had been dark out, was he mistaking this? Was it really you? “Where’s the matching?”
She falters then, and her sisters are laughing at her. “I um… your highness, as it were… I do not…”
“I see…” He finishes his tea and bows at the giggling ladies, smiling all charming like he’s not losing his mind. “Farewell, for now, dear ladies.”
He’s furious when he slams the carriage door, his advisor Suguru looking up from the ledgers he’s balancing while waiting for the prince. His dark eyes take Satoru in carefully. “You look like shit.”
“Aw thanks, Suguru,” he snorts and Satoru climbs in across from him, earring flipped over and over in his palm. “That’s every woman her height and hair color aside from one house – out of twenty nearly. And nothing.”
“What was it about her?” Suguru asks. “To make you announce you’re looking for a bride and all? It’s so unlike you.”
“I can’t tell you it’s…” Satoru touches his lip thoughtfully, spreading those long legs in the carriage bench, the plush velvet brushing his elegant tailcoat as it begins to rock towards the last stop. “It’s everything about her.”
“Is the prince in love at first sight?” Suguru is teasing, but when he sees Satoru’s glare he pauses. “Oh fuck… it is?”
“I don’t know what else this is, this feeling in my heart,” he clutches it over his dress shirt, staring out the pretty countryside view as they start to move towards the last hope. “I can’t describe it at all, but I must have her, I must know her… I cannot even think of another woman when she exists in this world.”
Suguru is quiet then.
“Who knew the rakish prince would fall so in love so quickly?”
“Shut it,” Suguru’s serious then, pulling up the information on the last house and studying it. “Who are they?”
“A widow and her two step daughters… some servants live there as well, but of course they wouldn’t be the ones you met. Maybe one of them is it?”
“We shall see…”
“Satoru?” He raises a brow. “If you don’t find her, what will you do?”
He laughs a bit, leaning his head back and throwing a forearm over his face, sinking against the seat and descending himself into darkness, picturing you so clearly. Running away from him even in his dreams, like he can never actually capture you.
“I don’t know if I can ever look at someone like that again.”
It’s quiet then.
“Well, I hope you’ll find her.”
*****
“The prince is coming!” Your stepmother rushes up to you and yanks your hair, making you cry out. “Make yourself good, girl! Now! Tea, chop chop!”
“Ouch,” you whine out when she smacks your cheek. “S-sorry…”
“Do not talk back!”
“I was not-”
“She’s become such a nuisance,” one of your sisters complains, donned in an obscenely gaudy pink gown, jeweled slippers that you’d worn that night, you pale when you see them.
“Those were my mother’s! You can’t have them!”
“Those were my mothers!” She’s mocking you, making hot tears prick the back of your eyes. “The prince is coming for me, you’ll let me wear them, you nor your mother was never worthy of such luxury.”
You almost smack her, knowing it’s a death sentence or at least a prison sentence to do so, feeling sick as the three women laugh.
“No, he’s coming for me!” Your other stepsister is wearing bright yellow, donned with the hairclip your mother left. “I couldn’t find those earrings of yours!”
“Why are you in my things when you have everything!?” They laugh again at your pain, your tears, always cruel without reason.
Why did you even go, why did you glimpse happiness when they were your reality?
“He’s here, shh!” Your stepmother and siblings stand in front of you now, blocking the view of the Prince being greeted, his dress shoes clicking on the hardwood beneath him. Your heart hammers in your chest as you stand there with your head down, your family making a spectacle of themselves.
“Your highness! Indeed, what an honor,” your mother is putting on the charm, but Satoru’s eyes are on you, a frown on his lips. “What do we owe the great pleasure of your visit?”
He sees the mark on the pretty servant’s cheek and glares at the woman now, the matriarch of the family scowling at you. “Please forgive us, we will leave her and retire to the-”
“You hit your help?” He asks, fists clenching underneath those white satin gloves, she blinks in confusion.
“Well, of course I do. She is quite-”
“You hit your fucking help, really?”
“Is it against any law, your highness?” She asks, raising a brow, Satoru grimaces in disgust, walking up to you, earning the caught breath of every servant, and the anger of your ‘family’.
“No it’s not, yet the thought of treating others like that disgusts me,” he peers down at you, tilting your chin up right in front of the room, your heart hammers so violently in your chest you feel dizzy. “Are you all right, sweetheart?”
Fuck.
Your knees go weak, the sudden sting of your cheek fading into nothing, not when he’s looking at you that way, you can hardly hold in your words – Satoru, it’s me.
You cannot let him know you impersonated a noble, he’s just being… kind, surely.
“I am fine, your highness,” your voice puts it all together for him then, and in that moment the world shrinks – to just you and Satoru Gojo.
Not just a prince, but the boy you kissed in those gardens.
“Is this yours?” He asks quietly, taking the earring out and watching your expression, hearing their huffs of anger.
“You snuck into the ball!? You little tramp!” Your stepsister shouts, stomping on over when Satoru holds up a hand, halting her in her steps, watching as you tug the other earring out of your little reticule, a trembling hand being touched by his.
“You will be executed for such a travesty!” Your mother says, but Satoru scoffs, simply sliding the hook of the earring through the little spot they were pierced when you were just a little babe. He takes the other but not before studying your hand, covered in callouses, rubbed raw from scrubbing.
“Do not look, please,” you whisper, embarrassed that he has to see them – the nails nonexistent, the skin dry and cracking. He takes off his own glove and sets the other earring on, before he touches your hand, taking it and flipping it over, studying it carefully. “Please…”
“You shall never work these hands like this again,” you gasp at that, letting him take both of them in his own, the touch and warmth of his skin making you dizzy. “I promise you that you won’t…”
He says your name, softly then, smiling all bright as you break out into tears, holding you against him. “Prince Satoru…”
“God I looked all over for you,” he whispers, hand on the small of your back, your clothes are so old they’re falling apart, you seem almost frail to him like this, weak and worn down, not the happy girl he met.
Yet he knows it then, surely.
He did fall in love at first sight.
“What do you think about becoming my princess?”
“I could never! I…”
“Come,” he picks you up like it’s nothing, carrying you right out of there, you cling to his neck as he cradles you and your stepmother rushes up.
“Surely I will get some compensation!” Your stepmother earns Satoru’s disgust as he looks upon her. “She was my late husband’s illegitimate offspring, I took her in when I did not have to! Fed her, clothed her, gave her shelter.”
“You did a fucking horrible job of all of it, if you ever loved your husband, how could you do this? This is why I hate nobility like you,” he clutches you tightly, feeling your face bury against his neck. “I’ll compensate you plenty to leave my kingdom, all of you, forever. Handsomely in fact. But you’ll never go near her again.”
“Satoru, you don’t have to!” You’re whispering, trembling in fear, but he ignores it all, shaking his head.
“I will make sure you have a nicer home than this, and dowries,” your stepmother quickly agrees, and that’s the last time you see her, or your stepsisters again. “Let us go visit your new home.”
*****
“They called you that, because you sat by the fireplace too much?” Satoru asks you softly weeks later, you all were having dinner but you’ve stayed in your own wing of his castle, he’s making sure that everything is properly done – the wedding a few more weeks away.
“They did,” you admit, holding his hand and blushing as he leans forward, studying it. “It’s still rough, Satoru.”
“That’s quite alright,” he kisses your knuckles then, his lips curving up in a sad smile. “I shall make sure that you never lift a pretty finger.”
“Nonsense!”
“No, you must stop helping clean and cook, too,” you shake your head, earning his smile widening. “Are you not listening to your prince?”
“Old habits die hard, at least let me bake with them! What else shall I do all day long!?”
“You’re a bratty girl,” you giggle, shaking your head and standing, walking over as he tugs you on his lap, sitting sideways, his fingers trailing across your knee, sliding that robe apart. “Very bratty.”
“Me, no indeed,” you are aching to do more, but Satoru has been very gentlemanly – so much in fact you find yourself moving on his lap in such a way that has his lashes fluttering closed. “Are you all right, my prince?”
“You’re killing me, perhaps you’re an evil girl after all,” your smile ruins him, along with the way goosebumps rise up your thigh. “Trying to tempt me before the marriage, hmm? No, no, we do it all properly – you’re my bride to be.”
“I can wait, I suppose,” your fingertips trail across his cheek, laughing softly then at his blush that dances across them. “Can you wait?”
“Indeed I have my methods,” jerking off to you every night after kissing you in front of your bedroom door. “Can you, pretty girl?”
“No,” you’re honest then, gasping as his fingers dart higher, your thighs spreading slightly as if on instinct. “Satoru…”
“Such an impatient girl, tsk,” he glides them higher until they find your cunt bare, already slick underneath the satin of your robes, feeling you shift and cry out in the way only you can. “Shall I have you cum all over my fingers, then? Give you just a taste of what I’ll do to you when you’re fully mine?”
“Oh, mngh y-you… please…” He kisses you as his fingers find your slit, gliding up and down and feeling that wetness just pour, moaning at the feeling, you’re damn near slippery with a gentle touch at your entrance, your tongue moving against his with much more precision than the first kiss.
“Please what, princess? Make you feel good?” Your nod is jerky, your nails pressing into his forearm and feeling it tense as he slides a finger in – making your eyes roll back in your skull. “You’re doing such a good job, look at you.”
“Am I? It’s so thick and… Satoru,” he’s curving one finger just so in your snug little hole, squishing so loud it fills your ears, mixing with his kisses on your collarbone, his nose brushing your skin. “Please!”
“Mhm, take a pretty tit out for me,” he orders softly, in the way only Prince Satoru can, you tug it down and blush when he sees your tit for the first time. “Oh god but you’re s’fuckin beautiful.”
Your answer is to arch your back, your head falling so that your hair cascades across his arm that’s wrapping you, his finger working as that mouth wraps a nipple and sucks. It is too much, the way he sucks, the way his finger moves faster, until you’re about to shatter, to fall apart right for him, his finger hitting that spot that has your vision getting fuzzy.
He moans around your nipple, tongue swirling it – his blue eyes looking up underneath those long white lashes at you, feeling your cunt stretch enough that he eases in a second.
“So full! I’m so… ah!” He pulls back from your nipple, his saliva dripping with strings dissolving from your tit, sighing and nuzzling your breast, kissing back up to your collarbone, his fingers making your cunt quiver. She clamps down as you get closer, feeling that pressure, the grinding of his fingers on that spot.
“You’re close, hmm?” He teases softly, smiling all proud of himself and fucking cute – he was proud he could make you feel good, that he could feel the way you’re reacting, see the pleasure on your face. “You’re so loud, your pussy is making such a mess, too.”
“You’re… I…” You feel it coming, overwhelming in its intensity then, stealing your breath as his fingers work faster, until you’re right there.
“That’s it, let go for me,” he whispers, pressing up on that spongy spot in your wall with his fingertips, massaging it as you shatter. “There you go, good little princess, cumming just for me.”
“Satoru, ngh!” You scream out obscenely, cunt squirting right down his hand and making a mess of his pants, of your silk robe, darkening the material as you fall apart in his arms, weak and almost falling on him. “S’good I… sensitive and… Satoru, I l-love you and…”
He pauses then, exhaling and kissing you deeply, easing his fingers out of the mess you are. “You love me, princess?”
You’re almost in tears. You feel so good, nodding quickly, watching as he sucks his long fingers, blushing furiously – your cunt is pulsing around nothing, seeing his cheeks hollow during the filthy little action. “You’re tasting me!”
“So sweet,” he mumbles, drunk off a lick, pulling back to see his fingers glossy and moaning at the sight, his eyes dark. “I can’t wait to really drink you.”
“Drink me?” He chuckles at how precious you are, tugging down your slip and holding you close, kissing your temple as you come down. “Satoru, that was so intense I just… I…”
“Are you all right? Too much?” He brushes your hair back, feeling your lips on his neck.
“Not enough.”
“Slutty princess,” you gasp and smack him when he chuckles, pulling back and cupping your chin, smiling at you. “I love you too.”
“You love me?”
“Of course I do, the moment I saw you in that garden,” you can’t stop the tears from falling, chest heaving as the aftershocks mix with your emotions. “Now don’t be so impatient, we have forever.”
You nod and kiss him again, and again, and again, until he carries you in his arms towards your bed. “I can’t wait to share the bed with you, my Prince.”
“Soon enough.” He lays you in it and kisses you, studying you carefully, brushing a lock of your hair back.
Satoru was only an eligible bachelor for one day – and now he has his happily ever after lightly snoring in her bed, murmuring his name.
Perhaps being the prince wasn’t so bad if he got you by his side.
𝓲𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗵 ♰ six years of tension snap when satoru’s jealousy finally explodes, leading to a heated argument that turns into a desperate, messy hookup where he makes it very clear you’ve always been his.
✿ ◞◟) gojo satoru 𝓍 female!reader
𝓬𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 18+ [ MDNI! ], explicit sexual content, porn with plot (but its mostly porn lmao), best friends to lovers, jealousy, satoru is down bad, lot of kissing, handjob, big dick!satoru, biting, begging, fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, unprotected sex (p in v), creampie, missionary + doggy style, praise, dirty talk, satoru is pathetic.
gojo satoru had been your best friend for six years, and in that time, you'd learned to accept certain things about him.
one — he was obnoxiously handsome. not in a way that felt fair or earned, but in the kind of effortless, god-cheated way that made waitresses forget his order and strangers stop him on the street to tell him he should model. satoru had white hair that never seemed to have a bad day, lashes so long they cast tiny shadows on his cheeks, and eyes so blue they looked like someone had turned up the saturation on just him while the rest of the world stayed normal.
two — satoru had very, very loud opinions, especially about anyone you dated.
you'd noticed the pattern about a year into your friendship, when you'd casually mentioned a guy from your psych class who'd asked for your number. satoru had been sprawled across your couch, stealing your fries, and he'd gone still for a second before tilting his head and saying;
"him? really? he's got weird eyebrows."
you'd blinked at him.
"his eyebrows are fine."
"they're asymmetrical," satoru had said, like that was a real crime. "and he laughs like a seal. you really want to listen to that for a whole date?"
you'd gone on the date anyway.
the guy's eyebrows had been perfectly normal, and his laugh had been genuinely nice, but satoru's comment had stuck in your head the whole time, making you hyperaware of things you never would have noticed otherwise.
that was his gift, or his curse, you hadn't decided yet.
since then, there had been others;
a very sweet and cute guy from your economics discussion group who satoru had dismissed as "way too short for you" (he’d been five eleven). a sweet philosophy major who satoru had claimed "smelled like soup" (he hadn't). a theater student who satoru had said was "obviously using you to get over his ex" (that one had actually been true, and you'd hated admitting satoru was right).
each time, satoru had been there, lounging in your space like he belonged there, making comments that ranged from mildly annoying to borderline cruel. and each time, you'd rolled your eyes and gone on the date anyway, because that was just how satoru was; opinionated, dramatic, a little bit of an asshole.
but satoru was also the one who showed up at your door at 2am with takeout when you failed a midterm.
the one who let you cry on his shoulder after the theater student broke your heart, the one who remembered how you took your coffee and which side of the bed you slept on and the name of your childhood stuffed animal.
so you let the comments slide, mostly.
but this time was different.
this time, his name was jaehyun, and you'd met him at a house party two weeks ago — the guy was in grad school for architecture, had kind eyes and a quiet laugh, and when he'd asked you out for coffee, you'd felt that little flutter in your chest that you'd almost forgotten existed.
you'd mentioned him to satoru casually, the way you always did, expecting the usual eyeroll and some stupid comment about jaehyun's haircut or his shoes.
what you got was something else entirely.
"jaehyun?" satoru had repeated, his voice doing something very strange — going flat in a way it never did. "what kind of name is jaehyun?"
"a perfectly normal one," you'd said, not looking up from your phone. "he's in grad school. architecture. really sweet."
"architecture," he had echoed, like you'd said jaehyun collected human teeth. "so he draws buildings. cool. very exciting."
you'd glanced up then, frowning.
satoru was sitting across from you at the campus coffee shop, his long legs stretched out under the table, one of his legs pressed against yours in that way he always did — like he needed to be touching you to exist properly. his sunglasses were pushed up into his white hair, and his expression was carefully, almost aggressively, neutral.
"what's your problem?" you'd asked.
"nothing," he'd said, too fast. "no problem. i'm thrilled for you. jaehyun the architect. hope he designs you a very nice house."
you'd stared at satoru for a very long moment, waiting for the usual punchline. but he'd just smiled — that big, fake, toothy smile that meant he was annoyed about something and pretending he wasn't at all.
you'd let it go. you were used to satoru being weird.
but over the next week, his weirdness escalated into something you couldn't ignore.
it started small; satoru started showing up at your apartment unannounced, which wasn't new — he'd always done that, letting himself in with the key you'd given him after he'd climbed your fire escape twice in one week. but before, he'd text first, or at least announce his presence with a dramatic "honey, i'm home!" as he walked through the door.
now, he just appeared.
you'd be doing dishes, and suddenly there he was, leaning against your doorframe like he'd been there the whole time. you'd be studying at your desk, and satoru’s chin would appear over your shoulder, his chest warm against your back, asking what you were doing in a voice that was way too low for the question he was asking.
and god, the touching.
satoru had always been touchy. you'd known that about him from the beginning — the way he'd sling an arm over your shoulders, rest his hand on your lower back when you walked through crowds, drape his legs over yours when you sat together on the couch.
he was a physical person, and you'd never minded, because it was just satoru.
but this was very different.
now, satoru’s hand found the small of your back every time you stood next to him. his fingers brushed your wrist when you handed him something. when you sat on the couch together, he pulled you against his side like you might float away if he didn't hold you down, his arm tight around your waist, his thumb tracing circles against your hip.
and it was always casual, always easy, like he wasn't even aware he was doing it.
but you were aware.
painfully aware, every time his thigh pressed against yours, every time his breath ghosted across your neck when he leaned in to look at your phone, every time his fingers lingered on your skin a second longer than they needed to.
you didn't say anything. because what would you even say? 'hey, why are you touching me so much?' that sounded crazy. he was your best friend, and best friends touched.
but then came the comments…
"so when am i meeting jaehyun?" satoru asked one afternoon, sprawled across your bed while you got ready to go out.
you weren't even going out with jaehyun — you were simply going to a study group — but satoru had shown up forty minutes ago and hadn't left.
"you're not," you said, digging through your closet for a hoodie. "we've been on two coffee dates. it's not serious."
"but it could be," satoru said.
it was not a question, and his blue eyes tracked you across the room, and you felt them like a physical weight.
"maybe," you said, because you didn't know yet.
jaehyun was nice. jaehyun was safe. but jaehyun didn't make your heart race in that annoying, confusing way that made you want to scream.
satoru made a sound in the back of his throat, something low and very dissatisfied.
"jaehyun wears new balance sneakers," satoru said, like he was delivering a closing argument. "new balance! do you really want to be seen with a man who wears new balance?"
you turned to look at him.
"you're wearing crocs right now."
"crocs are ironic," satoru said, completely serious. "new balance is a cry for help."
you threw a pillow at him. he caught it without looking, grinning, and you tried to ignore how your stomach flipped.
the worst night, the night everything broke, started like this;
you had a date, a real one.
jaehyun had texted you earlier in the week asking if you wanted to go to that new ramen place downtown, the one with the hour-long wait and the broth people wrote blog posts about. you'd said yes, because you'd been wanting to go, and because jaehyun's texts made you smile, and because you were trying very hard to be normal about all of this.
you hadn't told satoru.
not because you were hiding it, exactly, but because you knew damn well — you knew — what would happen if you did; the comments, the touching, the way he'd look at you with those too-blue eyes like he was trying to communicate something you didn't have the vocabulary to understand.
so you kept it to yourself.
you got dressed in your room, you picked out a black dress that made you feel so pretty, you did your makeup carefully in the bathroom mirror. your hair fell prettily in waves around your shoulders, and you added a necklace — something delicate, something that caught the light.
you casually were just reaching for your black coat when the front door opened.
"satoru," you said, and your voice came out strangled.
your best friend stood in your doorway, and for a moment, neither of you moved. his eyes swept over you — the dress, the makeup, the necklace — and something flickered across his face; something fast and dark that he smoothed over before you could fully read it.
"going somewhere?" satoru asked, and his voice was light, but his jaw was tight.
you should have lied. you should have said study group, or grocery shopping, or literally anything else, but you'd never lied to satoru before, not about anything that mattered, and you didn't know how to start now.
"i have a date," you said. "with jaehyun."
the silence that followed was deafening.
satoru didn't move; he simply stood there, one hand still on the doorknob, his body blocking the doorway like he could physically prevent you from leaving. his white hair was slightly messy, like he'd been running his hands through it, and he was wearing that black sweater you liked — the one that made his shoulders look impossibly broad.
"jaehyun," he repeated flatly.
"yes," you said, and your voice came out smaller than you intended. "jaehyun. the architect. the one i told you about."
"i know who jaehyun is," satoru said.
he completely stepped into the apartment, finally, and pushed the door closed behind him. the click of the lock was weirdly loud in the quiet room.
"i just thought you would have better taste."
the casual cruelty of it stung.
you felt it in your chest, sharp and hot, and suddenly you were so tired — tired of the comments, tired of the games, tired of the way satoru touched you and looked at you and made you feel like you were constantly missing something obvious.
"what is your problem, satoru?" you asked, and your voice cracked in the middle.
satoru blinked. "what?"
"you heard me."
you turned to face him fully, your coat completely forgotten on the couch. your hands were shaking, so you curled them into fists at your sides.
"every single time i mention someone, you have something to say. their eyebrows are wrong, they're too short, they smell like soup—"
"the soup thing was valid—"
"it wasn't!" you shouted, and satoru's mouth snapped shut. "it wasn't, satoru. and now it's jaehyun, and you won't even give him a chance. you show up at my apartment without warning, you won't stop touching me, you look at me like—"
you stopped, breathless, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.
satoru was watching you with an expression you'd never seen before. his usual mask — the arrogant smirk, the lazy confidence, the annoying playfulness — had slipped away entirely. underneath was something raw. something hungry.
"like what?" satoru asked, and his voice was low. rough. "like what, sweetheart?"
you shook your head, stepping back, and your legs hit the edge of the couch.
"this isn't fair. you can't just—you don't get to act like this every time i try to move on. you don't get to be jealous when you're the one who—"
"jealous?" satoru laughed, but there was no humor in it. "you think i'm jealous?"
"i know you are," you said. "everyone can see it, satoru. suguru sees it. shoko sees it. i'm pretty sure my neighbor across the hall sees it, and she's half-blind."
satoru's jaw tightened.
he took a step toward you, then another, until he was close enough that you could smell his cologne — something clean and warm, like cedar and vanilla. his hand came up, and you flinched, but he just tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, his long fingers trailing down the side of your neck.
"and what if i am?" he murmured. "jealous. what if i can't stand the thought of you going out with him tonight? what if i've been going crazy for weeks, watching you text him, hearing you say his name—"
"then you should have said something," you whispered, and your voice broke on the last word.
satoru's hand slid to your jaw, tilting your face up so you had to look at him. his eyes were almost desperate, searching your face like he was looking for something he needed to survive.
"i'm saying something now," he said. "i can't watch you with anyone else. i can't do it. i've tried—god, i've tried—but every time you smile at someone who isn't me, i want to tear something apart."
your breath caught. "satoru—"
"so if you're gonna be with someone," he continued, his thumb brushing across your lower lip. "it's gonna be me."
the words hung in the air between you, heavy and electric.
you could feel the heat of satoru’s body through your dress, could see the way his chest rose and fell with each uneven breath. his hand was still on your jaw, gentle but firm, like he was afraid you'd disappear if he let go.
"what about jaehyun?" you asked, and it came out breathless.
satoru's eyes darkened. "fuck jaehyun."
and just like that, he kissed you.
it wasn't a soft or gentle kiss, no, it was so desperate and hungry and a little bit angry, like satoru had been holding this back for long years and the dam had finally broken.
satoru’s mouth moved against yours like he was trying to prove something, his hand sliding into your hair, tilting your head back so he could kiss you deeper.
you made a little sound — something between a gasp and a moan — and satoru swallowed it. his other hand found your waist, pulling you against him until there was no space left between your bodies; he was warm and solid and everywhere, and your brain had stopped working entirely.
when he finally pulled back, both of you were breathing hard. satoru’s lips were swollen, his eyes dark, and there was a flush creeping up his neck that you'd never seen before.
"tell me you don't want this," he said, his voice rough. "tell me to stop, and i will. but if you don't—"
you kissed him again, because you couldn't not. because six long years of insane tension and longing and denial had been building to this moment, and now that it was here, you couldn't imagine doing anything else.
satoru groaned against your mouth, his hands sliding down to grip your hips. he walked you backward until your legs hit the couch, and then he was lowering you onto the cushions, his body covering yours, his weight pressing you into the fabric.
"god, i've wanted this for so long," he murmured against your neck, his lips brushing your pulse point. "so fucking long. you have no idea."
"then show me," you said, and you felt him shudder.
he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes roaming over your face like he was memorizing it.
"when i'm done with you," satoru said, and his voice was low and dark and full of promise. "you're not gonna remember jaehyun's name."
and then he kissed you again, and you stopped thinking about jaehyun entirely.
satoru's mouth was hot and insistent, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that made your toes curl inside your boots. he kissed like he did everything else — like he was competing for something, like he needed to win. but there was desperation underneath it, a trembling kind of hunger that made his hands shake slightly where they gripped your hips.
you kissed him back just as hard, your fingers tangling in his soft white hair, pulling him impossibly closer.
satoru made a sound — something low and wrecked — and his hips pressed into yours instinctively; you could feel him already, hard against your thigh through his jeans, and the knowledge sent a rush of heat straight through your core.
"bedroom," satoru murmured hungrily against your lips, and it wasn't a question.
you nodded, breathless, and then he was pulling you up off the couch, his hands never leaving your body. one palm flat against your lower back, the other cupping the side of your neck, his fingers threading into your hair. satoru kissed you the whole way down the hall — deep, messy kisses that made you stumble backward, trusting him to guide you.
he did. of course he did.
satoru’s body was a wall of heat in front of you, and his hands were everywhere; your waist, your ribs, the curve of your ass through your dress. he squeezed once, experimentally, and when you gasped into his mouth, he did it again, harder.
"fuck," he breathed, and you felt the word more than heard it.
your bedroom door was open, and he walked you through it without looking, his attention entirely on your mouth, your jaw, the spot behind your ear that made you shiver when he kissed it. the backs of your knees hit the bed, and you fell backward onto the mattress, pulling him with you.
satoru caught himself on his forearms, hovering over you, his hair falling forward into his eyes.
for a second, he just looked at you, like he couldn't believe you were here, beneath him, your dress riding up your thighs and your lipstick smeared across his mouth.
"you're so pretty," satoru said, and his voice cracked in the middle. "god, you're so pretty. i'm gonna lose my mind."
then he sat back on his heels and pulled his sweater over his head in one movement.
you'd seen satoru without a shirt before — pool parties, beach trips, that one time his dorm ac broke and he'd walked around campus in nothing but shorts for a week. but this was different; this was close, and private, and his skin was flushed pink across his chest, and you could see everything.
satoru’s shoulders were absurdly broad, tapering down to a narrow waist that made your mouth water. his chest was defined but not bulky — it was lean muscle that shifted under pale skin as he moved, and there was a thin line of white hair trailing down from his navel, disappearing into the waistband of his jeans, and satoru’s arms were roped with veins that stood out when he flexed.
he caught you staring and smiled — not his usual cocky grin, but something softer, almost shy.
"like what you see?"
"shut up," you said, and reached for him.
satoru came down willingly, his body pressing you into the mattress, his skin warm and smooth against your palms. you ran your hands over his shoulders, down his back, feeling the way his muscles jumped under your touch.
he was all heat and tension, and when your nails dragged lightly down his spine, satoru groaned and buried his pretty face in your neck.
"you're gonna kill me," he mumbled into your skin.
you kissed his shoulder, then his collarbone, then the hinge of his jaw. your hands slid down his sides, over his ribs, and when they reached the button of his jeans, you didn't hesitate.
satoru went rigid.
your fingers fumbled with the button, then the zipper, and then you were reaching inside his boxers, and—
oh!
satoru was ridiculously big.
well… you'd known he would be, somehow — everything about satoru was excessive, after all — but fucking hell, feeling him in your hand was completely different. he was thick and hot and already leaking, and when you wrapped your fingers around him, his whole body shuddered.
"sweetheart," satoru gasped, and it came out as a whine, so high and so desperate.
his hips jerked into your hand involuntarily, and he dropped his forehead to your shoulder, his breathing ragged.
"fuck, fuck, please—"
you stroked him slowly, your thumb spreading the wetness at the tip, and satoru made a sound you'd never heard from him before. it was broken and insanely needy, and satoru was shaking — actually shaking — his long fingers digging into the mattress on either side of your head.
"please what?" you asked, and your own voice was rough.
he lifted his head just enough to look at you, and his eyes were glassy, pupils blown so wide there was almost no blue left.
"please don't stop," satoru whispered. "please. i've wanted this for so long. i've thought about your hands—god, i've thought about your hands so much—"
you squeezed gently, just a little firmer, and his sentence cut off in a choked moan.
satoru buried his face in your neck again, his breath hot and uneven against your skin, and you felt him pulse in your hand; his whole body was tense, thighs flexing against yours, and you could feel how close he was — the way his stomach kept twitching, the way his hips started moving in small, desperate little thrusts into your fist.
"if you keep doing that," satoru said, muffled against your shoulder, "i'm not gonna last."
you didn't answer, you just kept going — steady, intentional, your grip adjusting to the slickness now, your thumb pressing into that spot right under the head on every upstroke. you wanted to see satoru fall apart; you wanted it more than you'd ever wanted anything.
and then he did.
it wasn't loud, that was the thing.
satoru’s breath hitched, held, and then released in a long, shuddering exhale against your neck. his whole body locked up for a second — his back arching just slightly, fingers twisting in the sheets — and then he broke.
you felt it in your hand first; the pulsing, the warmth spilling over your fingers, the way satoru’s hips stuttered and stopped. then the rest of him followed; his forehead pressed harder into your shoulder, almost like he was hiding. his arms trembled on either side of you. a sound came out of him — soft, wrecked, more breath than voice — and you realized his free hand had moved to grip your hip, not guiding you, just holding on.
you kept stroking him through it, slow and gentle now, and satoru whimpered and tried sooo hard to squirm away from the sensitivity even as he pushed into your touch at the exact same time. satoru’s face was still buried in your neck, and you could feel how warm his cheeks were, how damp his lashes were against your skin.
for a moment, neither of you moved.
satoru’s breathing was uneven, hitching every few seconds like he was still coming down, and your hand was a mess, and you didn't care at all.
finally, he lifted his head.
satoru’s face was flushed, his lips parted, his hair a disaster. he looked at you like he'd never seen you before — or maybe like he was seeing you clearly for the first time.
"your turn," you said, and your voice was steadier than you felt.
he blinked slowly, like the words had to travel through fog to reach him, then something completely shifted in satoru’s expression — something dark and determined settling over his still-soft features, a spark of that familiar satoru intensity cutting through the haze.
"my turn," he agreed.
his still trembling hands easily found the hem of your dress, and he pulled it up and over your head with an impatience that made you laugh — a breathless, surprised sound that turned into a gasp when he bent down and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to your stomach.
satoru worked his way up slowly, kissing every inch of skin he uncovered, his lips hot and wet and reverent. when he reached your bra, he looked up at you, asking silent permission. you simply nodded, and he reached behind you to unclasp it with fingers that trembled even more.
the bra joined your dress on the floor.
satoru sat back on his heels and stared at you; his blue eyes traveled down your body — your breasts, your stomach, the lace edge of your panties — and his expression was almost painful to look at; like he was in awe, like he was in pain.
"you're so beautiful," satoru said, and his voice was hoarse. "i don't—i can't—"
"toru," you said, and your own voice was shaking. "please."
that broke whatever trance he was in.
satoru lowered himself over you again, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that was softer this time, almost tender, and his hand slid down your body, over your ribs, your hip, until his fingers brushed the waistband of your panties.
he pulled back just enough to look down, and then his fingers were hooking into the lace, but he didn't pull them off. instead, satoru pushed them to the side.
the air hit your wetness, and you felt exposed and seen and so incredibly turned on you thought you might combust. satoru's breath caught when he saw you completely, and his pupils swallowed the very last of the blue.
"all this for me?" he murmured, his fingers hovering just above where you needed him.
"y-yes," you said, and you meant it more than you'd ever meant anything. "always for you."
satoru’s eyes flicked up to yours, and something shifted in his expression; something soft and fierce and terrified all at once. then he looked back down, and his middle finger slid through your folds, gathering your wetness, circling your clit in a way that made your hips jerk off the bed.
"fuck," you gasped.
"that's it," satoru murmured, his voice low and focused. "that's it, sweetheart. let me hear you."
he circled your clit again, slow and meticulous, watching your face. when you moaned — loud, involuntary — his lips curved into a smile that was almost smug, but then you moaned again, and his smile faltered, replaced by something hungrier.
"you have no idea," satoru said, his finger still moving in lazy circles. "what this sound does to me."
he pushed two fingers inside you without warning, and your back arched off the bed.
it was so good — way too good — the stretch of his long fingers, the curl of them inside you, the way he found that spot immediately like he'd been studying a map of your body for years. his thumb pressed against your clit, and he started a rhythm that made your vision blur.
"right there?" satoru asked, and his voice was strained.
"y-yes—yes, don't stop—"
and satoru didn't stop.
he fucked you with his long fingers like he really meant it, his palm slapping against your clit with every single thrust, his blue eyes never once leaving your face; he watched every expression, cataloged every sound, and satoru’s own breathing was ragged, his hips pressing into the mattress like he was fucking it just to keep himself sane.
"you're so wet," he said, almost to himself. "god, you're so wet. is this because of me? because of what i said?"
you couldn't answer — you couldn't form any words — so you simply nodded, your hands desperately gripping the sheets, your hips rocking against his hand.
"say it," satoru demanded, his fingers curling harder. "say you want this. say you want me."
"i want you," you sobbed. "i want you, toru, please—"
he added a third finger, and the stretch was almost too much, the pressure building in your core until you couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do a damn thing but feel. his thumb pressed harder against your clit, rubbing in tight circles that matched the rhythm of his fingers, and he leaned down to kiss your chest, your collarbone, the side of your breast.
"cum for me," he murmured against your skin. "cum on my fingers, sweetheart. i want to feel it."
you shattered.
it crashed over you in huge waves, your whole body convulsing, your nails digging into satoru's shoulders as you rode out the pleasure. he didn't stop — he kept his fingers deep inside you, he kept his thumb on your clit, working you through every aftershock until you were trembling and oversensitive and crying his name into the quiet room.
when you finally stilled, satoru pulled his fingers out slowly, carefully, and you watched through half-lidded eyes as he brought them to his mouth.
he licked them clean.
his eyes never left yours as he did it, his tongue sliding between his long fingers, tasting you like you were something precious. he made a sound — low and satisfied — and when he was done, and held his fingers out to you.
"your turn," he said, echoing your words from earlier.
you took his wrist and guided his fingers to your mouth; you sucked them in, one by one, tasting yourself on his skin. his breath hitched, and his hips jerked against the mattress, and you felt powerful in a way you'd never felt before.
when you let go, satoru’s fingers were slick with your spit, and his eyes were almost black.
"f-fuck," he whispered. "fuck, sweetheart. i need—i need to be inside you. please. i can't—"
he was shaking again, his composure crumbling completely, his body vibrating with need above you. you could feel him through his jeans, hard and aching, and you wanted him so badly it was a physical pain.
"then do it," you said. "do it, satoru."
he fumbled with his jeans, pushing them down just enough, and then he was there — pressing against your entrance, the head of his huge cock nudging at your wetness, both of you breathing too fast.
"look at me," he said, and his voice was raw. "i want you to look at me when i finally make you mine."
his voice cracked on the last word, and something in your chest splintered; this wasn't just sex, you could see it in his eyes — blown wide, glassy, stripped of every layer of sarcasm and swagger he'd ever worn. satoru looked terrified and hungry and so in love it was almost painful to witness.
"toru," you whispered, and his name felt different in your mouth now.
"i know," he said, and he sounded almost sorry. "i know we should talk. i know we're gonna have to figure out what the hell we're doing tomorrow. but right now—"
he pressed forward, just barely, the head of his cock catching against your entrance, and you both gasped.
"—right now, i need to be inside you. i need to feel you cum around me. and i need you to watch me fall apart while i do it."
you nodded, unable to speak, and satoru pushed in.
just an inch — slow, so slow — and your body stretched around him, full and burning in a way that made your eyes water. satoru was so much bigger than his fingers, thicker and hotter, and the pressure was almost too much. you felt every millimeter, every pulse of his cock as it slid into you, and the sound he made — god, the sound — was something you'd never heard from him before.
it was a broken moan, high and desperate, like he was the one being split open.
"fuck," satoru choked out, his forehead dropping to yours, and his breath was hot and uneven against your lips. "f-fuck, baby. you're so—you're so tight—i can't—"
his hips stuttered, and he pushed deeper, another inch, and your nails dug into his shoulders. the stretch burned in the best way, your body adjusting to him, and you could feel every ridge, every vein, every tiny shift of his hips.
"m-more," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "please, toru. i want all of it."
satoru made a sound like a wounded animal, and then he pushed forward in one long, slow thrust until he was buried completely inside you.
you both stopped breathing.
he was everywhere, filling you completely, stretching you in a way that bordered on overwhelming, his hips flush against yours; you could feel him throbbing inside you, could feel the way his whole body trembled above you, his arms shaking where they caged you in.
"oh my god," satoru breathed, and his voice was wrecked, absolutely destroyed. "oh my god. sweetheart. you feel—i can't—there aren't words."
his eyes were squeezed shut now, his jaw tight, and you watched a bead of sweat roll down his temple. he looked like he was in pain. like he was holding on by a thread.
"toru," you said, reaching up to cup his face. "look at me."
his eyes opened, and what you saw there completely made your heart clench; satoru looked dazed, almost drunk, his pupils so blown there was only a thin ring of blue left now, his lips were parted, his breathing ragged, and when you ran your thumb across his cheekbone, he turned his head and pressed a kiss to your palm.
"you're gonna be the death of me," satoru murmured against your skin. "you know that, right? i've been imagining this for six years, and it's still—it's so much better than i ever—" he cut himself off with a shaky exhale. "i'm not gonna last. i'm sorry. i'm so sorry, but i can't—"
"then don't," you said. "move, toru. please move."
well… he didn't need to be told twice.
satoru pulled out slowly — agonizingly slowly — until only the tip remained inside you, and then he pushed back in, just as slow, just as deep, his eyes never left yours, watching your face as he bottomed out again, and the expression on his face was one of pure, reverent awe.
"that's it," he whispered. "god, that's it. you're taking me so well, sweetheart. so fucking well."
he did it again, and again, each thrust was slow, deliberate, like he was trying to memorize every sensation; the drag of his huge cock against your walls, the way you clenched around him, the little sounds you made every time he pushed back in. his hands roamed your body — your waist, your ribs, your breasts — touching you like he was afraid you'd disappear.
"you're so beautiful," satoru said, and his voice was thick. "i've wanted to touch you like this for so long. you have no idea how many times i've jerked off thinking about you. thinking about these sounds you're making right now."
satoru’s hips snapped forward a little harder, and you moaned at that — loud and unfiltered — and satoru's eyes rolled back for just a second.
"yeah," he breathed. "yeah, like that. i want to hear you. i want everyone to hear you. i want jaehyun to hear you and know—know that you're mine."
the possessiveness in his voice should have scared you, but instead, it made you clench around him, and satoru groaned so loudly you felt it vibrate through his chest.
"you like that?" he asked, his pace picking up slightly. "you like it when i get jealous? when i talk about how you're mine?"
"fuck—yes," you admitted, because you couldn't lie anymore.
not with your best friend inside you, not with his skin against yours, not with the way he was looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
satoru's smile was sharp and hungry.
"good. because you are mine. you have been since the day you let me climb your fire escape."
satoru kissed you then — it was deep and messy, his warm tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that matched his hips. he was fucking you slowly but deeply now, each thrust pushing you up the bed a little, and you wrapped your legs around his waist to pull him closer.
that changed everything.
the angle made him hit something inside you — something that made stars burst behind your eyes, and you cried out against his mouth, and satoru swallowed the sound, his hips stuttering before he found a new rhythm; faster, harder, still deep, but no longer gentle.
"there?" satoru gasped, pulling back just enough to look at your face. "is that the spot? right there?"
you couldn't answer, you could only nod, your hands fisting in his white hair, pulling him down so you could bite his lower lip. and satoru moaned loudly, and his hips snapped forward so hard the headboard banged against the wall.
"oh—f-fuck, sweetheart," satoru panted. "you're gonna make me come so fast. i can't—i've been waiting too long for this. you feel too good."
his hand slid between your bodies, and his thumb found your clit, and you nearly screamed.
he circled it in tight, fast motions, exactly the way you needed, and the combination of his enormous cock hitting that sweet spot inside you and his thumb on your clit was too much. the pleasure built so quickly it was almost painful, your whole body tightening like a coil about to snap.
"that's it," satoru murmured, his voice low and dark and completely gone. "cum for me again, sweetheart. i want to feel you cum on my cock this time. i want to feel you squeeze me while i'm inside you."
his thumb pressed harder, his hips moved faster, and he was looking at you — watching every micro-expression on your face with an intensity that should have been overwhelming.
but all you could feel was him. all you could hear was the sound of his breathing, the wet sounds of your bodies moving together, the little whimpers that fell from his lips every time you clenched around him.
"i'm close," you managed, your voice breaking. "oh my god, toru, i'm so close—"
"yeah?"
satoru was practically fucking you in earnest now, his composure completely gone; his hair was a mess, his face flushed, his lips swollen from your kisses.
"you gonna cum for me? gonna soak my cock, sweetheart? i want to feel it. i want to feel you—"
you came.
it surged through you without warning, your whole body arching off the bed, your nails raking down satoru’s back as you convulsed around him. satoru groaned — a deep, guttural sound that seemed to come from somewhere primal — and his hips kept moving, kept thrusting, working you through every second of your orgasm.
"oh, fuck," he gasped. "oh, fuckfuckfuck, sweetheart—you're squeezing me so tight—i can't—i'm gonna—"
satoru pulled out just enough that you felt the first pulse of his release, hot and sudden, and then he pushed back in and buried himself to the hilt as he came inside you.
his whole body shook, his arms gave out, and satoru collapsed on top of you, his face buried deep in your neck, his hips jerking uncontrollably as he emptied himself into you. he made sounds you'd never heard him make — broken, desperate sounds, almost like sobs — and you felt each pulse of his cock, each wave of his release, hot and filling.
"g-god," satoru whispered against your sweaty skin. "god, sweetheart. i love—i—"
he didn't finish the sentence, maybe he couldn't, maybe he was too far gone.
you held him, your fingers threading through his sweaty hair, your legs still wrapped around his waist. his cock was still inside you, softening slightly but not pulling out, and you could feel his cum leaking out around him, warm and wet.
for a long moment, neither of you moved, neither of you spoke, the only sounds were your breathing, slowly evening out, and the distant hum of the city outside your window.
satoru's hand was tracing patterns on your hip, lazy and absent, and you thought maybe he'd fallen asleep. maybe you'd get a moment to process what had just happened.
then satoru shifted.
his hips rolled forward, just slightly, and you felt him twitch inside you.
"satoru," you said, your voice hoarse.
he lifted his head, and his eyes met yours; they were still dark, still blown wide, but there was something new there now. something hungry and determined and a little bit feral.
"i'm not done," satoru said, and his voice was rough. "i'm not even close to done."
he pulled out slowly, and you felt the loss of him acutely — the sudden emptiness, the trickle of satoru’s cum that slid down your trembling thigh. but before you could mourn it, he was flipping you over, pulling you onto your hands and knees, his hands gripping your hips.
"i've been thinking about this position for years," satoru murmured, pressing a kiss to your shoulder blade. "thinking about how deep i could get. how loud you'd be."
you heard him spit into his hand — you heard the wet sound of him stroking himself — and then he was pressing against your entrance again, already hard, already ready.
"toru," you said again, and it came out as a pathetic whimper. "i'm still sensitive—"
"i know," satoru said, and he sounded almost apologetic. almost. "but you feel too good, sweetheart. and i'm so fucking obsessed with you. i can't stop. i don't want to stop."
he pushed in, and you both moaned.
it was different from the first time; you were still so wet, still so stretched, still so full of his cum, and satoru slid in easier now, way deeper, until you felt him in your stomach.
satoru paused for a moment, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to the back of your neck.
"baby, tell me when," satoru said, his voice strained. "tell me when you're ready."
you took a breath, then another, the sensitivity was fading, replaced by a familiar ache, a familiar need.
"now," you said. "move now."
and he did.
satoru started slow again, but this time it was different.
this time, he was savoring; his hands completely roamed your body — your back, your ass, your hips — and he leaned over to press kisses along your spine. his huge cock dragged against your walls in a way that made your eyes roll back, and he was murmuring things against your skin; things you couldn't quite understand, things that sounded like praise and worship and desperation all at once.
"you're so perfect," he breathed. "so perfect for me. this pussy was made for me. you know that? made for my cock."
satoru’s pace quickened, his hips slapping against yours, and the sound was obscene — wet and loud and relentless. he reached around and found your swollen clit again, rubbing in tight circles, and you sobbed with the overstimulation of it.
"too much?" he asked, but he didn't stop. "or not enough?"
"m-more," you gasped. "more, toru—please—"
he gave you more.
satoru fucked you harder, faster, deeper, his grip on your hips so tight you knew there would be bruises tomorrow. his breathing was ragged, his moans were loud, and he was talking — talking constantly, a stream of consciousness that was half dirty and half desperate.
"look at you. taking me so well. you're so wet. so fucking wet. is this all for me? tell me it's all for me."
"it's all for you," you said, and you meant it.
satoru groaned loudly, and his hips snapped forward even harder, and you felt a second orgasm building — faster this time, sharper, pushed along by the overstimulation and the sound of his voice and the way he was fucking you like he needed you to survive.
"cum with me this time," he said, his voice breaking. "i want to feel you cum while i'm filling you up again. i want to feel you squeeze every drop out of me."
his thumb pressed down on your clit, and his hips lost their rhythm, becoming sloppy and desperate, and you knew he was close, and so were you. so close—
"now," satoru gasped. "now, sweetheart—"
you came together.
it was messy and loud and overwhelming, your body clenching around him as he spilled inside you again, his hips jerking erratically as he rode out his orgasm. you collapsed onto the bed, and he followed you down, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his cock still buried deep inside you, still pulsing.
neither of you moved.
satoru’s breath was hot against your ear, his heart pounding against your back, and you could feel him — getting hard again, still inside you, still not pulling out.
"one more," he murmured, and you could hear the smile in his voice, even through the exhaustion. "just one more. and then maybe we can talk about how i'm in love with you."
you laughed — a breathless, surprised sound — and satoru kissed your shoulder, your neck, the curve of your jaw.
"i'm serious, baby," satoru said, his hips rolling forward again, slowly. "i've been in love with you for years. and now that i've had you like this—"
he pushed deeper, and you moaned.
"—i'm never letting you go."
satoru’s hand slid under you, finding your clit again, and you realized he actually meant it.
᭡୧ synopsis: in which your brother’s best friend, satoru gojo has spent years keeping his distance, treating you like the little sister he’s supposed to protect. but when your brother leaves town and asks him to “keep an eye on you,” the careful line he’s been walking finally starts to crack. what was meant to be an innocent visit to check on you quickly turns into something forbidden and filthy, something neither of you can walk away from anymore.
᭡୧ pairings: brother’s best friend!satoru x fem!reader
᭡୧ c. warnings: heavy yearning, heavy sexu-al tension (like super heavy!), emotional restraints, dry hum-ping, protected se-x, ti-ts play, sp-it play (?), mutual pining, did i say heavy se-xual tension? slight size kink, overstim, thigh rid-ing, we have an aftercare this time yayyyy! — word count: 7.2k+
you’ve known satoru gojo since you were six years old and he was twelve, the loud, white-haired boy your older brother dragged home after school like a stray cat he refused to leave behind.
back then satoru was all gangly limbs and bright blue eyes, always stealing your snacks and letting you ride on his shoulders when your brother got tired of carrying you. the three of you became a little unit almost instantly. movie nights on the living room floor, summer afternoons at the park, late-night video games where satoru would let you win just to watch you cheer.
your brother was officially his best friend, but somewhere along the line the lines blurred.
you were never sure if satoru was your brother’s best friend or yours. he was just… satoru. the constant reminder in your life who knew how you liked your ice cream and remembered your favorite color even when you changed it every month.
years passed and the dynamic shifted without anyone noticing at first. you grew up, and growing up consisted of puberty.
satoru grew taller, broader, more dangerously handsome with that lazy grin that made girls at school blush. but you stayed the little sister in everyone’s eyes, the one who tagged along behind her brother and his best friend, the one who fell asleep on the couch between them during horror movies, the one satoru would tuck a blanket over with gentle hands while your brother snored on the other side.
everyone else thought like that but satoru. satoru noticed the changes. he noticed the way your legs got longer, the way your laugh got softer and feminine, the way your body filled out in ways that made his throat tight and his thoughts guilty. he told himself it was nothing. you were his best friend’s little sister, which meant you’re off-limits. and by off-limits, you’re a forbidden fruit he wasn’t allowed to even look at for too long or he would rot you with his dirty thoughts.
nobody sensed how he started pulling away in small ways when you turned eighteen. longer gaps between visits, fewer sleepovers, more excuses about being busy with college and then with work. but he never stayed away completely. satoru couldn’t.
every time he saw you he felt that familiar pull, the way his chest tightened when you smiled at him like he hung the moon for you. the way his cock would twitch traitorously when you wore those tiny shorts around the house in the summer every time he came over and god, he hated himself for it because right after he’s done, he would go home after and jerk off in the shower with his jaw clenched, whispering your name like a curse while hot water beat down on his back, telling himself it was the last time.
it was never the last time.
now you’re twenty-two and he’s twenty-eight. your brother still treats you like the kid who used to beg for piggyback rides. satoru still calls you “boogers” sometimes, but the word tastes bitter on his tongue now.
the three of you still hang out, still have movie nights from time to time since satoru could never say no to your asking, he joins your family and still act like nothing has changed. but everything has. satoru can barely look at you without feeling the weight of all those years of wanting. he watches the way you move around the kitchen in your sleep shorts when you’re getting snacks ready for the movies, the way your t-shirt rides up when you reach for something on the top shelf, the way you laugh at his stupid jokes and rest your head on his shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
every innocent touch feels like torture. every time your thigh brushes his on the couch he has to fight the urge to pull you into his lap and show you exactly what you do to him.
this time your brother is out of town this weekend for a work trip he couldn’t get out of.
he left satoru with the spare key and the casual instruction to “keep an eye on her.” satoru laughed it off on the phone, responding with a choked ‘yeah, ‘course, i got you man.’ but the second he hung up his mind was already spinning. he told himself he’d just check in once, maybe bring some takeout, make sure you weren’t lonely and nothing more.
but fuck was he wrong, cause satoru only lasted exactly four hours before your text came through:
“movie night? the new horror one just dropped. brother’s gone so no one to complain about the jump scares :)”
he stared at the message for ten full minutes. then that’s when he grabbed his keys, all thoughts starting to get pumped to his dick.
when he knocks on your door it’s a little after ten. you open it wearing your usual oversized, small ribbons printed t-shirt and those damn cotton shorts that have haunted his dreams for years. your skin is soft under the radiating light from the porch, face bare, and you smile at him like he’s the best part of your night.
shit. satoru feels his stomach drop.
“hey, you came,” you say, stepping aside to let him in. your voice is casual, warm, the kind of voice that used to make him feel safe and now makes his cock stir in his sweatpants.
“couldn’t let you watch horror alone,” he replies, forcing that tired, loose grin. he holds up the bag of snacks like a peace offering. “brought the good stuff.”
you laugh and it hits him straight in the chest. he follows you to the living room, trying not to stare at the way the hem of your shorts teases him in front of him. the fabric riding up with every step. the tv is already on, lights dimmed, blankets piled on the couch. you settle in your usual spot, patting the cushion beside you. satoru sits, puts the snacks down onto the coffee table, leaving what he hopes is a respectful distance, but you immediately scoot closer, tucking your legs under you and leaning your head against his shoulder like always.
maybe your nickname was not supposed to be boogers but dumbass cause you don’t seem to take sign on how you’re making it hard for him to stay normal and sane. or so he thought.
the movie starts. the opening credits roll. satoru tries to focus on the screen. he really does. but all he can feel is the warmth of your body against his side, the soft press of your bare thigh against his, the faint vanilla scent of your shampoo. his hand rests on the back of the couch, fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder when he shifts.
every innocent touch feels loaded tonight. the house is too quiet without your brother’s loud commentary. it’s just you and him and years of unspoken tension hanging heavy in the dark.
halfway through the first act you stretch, arms lifting above your head, shirt riding up to show a strip of soft stomach. satoru’s eyes flick down before he can stop them, fingers twitching not to touch you and when you settle again your leg presses fully against his. he doesn’t move away. instead his fingers brush your shoulder again, slower this time, thumb stroking once along your skin.
“cold?” he asks, voice quieter than he means.
you shake your head, tilting your face up to look at him. your eyes are soft in the glow of the tv. “no. just getting comfortable.”
he swallows hard. his hand drops from the couch to rest lightly on your upper arm, thumb still stroking slow circles. the touch is supposed to be casual but it isn’t. at least that’s what satoru knows.
the movie keeps playing but the man sitting next to you is not really watching anymore. the air between you feels thicker, warmer, charged with everything you’ve both been pretending doesn’t exist for years.
satoru’s jaw clenches. he can feel his cock starting to thicken in his sweatpants, the traitorous heat building low in his gut. he tells himself to stop. he tells himself you’re his best friend’s little sister. he tells himself a lot of things.
you shift again, turning slightly so your knee brushes his thigh. and lord knows how he’s struggling not to make a sound, especially when your voice is barely above a whisper when you speak.
“satoru?”
he looks down at you, blue eyes dark in the low light. “yeah?”
you bite your lip, just for a second, and the small movement sends another rush of blood straight to his cock.
“you’ve been really quiet tonight.”
fuck.
he forces a laugh, but it comes out strained. “am i?” he asks. “just focused on the movie.” his reply doesn’t satisfy you and you don’t look convinced so your hand rests lightly on his chest, right over his heart. “liar.” you call him out.
liar…
the sting of the word is heavy because satoru is not the only one suffering alone here, you’re a liar as well. and you’re pretending none of this is eating you alive when that’s exactly how it’s been for you since satoru came to your house.
you’ve been stiff as a board since the moment you sat down, even though you’re trying so hard to act normal. you can feel it in the way his shoulder has gone tight under your cheek, the way his breathing isn’t quite as steady as usual, the way his long fingers keep flexing against the couch like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
the tv flickers soft blue light across both of you, painting shadows over his sharp jaw and the faint flush creeping up his neck, but you’re not watching the movie anymore. you’re watching him, noticing every detail.
your hand stays light on his chest, right over his heart, and you can feel how fast it’s beating under your palm. thump-thump-thump, way too quick for someone who’s supposedly just chilling on the couch. you shift a little closer, letting your bare thigh press more firmly against his — testing water — and that’s when you notice it full.
the soft, heavy bulge under the dark blue-black sweatpants he’s wearing. it’s not fully hard yet, but it’s definitely there, thickening slowly against the loose fabric, the outline just visible every time the tv screen flashes brighter. your stomach flips, heat pooling low between your legs because you did that. you’re doing that to him right now, just by sitting here in your tiny shorts with your head on his shoulder like you always have.
the tension sits thick and heavy between you, wrapping around every small movement. every time you breathe, your chest brushes his arm.
every time he shifts, his thigh presses harder against yours. the air feels warmer than it should, like the room itself is holding its breath along with both of you. you can smell his cologne mixed with the faint mint from his gum, and underneath it all something warmer, something that makes your mouth water.
satoru’s hand on your upper arm hasn’t stopped moving. his thumb keeps stroking those slow, careful circles, but now each pass feels heavier, more deliberate, like he’s fighting the urge to slide his whole palm down your skin.
you tilt your head up a little more, letting your breath fan across the side of his neck. his jaw clenches. you watch the muscle jump, watch the way his adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. the bulge in his sweatpants twitches again, growing thicker, the fabric starting to tent just enough that you can see the clear shape of him.
your own body reacts instantly, a warm rush between your thighs, your nipples tightening under the thin t-shirt. you’re suddenly aware of how little you’re wearing, how your shorts exposed so much skin the bottom curve of your ass is almost showing, how your shirt keeps slipping off one shoulder no matter how many times you fix it.
satoru’s fingers tighten on your arm for half a second before he forces them to relax. his breathing has gone shallow. you can feel the heat pouring off him, the way his thigh muscles are locked tight under your leg. the movie keeps playing, some girl screaming on screen, but none of you flinch and the only sound that matters is the quiet hitch in his breath when your knee accidentally nudges higher up his leg, brushing right against the side of that growing bulge.
he doesn’t pull away. he stays perfectly still, like moving even an inch might break whatever fragile control he has left.
you bite your lip, heart hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it. the flush on your neck is spreading, warm and prickly, and a tiny bead of sweat is already forming at the small of your back. you feel sticky and hot and aching, and all you’ve done is sit here with your head on his shoulder.
the years of quiet ‘wanting’ press in harder tonight, sharper because your brother isn’t here to act as a buffer. it’s just you and satoru and the heavy, suffocating knowledge that you’re both thinking about the same thing.
satoru clears his throat suddenly, the sound rough and forced. he shifts, moving his arm from around you, and stands up in one quick motion. his sweatpants do nothing to hide how hard he is now, the thick outline pressing obviously against the front, the fabric stretched tight. he keeps his back half-turned to you like that will somehow fix it.
“uh… i need some water,” he mutters, voice low and strained. “or a coke. something cold.”
you sit up slowly, fixing your shirt so it covers your shoulder again, but it doesn’t help much. your skin feels too warm, a light sheen of sweat already making the back of your neck sticky. your cheeks are flushed, you can feel the heat in them, and between your legs you’re starting to get embarrassingly wet, the thin cotton of your panties clinging to you. you swallow, trying to sound normal even though your voice comes out a little breathy.
“oh yeah, okay. it’s in the fridge. you know your way around.”
satoru nods once, still not fully facing you, and heads toward the kitchen. his shoulders are stiff, steps a little too deliberate, like he’s forcing himself to put distance between you. you stay on the couch, legs pressed together, heart still racing and satoru disappears into the kitchen.
you stay on the couch, legs pressed tight together, trying to calm the flutter between your thighs. the movie is still playing but the sound feels distant, like it’s happening in another room. you can hear him open the fridge, the soft clink of a can, the quiet hiss when he cracks it open. a few seconds later he walks back in, coke in one hand, the other rubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to shake something off.
he’s too distracted to consider bringing you one.
he looks at you for a long moment before he sits down again, this time leaving a little more space between your bodies but it doesn’t help.
the air still feels charged, heavy with everything neither of you has said out loud. you notice the way his sweatpants still sit a little awkwardly, the thick line of his cock not fully softened, pressing against the fabric every time he shifts, manspread awkwardly.
your own skin is warm and sticky, a faint sheen of sweat on your neck and between your breasts, your nipples tight and sensitive under the thin t-shirt.
satoru takes a long sip of the coke, throat working, then sets the can on the coffee table. when he leans back against the couch his arm brushes yours again, and this time he doesn’t pull away. his fingers find your shoulder once more, but instead of the casual thumb strokes from before, his whole palm settles there, warm and heavy.
it seems he’s calmed a bit.. which means you’re the one who’s suffering hundred percent.
“you okay?” he asks, voice low, a little rough around the edges.
you nod, but it feels like a lie. “yeah… just warm in here.”
his eyes flick down to the flushed skin of your neck, then lower to where your shirt has slipped off your shoulder again. he doesn’t say anything, but his thumb starts brushing the bare skin near your collarbone. the touch is slow, almost absent, but it sends heat straight down your spine. you shift like you’re under a spell without thinking, your bare thigh sliding against his again, and this time your knee nudges right against the side of his cock through the sweatpants.
satoru inhales sharply. his hand slides from your shoulder down your arm, stopping at your wrist. his thumb presses lightly against your pulse point, feeling how fast your heart is racing.
“you’re shaking,” he murmurs.
“so are you,” you whisper back.
the only light flickering on both of you is the glow from the tv, casting soft blue and white across both of you. satoru turns his head to look at you fully, blue eyes dark and conflicted, pupils blown wide as if he’s high. his free hand comes up, hesitating for half a second before he cups the side of your face, thumb brushing your lower lip.
“this is a bad idea,” he says, eyes dancing over your lips but he doesn’t sound convinced. his voice is thick, breath warm against your mouth.
“then why does it feel so good?” you have no idea how words are forming in your mouth when your brain disconnected from your tongue a long time ago, and the only option you have is leaning into his touch.
he lets out a quiet, broken sound, half groan, half sigh. his thumb presses a little harder against your lip, parting it slightly. you part your lips more, letting the tip of his thumb slip just inside, brushing against your tongue. satoru’s eyes flutter for a second, jaw tight.
“fuck… you’re killing me.”
you suck gently on his thumb, just enough to make his breath hitch. his other hand slides down to your waist, gripping the fabric of your shirt like he’s anchoring himself. the tension snaps slowly, like a rubber band stretching thinner and thinner until it finally gives.
satoru pulls his thumb from your mouth with a wet sound and replaces it with his lips. the kiss starts soft, almost careful, lips sliding together warm and slow. but the second you make a small needy sound in the back of your throat he deepens it, tongue licking into your mouth, hot and hungry. years of holding back pour into that kiss, all the stolen glances, all the guilty nights in the shower, all the times he told himself no.
his hands slide down to your hips, gripping firmly as he pulls you sideways until you’re straddling one of his thick thighs. the moment your core settles over the hard muscle you both moan quietly into the kiss. your soaked panties press right against his leg, the thin cotton already clinging to your folds from how wet you are. satoru’s fingers dig into the soft flesh of your ass, guiding you into a slow, rolling grind.
you start moving. slow, deliberate rocks of your hips that drag your swollen clit along the firm muscle of his thigh. every pass makes the fabric of your shorts and panties rub against you, the friction hot and slick and perfect. each roll pushes more wetness out of you, soaking the cotton until it clings transparently to your pussy. satoru groans low in his chest when he feels the damp heat spreading across his thigh, his cock twitching hard in his sweatpants, the thick head nudging against your inner thigh with every grind.
he breaks the kiss with a wet sound, lips shiny, breathing ragged. his mouth trails down your neck, sucking softly at the sensitive skin, then lower, until his lips brush over your collarbone. when he reaches your chest he doesn’t push your shirt up. instead he closes his mouth around one of your pebbled nipples right through the thin fabric.
the sensation is immediate and filthy. his tongue swirls slow and heavy over the stiff peak, soaking the cotton instantly. warm spit seeps through the material, making it cling to your breast, turning the white fabric translucent.
he sucks gently at first, then harder, pulling your nipple deeper into his mouth while his tongue flicks fast and wet. the wet patch grows, dark and shiny, the outline of your hard nipple completely visible through the soaked shirt. every pull of his mouth sends sharp sparks straight to your clit, making your hips roll faster against his thigh.
“mmh… fuck,” he groans against your chest, the vibration traveling through the damp fabric. “look at you. letting me cover you with my spit. your body’s so fucking readyfor me already, yeah?”
he switches to the other nipple, sucking it deep into his mouth with a wet, obscene sound. more drool collects from the corners of his lips, smearing down the front of your shirt in shiny trails, soaking the fabric until both your tits are glistening and see-through. the cool air hits the wet patches and makes your nipples ache even more, stiff and sensitive under his relentless mouth. he keeps sucking noisily, alternating between slow, deep pulls and quick flicks of his tongue, you could swear his spit is probably dripping down your stomach now, making the front of your shirt stick to your skin.
you’re grinding harder, hips rolling in needy little circles, clit dragging over his thigh with every movement. the friction is slick and constant, your soaked panties sliding against the hard muscle, the wet sounds of fabric rubbing together mixing with the filthy noises his mouth makes on your chest. your hands are in his white hair, tugging gently, soft whimpers and gasps spilling from your lips every time he sucks particularly hard.
satoru’s cock is throbbing visibly in his sweatpants, the thick ridge pressing insistently against your inner thigh, leaking enough that a small dark spot has formed at the front. every time you grind forward the head of his cock nudges closer to your core, teasing you both with how close he is to where you both desperately want him to be.
he pulls back just enough to look at the mess he’s made. your shirt is completely ruined, plastered transparently to your tits, nipples dark and shiny with his spit, little droplets still sliding down your stomach. his eyes are heavy-lidded, breathing ragged, lips swollen and wet.
“so fucking pretty,” he murmurs, voice rough and low. “y’know how i’ve been dreaming about marking you up like this for years? look how filthy i got you… your brother will fuck me up.”
he leans in again, mouth latching back onto your nipple through the drenched fabric, sucking harder while his hands grip your ass tighter, helping you grind faster against him. the wet, messy sounds fill the room — his mouth sucking noisily, your slick panties sliding over his thigh, both of you breathing hard and shaky.
the tension is thick and suffocating, every slow grind and every wet kiss pushing you both closer to the edge without either of you saying it out loud yet.
after what feels like euphorically forever, satoru pulls back from your chest with a wet pop, lips shiny and swollen, eyes heavy as he looks at the absolute mess he’s made of your shirt.
his breathing is ragged, chest rising and falling fast under his hoodie, and for a second he just stares at you like he can’t believe this is real. then his hand slips down, fingers dipping into the pocket of his sweatpants, and he pulls out a small foil packet. the condom glints under the dim light, and you raise a brow, lips parting in quiet surprise.
he catches the look and just shrugs, a lazy, almost sheepish tilt of his shoulders, causing your cheeks flushing darker. “had to,” he mutters, voice low and rough, like the words are being dragged out of him. “couldn’t risk it. not with you.”
you let out a soft, cheeky laugh, the sound breathy and teasing even though your heart is hammering. “you’ve always wanted to fuck me, huh?”
satoru’s brows knit together instantly, that familiar stern little frown pulling at his face, but his eyes stay dark and hungry. “that’s a vulgar word, boogers,” he says, the nickname slipping out like habit, but there’s no real bite to it. he leans in and presses a soft, almost tender kiss to the tip of your nose, lips brushing there gently before he pulls back just enough to look at you again. “i want to make you feel good. that’s all.”
you groan, half playful, half frustrated, and swat your hand lightly against his chest. “stop calling me boogers, toru. seriously!”
he just hums, low and warm, the sound vibrating through his chest as his hands slide to your hips. he helps lift you a little higher on your knees, giving himself room, and shoves his sweatpants and briefs down in one smooth motion. they pool around his calves, leaving his thick cock springing free, heavy and flushed, the head already glistening.
he tears the foil packet open with his teeth, the sharp sound cutting through the quiet room, and the sweet strawberry scent of the condom fills the small space between your bodies, fruity and almost too innocent for how filthy this feels.
satoru rolls it down his girthy tip first, jaw tightening as the latex stretches over him. a soft, broken whimper slips out of him when the cool material slides along his sensitive head, his hips twitching once before he rolls it all the way to the base with steady fingers. the condom sits snug, shiny and strawberry-sweet, the faint pink tint of it catching the tv light. he looks up at you then, eyes dark and solemn, waiting.
his hands move to your shorts and panties next, hooking into the waistband and sliding them down your thighs together in one slow tug.
you lift your hips to help, and the soaked fabric peels away from your pussy with a wet sound, leaving you completely bare from the waist down. he doesn’t stop there. his fingers catch the hem of your spit-drenched shirt and peel it up and off, tossing it somewhere on the floor. now you’re completely naked in his lap, skin flushed and glowing under the flickering light, tits still shiny with his dirty work, pussy glistening and swollen from all the grinding.
satoru is still mostly dressed, only his hoodie on, sweatpants and briefs shoved down to his calves, the contrast making everything feel even unholy. he licks a bold stripe across his palm, tongue dragging slow and wet, then reaches between you and swipes the slick hand over your folds. the touch is warm and deliberate, fingers spreading your wetness, thumb brushing your clit once before he grips the base of his cock and guides the thick, condom-covered head to your entrance.
he presses in slow, so slow, the blunt tip stretching you open inch by careful inch. his brows knit tight with concentration, eyes locked on your face, watching for any flicker of pain or discomfort. you feel every thick ridge as he sinks deeper, the stretch burning sweet and full, your walls fluttering around him.
your eyes start to haze, lashes fluttering, jaw going slack as the overwhelming sensation of being filled by him hits you. your breathing stutters, lips parted on a silent gasp, completely detached for a moment while your body adjusts to the heavy, girthy length pushing inside.
satoru knew you were small compared to him but never did he think you’d be struggling to fit his fat cock in your tight cunt this much.
satoru stays perfectly still once he bottoms out, hips flush against yours, breathing hard through his nose. his hands grip your waist tight, thumbs stroking soothing circles on your skin as he waits, watching the way your eyes glaze over and your jaw hangs open. the strawberry scent mixes with the sharp smell of your arousal, the room quiet except for the low hum of the credit scene of the horror movie and the sound of both of you trying to breathe through the intensity.
“can i move?” he asks, voice low and calculated, almost a whisper, like he’s afraid to break the moment. his brows are still knitted, waiting for any sign from you.
you can’t find words right away. instead you just tap his shoulder once, twice, a small, mute signal that you’re okay, that you want this. satoru exhales shakily, relief and hunger mixing in the sound, and he starts to move.
at first it’s slow, careful rolls of his hips that drag his thick cock along your walls, the stretch burning so good it makes your breath hitch. you start grinding down to meet him, hips rolling in small, needy circles, your slick coating the base of his cock and smearing messily over the soft, dark trail of hair that runs from his navel down to where he disappears inside you. every grind leaves a shiny trail of your wetness glistening on his skin, the wet sounds squelching in the quiet room.
you’re vocal in little bursts, whispers of his name slipping out between shaky breaths. “satoru… toru…” the words are breathy, almost reverent, filling the living room like a secret. your hands slide up his hoodie, fingers digging into his chest as you grind harder, chasing the friction, the fullness, the way he fills you so completely.
“too big.. you’re– toru, fuuuck,” you cry out.
satoru leans back against the couch, arms dropping to his sides for a moment, face going almost numb with pleasure. his blue eyes are half-lidded, lips parted, white hair messy and falling into his face as he watches you ride him. he looks completely under your spell, like the sight of you naked and grinding on his cock has short-circuited his brain. the curve of his cock jerks inside you when you desperately grab his hand and bring it to your tits, pressing his palm against the soft, post spit-slick flesh.
that seems to snap him back. his face shifts from dazed to focused in an instant, intention clear in the way his jaw tightens. he wants to make you feel good. that’s all he cares about right now.
“i got you, yeah? ‘m here.”
he braces himself, planting his heels firmly on the floor, one arm wrapping tight around your hips while the other hand stays on your breast, fingers tweaking and rolling your nipple between them. then he starts fucking up into you. the first thrust is deep and powerful, hips snapping up so his cock drives into you harder, the angle perfect, the thick head rubbing right against that spongy spot inside you that makes your vision spark.
“that’s it, baby,” he murmurs, voice wrecked but steady, focused entirely on you. “feel good? tell me if it’s too much.”
he sets a rhythm, slow at first but building, each upward thrust meeting your downward grind, the wet slap of skin on skin growing louder. his arm around your hips keeps you steady, guiding you, while his fingers keep playing with your nipple, pinching and tugging just enough to send sparks straight to your clit. every time he bottoms out you whimper his name again, softer, breathier, your slick continuing to smear over his happy trail and the base of his cock, making everything messy and shiny.
satoru’s eyes never leave your face. he watches every twitch of your expression, every time your lips part on a moan, every time your eyes flutter. his whole focus is on you, on making sure every thrust feels perfect, on drawing out those little whispers of his name until they turn into broken cries. he fucks up into you with controlled power, the condom sliding slickly inside your soaked pussy, sweat mixing with the sharp smell of sex.
he leans forward slightly, mouth finding your other nipple again, sucking it into his mouth through the remnants of dried spit still on your skin, tongue swirling while he keeps thrusting. the dual sensation — his cock dragging inside you and his mouth on your breast — makes your back arch, a louder moan spilling out this time.
“good girl,” he breathes against your wet skin, voice low and praising. “taking me so well. just let me make you feel good, yeah? that’s all i want.”
his hips keep snapping up, steady and deep, the arm around your waist holding you down so you take every inch while his fingers keep working your nipple and his mouth keeps sucking the other. the living room fills with the wet sounds of him fucking into you, your soft whispers of his name, and the heavy breathing of two people who have waited years for this exact moment.
satoru keeps that steady, deep rhythm, hips rolling up into you with controlled power while his mouth stays busy on your tits.
every upward thrust drags his thick, condom-covered cock along your walls, the head catching perfectly against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. his arm around your waist holds you down on his cock, the wet slap of skin meeting skin growing louder, messier, your slick continuing to smear over his happy trail and the base of his cock until the dark hair glistens with it.
he switches between sucking one nipple and tweaking the other with his fingers, tongue swirling slow and wet, spit dripping down your chest in shiny trails that catch the flickering tv light.
you’re riding him but barely, your hips grinding in small, desperate circles while he does most of the work, fucking up into you with deep, purposeful strokes that make your breath hitch every single time he bottoms out. your hands clutch at his hoodie, nails digging into the fabric as soft, broken whispers of his name keep slipping out — “toru… satoru…” — the fruity scent of the condom mixes with the sharp smell of sex, filling the dark living room until it’s all you can breathe.
your legs start to twitch first. the muscles in your thighs quiver against his sides, small, uncontrollable tremors that travel down to your calves.
satoru notices immediately. his eyes flick down, watching the way your knees shake beside his hips, the subtle way your body is starting to tighten and flutter around him. a low, knowing hum vibrates in his chest and he shifts beneath you, sliding one arm under the knee closest to him. with a smooth, effortless motion he hooks it up and presses it toward your chest, folding you open even wider while you’re still on top of him.
the new angle spreads you so much more, your pussy stretching tighter around his cock, the head dragging harder against that perfect spot with every thrust.
you gasp sharply, the sound cracking in the back of your throat as the deeper penetration hits you all at once. satoru’s other arm stays banded around your waist, holding you steady, and now he’s fully in control even though you’re on top. he fucks up into you with stronger, deeper strokes, hips snapping with purpose, the wet squelch of your soaked pussy taking him echoing louder in the quiet room.
“c’mon, you’re gonna bless me, baby?” he murmurs against your neck, voice rough and focused. “come on my cock, there you go. you just gotta feel it.”
your riding turns sloppy, hips stuttering as the pressure builds fast and overwhelming. your legs tremble harder, the one he’s holding to your chest shaking visibly. your walls start to flutter and clench around him in tight, rhythmic pulses, your slick gushing out around the base of his cock with every thrust. satoru groans low when he feels it, but he doesn’t slow down. he keeps driving up into you, steady and relentless, the arm under your knee keeping you spread wide and open for him.
you come hard.
your whole body folds forward suddenly, chest pressing against his as a broken, whining cry tears from your throat, your mouth is open and breathing straight into his mouth. your pussy clamps down around his cock in strong, pulsing waves, gushing wet and hot around him even through the condom. tears slip down your flushed cheeks, eyes squeezing shut while you sob his name in soft, overwhelmed whimpers — “toru… fuck, toru…” — your hips jerking and twitching uncontrollably as the orgasm crashes through you.
satoru keeps fucking you through it, slower now but still deep, drawing out every pulse and every shaky sob. his hand on your waist rubs soothing circles while the other keeps your leg folded to your chest, holding you open so he can feel every flutter and gush. he presses soft kisses to your temple, your wet cheek, murmuring quiet praise against your skin as you tremble and cry in his lap, completely spent and folded against him.
tsatoru holds you close through the last trembling waves of your orgasm, his cock still buried deep inside your fluttering pussy. he presses gentle kisses to your damp temple then your flushed cheek, his hand rubbing slow circles on your back while you come down.
“i’m.. fuck, you’re so good to me.” the way he grunts those words out shows you he’s not done yet.
his grip tightens on your waist and under your knee, and he starts fucking up into you again — deeper than you thought was possible. each thrust is slow, powerful, and deliberate, driving his thick cock so far inside you that you swear you can feel him in your stomach.
the new angle has the head of his cock pressing right against that spot with every upward snap of his hips, stretching you open wider, filling you fuller than you’ve ever been filled. the wet, filthy sounds of him plunging deep into your soaked pussy echo in the quiet living room, your slick leaking out around the base of his cock and dripping down his balls with every thrust.
“shit… so deep,” he groans against your ear, voice wrecked and low. “can you feel me, baby? feel how deep i’m getting? that’s it… take every inch.”
he fucks you with long, grinding strokes, hips rolling up hard and steady, the arm under your knee keeping you folded and spread so he can bury himself to the hilt every single time. your body jolts with each thrust, tits bouncing against his chest, soft cries and whimpers spilling from your mouth as the overstimulation turns into another building wave of pleasure.
satoru’s breathing grows ragged, his thrusts turning sharper, more desperate, the slap of skin on skin getting louder as he chases his own release.
“gonna come,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours, blue eyes dark and hazy. “gonna fill you up… fuck, you feel too good.”
he drives in deep one last time, hips stuttering as he buries himself as far as he can go.
“fuuuck,” a low, broken groan tears from his throat as he comes hard, cock pulsing thick and hot inside the condom while he grinds against you, drawing out every last spurt. his whole body trembles under you, arms locked tight around your frame as he empties himself, the strawberry-scented latex stretching with every heavy pulse.
for a long moment the only sounds are your shaky breathing and his quiet groans. he stays buried deep inside you, holding you close, the leg he had hooked to your chest gently lowered back down so you can relax against him. slowly, carefully, he pulls out, tying off the condom and setting it aside before he gathers you fully into his arms.
satoru shifts so you’re both lying on the couch, your smaller body draped over his chest, his hoodie soft against your bare skin. he pulls the blanket from the back of the couch (you didn’t notice that was there from the beginning.) over both of you, tucking it gently around your shoulders. one hand strokes slow, soothing lines up and down your back, the other cradling the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair.
“you okay?” he murmurs, voice soft and rough at the same time. he presses a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips — gentle, lingering kisses that feel like apologies and promises all at once. “did i hurt you? was it too much?”
you shake your head against his chest, still catching your breath, and he hums in quiet relief. he keeps touching you. slow strokes along your spine, gentle kisses to your shoulder, his palm rubbing warm circles over your lower back where you’re still a little sore. every touch is careful, tender, like he’s trying to memorize the way you feel in his arms now that the line has finally been crossed.
and now that his time with you is very limited. by limited:
“your brother told me to keep an eye on you,” the topic feels heavy already when he says it after a while, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips as he looks down at you. his fingers keep tracing lazy patterns on your skin. “if this is what it takes… so be it.”
so be the risk of making the person, his person whom he lov—
realization hits and splashes on satoru like a bucket filled with water and ice. satoru loves. satoru loves you. he is in love, satoru loves someone who is a very much forbidden person.
he pulls you closer, wrapping both arms around you fully, the thought of your brother finding what he did to you can be stressed over for later, what matters now is your naked body tucked safely against his mostly-clothed one. the tv is still playing a new trailer for next movie faintly in the background, completely ignored.
satoru holds you like that for a long time — warm, steady, protective — pressing soft kisses to wherever his lips can reach, murmuring quiet praises and gentle nonsense until your breathing evens out and your eyes start to drift shut.
“toru, do you think this is okay?” your voice is muffled with how you’re both tangled together. he doesn’t reply at first so you take it as a sign to continue. “what are we gonna do after this? what if my brot—”
“i’ve got you,” he cuts you off with a whisper against your hair, one last kiss pressed to the top of your head. “always have and nothing will happen, just take some rest and we’ll deal with it tomorrow.”
he can feel your body relaxing the moment he says that and satoru smiles a little, his heart swelling of fonding.
the living room feels smaller and warmer now, the weight of years of tension finally settling into something softer, something real, as satoru keeps holding you close under the blanket, his hand never stopping its gentle strokes along your back before he himself is dozing off from reality.
feeling too tired from his post nut session his brain is blank.
guys am i made for long fics or should i just stick to my regular short drabbles/blurbs? I WANT TO KNOW!
five times gojo thinks of proposing to you and one time he does.
contents. gojo x fem!reader • tooth rotting fluff • a lot of i love you’s • some light angst • in yearner satoru we trust
i.
it’s raining. this is that miserable kind of raining that seeps through the seams of his jacket, plasters his white hair to his forehead and makes the fluorescent lights of the 24-hour convenience store flicker like they’re also tired of existing.
you’re standing in front of the instant ramen section, waddling around because your shoes broke three blocks ago and are heavy with water, shivering in his oversized hoodie that he’d draped over you the moment he saw your teeth chattering. your hair is damp and sticking to your cheeks, and you’re squinting at the different flavor packets like they hold the secrets to the universe.
“spicy or chicken?” you ask him, turning slightly. there’s a drop of water clinging to your lower lip.
gojo satoru, the strongest sorcerer of his generation, a man who has stared down curses that would make lesser men weep, feels his heart do something stupid in his chest. it’s inconvenient, really. he’s supposed to be above this— above the mundane domesticity of convenience store runs and broken sandals and wet hair plastered to sleepy faces.
but you’re wearing his hoodie. you’re standing in a fluorescent-lit hellscape at 11:47 pm on a tuesday, and you’re asking him about ramen flavors like this is exactly where you’re supposed to be.
“spicy,” he says, his voice coming out softer he thinks it does.
you nod and grab two cups, and when you turn back to him, you give him a smile— small and tired and pretty— and he thinks i want to wake up next to you every day for the rest of my life.
the thought is so sudden and so loud that he almost chokes on his own spit.
he watches you walk to the counter, watches you fumble with his card. you’re so ordinary in the best possible way. you’re not a sorcerer, not a clan heir, not someone the world expects anything from except to live and be happy.
and you chose him.
the rain drums against the glass doors as you come back to him, holding out the bag. “let’s go home, toru,” you say, your voice muffled by the hoodie’s collar pulled up to your nose.
home. you call it home and he calls it home too. your small apartment, the one with the broken lock on the bathroom door and the neighbor who practices violin badly at 6 am. his home.
his hand twitches toward his pocket, where he absolutely does not have a ring because he hasn’t bought one, because this is insane, because you’ve only been together for a year and a half and that’s not even that long in the grand scheme of things.
but the word home echoes in his skull like a prayer, and he thinks— i could do it. i could ask her right now, in this ugly convenience store, with rain in my shoes and ramen in my hands.
he doesn’t, of course. he’s not that reckless. probably.
“let’s go home, baby,” he agrees, and he takes the bag from you with one hand and wraps the other around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. you’re warm despite everything, and you fit there perfectly, like you were designed for it.
the ring box stays imaginary in his pocket all the way back to the apartment.
ii.
it’s not even his injury. that’s the worst part.
gojo is fine— annoyingly, immortally fine— but you’d taken a hit for a civilian during a mission gone sideways, and now you’re behind a set of double doors with a concussion and three broken ribs, and he’s sitting in a plastic chair that squeaks every time he moves.
he hasn’t moved in forty-seven minutes.
shoko had looked at him with something between pity and exasperation when she’d examined you. “she’ll be fine, satoru. stop looking like someone killed your dog.”
but he can’t stop. his leg is bouncing, his hands are clasped too tight in his lap, and every time a shoko walks by he almost jumps out of his skin.
you’re fine. you’re fine. you’re fine.
the doors open and you’re wheeled out on a gurney, pale and groggy but awake, and your eyes find him immediately like they always do; they’re magnets and he’s north.
“toru,” you say. your voice is hoarse and so small that he wants to wrap you in bubble wrap and never let you leave the apartment again.
“hey,” he says, and he’s beside you before he remembers standing up, his hand finding yours. your fingers are cold. “you’re an idiot.”
“i know,” you say with a smile. it’s weak and wobbly and it makes his chest ache.
they move you to a room and he sits in the chair beside your bed, holding your hand while you drift in and out of sleep. the fluorescent lights buzz overhead. the heart monitor beeps a steady rhythm. you look small against the white hospital sheets, smaller than you ever look anywhere else, and he hates it.
at some point, you wake up properly, blinking at him with those eyes he’d drown for. “how long have you been here?”
“few hours.”
“you should go home. sleep.”
“not leaving.”
you sigh, but there’s no real frustration in it. your thumb traces circles on the back of his hand. “you’re so stubborn.”
“learned from the best.”
you laugh, then wince because of the ribs, and he immediately leans forward like he can somehow absorb the pain from you. “don’t make me laugh, asshole.”
“sorry. sorry.” he presses his forehead to your knuckles. your skin is warm now, finally. “you scared me.”
“i’m okay.”
“you got hurt.”
“i’m okay.” your free hand comes up to card through his hair, causing him to make a sound he’ll deny later. “i’d do it again.”
“don’t,” he says, and his voice cracks in a way that would embarrass him if he had any room for embarrassment left. “don’t ever do it again. i can’t—i can’t lose you.”
you’re quiet for a moment. the heart monitor beeps. somewhere down the hall, shoko curses.
“you’re not going to lose me,” you say finally, softly. “i’m right here.”
he lifts his head to look at you. you’re smiling at him like he’s not a mess and it’s not him who is sitting in a hospital chair with dark circles under his eyes and a crick in his neck. like the fact that he’s here and he’s satoru is enough.
he wants to marry you.
the thought is quiet this time, not loud and sudden but soft and settling, like snow. he wants to marry you. he wants legal documentation that says you’re his. he wants to be the one they call when you’re in a hospital bed. he wants to be family, not just boyfriend, not just partner, but yours completely.
his hand tightens around yours.
“what?” you ask, because you always notice everything.
“nothing,” he says. “go back to sleep.”
you do, eventually, your hand still in his. and he watches you breathe, in and out, steady and alive, and he starts mentally calculating how long it would take to get a ring custom-made.
iii.
the sky explodes in gold and crimson and you’re standing so close that your shoulder presses against his, your face tilted up toward the light like you’re trying to drink it in.
fireworks have never done anything for gojo. he’s seen more impressive displays of cursed energy before breakfast. but you’re happy— genuinely, your mouth curved into a soft smile, your eyes reflecting every burst of color— and he can’t look away from you.
the crowd jostles around them. children shriek with delight. couples hold hands and take photos. you’re wearing a yukata he’d helped you tie earlier, fumbling with the obi until you’d laughed and pushed his hands away and done it yourself.
“look, look,” you say, pointing at a particularly large bloom of green and purple. “that one’s pretty.”
“yeah,” he says, but he’s not looking at the sky.
you turn to catch him staring and raise an eyebrow. “you’re supposed to be watching the fireworks, dummy.”
“i’m watching something better.”
“that’s so cheesy.”
“you love it.”
you don’t deny it. instead, you lean your head against his shoulder, and he feels the warmth of you through the thin fabric of his own kimono. the fireworks continue to explode overhead, painting your skin in fleeting colors— blue, then pink, then white.
a group of children runs past, laughing, one of them bumps into your side. you stumble, just slightly, and his arm goes around your waist automatically, steadying you.
“careful,” he murmurs.
“i’m fine.”
but you don’t pull away, and neither does he. his hand rests on your hip, and you’re so close that he can smell your shampoo— floral, soft, something that makes him think of mornings and pillowcases and shared showers.
the fireworks finale begins, a chaotic symphony of light and sound that makes the ground vibrate beneath their feet. the crowd cheers. someone sets off a sparkler nearby, and the scent of gunpowder fills the air.
you turn your face up toward him, the light catching your eyes, and you’re so beautiful it hurts.
“thank you for bringing me,” you say.
“thank you for coming with me.”
you beam, and he thinks about the ring he’d looked at online last week— the one with the sapphire, because he’d want you to always carry something that resembles him in some kind of way, and he’d thought that’s the one but he hadn’t bought it because buying a ring online feels wrong, feels too impersonal for something that’s supposed to hold this.
but standing here, with your body warm against his and your smile soft in the fading light, he thinks he should have bought it anyway. he thinks he should get down on one knee right now, in the grass, with the last of the fireworks fizzling out behind him.
“hey,” he starts. his voice is strange in his own ears.
“hmm?”
he looks at you, properly, intently. the curve of your cheek, the way your hair falls across your forehead, the small scar on your chin from when you’d tripped over his shoes last month.
“nothing,” he says. “just happy.”
your expression softens into something so tender it’s almost too much for him to handle. “me too.”
he doesn’t propose at the fireworks festival. he doesn’t have a ring, and the moment doesn’t feel big enough— not because it’s small, but because he wants more. he wants you surrounded by people who love you, or maybe just the two of you in a quiet room, or maybe something in between. he wants it to be perfect.
but standing there, with your hand slipping into his and your fingers interlacing like they’ve done it a thousand times before, he makes a promise to himself.
soon. it’ll be soon.
iv.
you don’t cry often.
that’s the thing about you: you’re steady in a way he’s never learned to be. you take things in stride. you handle his chaos with a patience that borders on supernatural. you’ve seen him at his worst, hollow-eyed and trembling after missions that went wrong, and you’d held him without a single word of judgment.
so when he finds you in the bathroom, sitting on the closed toilet lid with tears streaming down your face, something in him fractures.
“hey,” he says, dropping to his knees in front of you. “hey, what’s wrong? what happened?”
you shake your head, trying to wipe your face with the back of your hand, but the tears keep coming. “it’s stupid.”
“i don’t care if it’s stupid. tell me.”
you take a shaky breath. “that necklace you gave me, your first gift to me. i—i can’t find it anywhere, and i’ve looked everywhere, and it’s gone, and i know it’s just a thing and i have more, but you gave it to me and i always wear it, and—”
you break off with a sob as he pulls you into his chest without thinking. you cling to him, your fingers digging into his shirt, and he holds you as tight as he dares.
“it’s not just a thing,” he says into your hair. “it’s important to you. that makes it important.”
“i’m being ridiculous. ”
“you’re not.”
“i’ve been crying for twenty minutes over a necklace.”
“and i’d cry for twenty days if i lost something you gave me.”
you laugh wetly against his chest and he feels the vibration of it, feels the way your body relaxes slightly. he rubs your back in slow circles, the way you do for him when he’s the one falling apart.
“i’ll find it,” he says.
“you can’t just—”
“satoru gojo, master of the impossible. remember?” he pulls back just enough to look at your face, to thumb away the tears still clinging to your lashes. “i will find your necklace if i have to tear this entire city apart tile by tile.”
“don’t be dramatic.”
“i’m never dramatic. i’m perfectly reasonable.”
you snort. it’s such a normal sound, that he grins despite the tightness in his chest.
“i love you,” you say quietly, with your voice raw and wrecked and it hits him like a physical blow.
he thinks about the ring in his nightstand drawer.
he’d bought it last week, finally, after weeks of indecision. it’s simple— a thin gold band with a small diamond, nothing flashy because you’ve never been flashy. he’d held it in his palm for a long time before putting it in the drawer, and he’d told himself he was waiting for the right moment.
this isn’t the right moment. you’re crying on a bathroom floor, your face blotchy and your nose running, and you’ve never looked more human, more real, more his.
he wants to ask you. he wants to open his mouth and say the words and watch your eyes go wide. he wants to tell you that he’ll spend every day of the rest of his life finding things you’ve lost, fixing things that are broken, holding you when you cry.
but you’re vulnerable right now and he doesn’t want to take advantage of that. he doesn’t want you to say yes because you’re sad and he’s here and it feels like the right thing to do in the moment.
so he doesn’t.
instead, he kisses your forehead and says, “let’s go look for that necklace together.”
you nod, wiping your face one more time. “okay.”
you find it three hours later, wedged between the bed frame and the wall, and the way you light up when you see it— the way you clutch it to your chest like a lifeline— makes him think that maybe the right moment is just whenever you’re you.
but still. he waits.
v.
you’re making pancakes.
it’s such a mundane thing, such an insignificant thing, but gojo wakes up to the smell of batter and butter and the sound of you humming off-key in the kitchen, and he thinks this is it. this is what i want forever.
the sun is streaming through the windows, catching the dust motes floating in the air. your hair is a mess, sticking up in the back where you’d slept on it wrong. you’re wearing his t-shirt— the old one with the hole in the collar— and nothing else, your bare feet on the cold tile floor.
you haven’t noticed he’s awake yet. you’re too focused on flipping pancakes, your tongue poking out slightly in concentration, and he watches you from the doorway with something so big and so warm in his chest that he’s surprised he doesn’t burst.
“you’re staring,” you say without turning around.
“how do you always know?”
“i can feel your eyes on me. it’s creepy.”
“it’s affectionate.”
you turn then, spatula in hand, and you’re smiling at him— that easy, unguarded smile that’s just for him. “good morning, sleepyhead.”
“good morning, pancake princess.”
you roll your eyes and turn back to the stove, and he comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder. you lean back into him instinctively, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“how’d you sleep?” you ask.
“fine. you?”
“had a weird dream about a talking white cat.”
“was it cute?”
“very annoying, actually.”
he laughs into your neck, and you shiver slightly, and he presses a kiss to the spot behind your ear that always makes you melt.
“i’m trying to cook,” you protest, but you tilt your head to give him better access anyway.
“mm. you’re doing great.”
“you’re distracting me.”
“i’m supporting you.”
you elbow him gently, but he just tightens his arms around you, and for a moment the world narrows to this— the warmth of the kitchen, the sizzle of pancake batter hitting the pan, the softness of your body against his.
he thinks about the ring again. it’s still in his nightstand drawer, hidden beneath a pile of socks he should have folded weeks ago. he’s taken it out a dozen times in the past month, held it in his palm, imagined sliding it onto your finger.
but the moment has never felt right. there’s always been something— a mission, a bad day, a distraction. he’s been waiting for perfect, for the kind of moment they write songs about, for something that feels big enough to hold everything he feels for you.
and maybe that’s the problem. maybe perfect doesn’t exist.
maybe perfect is this. sunday morning, bare feet on cold tile, pancakes burning slightly because he’s distracting you. maybe perfect is the way you fit against him like you were made to be there. maybe perfect is the off-key humming and the holey t-shirt and the sun on your face.
“i love you, baby,” he says. the words come out different than usual, heavier with meaning. “i love you so so much.”
you tilt your head back to look at him, and your eyes are soft and curious. “i love you too.”
he almost says it. the words are right there, on the tip of his tongue, three words and a question and the rest of his life. marry me. marry me. marry me.
but then the smoke alarm goes off because the pancakes are definitely burning now, and you shriek and push him away and grab the smoking pan, and the moment scatters like startled birds.
he laughs, watching you fan the smoke detector with a dish towel, and he thinks soon. soon soon soon.
+ i.
it’s three in the morning and you’re both still awake for no good reason.
the apartment is dark except for the blue glow of the television, which is playing some terrible late-night infomercial about a vegetable chopper that neither of you is watching. you’re lying on the couch with your head in his lap, your legs draped over the armrest, and he’s been absently running his fingers through your hair for the past hour while you scroll through your phone.
neither of you has said anything important in a while. it’s just the comfortable kind of silence, the kind that comes after two years of learning each other’s rhythms, of knowing when to talk and when to just be.
on the screen, a man with too much enthusiasm is dicing an onion at impossible speed.
“we should get that,” you murmur, not looking up from your phone.
“the vegetable chopper?”
“yeah. think of all the time we’d save.”
“we don’t even cook that much.”
“we could cook more if we had a vegetable chopper.”
he snorts. “that’s the most ridiculous thing i’ve ever heard.”
you finally look up at him, and your phone’s light casts strange shadows on your face, making you look like something out of a dream or maybe a horror movie, depending on the angle. your eyes are tired but warm, there’s a small smile playing at your lips.
“you should spoil me,” you say.
“i already do!”
“not enough.”
“fine. but we’re not buying that vegetable chopper.”
you laugh, soft and sleepy, and close your eyes. his fingers resume their path through your hair, and he watches your face relax, watches the tension melt out of your shoulders.
and he thinks again— this is right.
not the fireworks. not the perfect sunset. not the grand gesture he’s been building up in his head for months. just this: three in the morning, terrible infomercial, your head in his lap, and the overwhelming, bone-deep certainty that he doesn’t want to spend another day of his life without being able to call you his spouse.
the ring is in his pocket.
it’s been in his pocket for three days now, ever since he’d stuffed it there on a whim, telling himself he’d find the right moment. he’d almost pulled it out at dinner. almost pulled it out on the walk home. almost pulled it out when you’d tripped over the welcome mat and cursed creatively.
but he’d talked himself out of it every time. too soon. too cliché. too much.
but now, with the infomercial guy enthusiastically demonstrating the vegetable chopper’s julienne function, and your breathing slowing into something that might be sleep, he realizes that the right moment isn’t something you find.
it’s something you make.
“hey,” he says softly.
“mm?”
“don’t fall asleep. i need to ask you something.”
you open one eye. “at three in the morning? about the vegetable chopper?”
“no.” his heart is pounding. his hands are shaking slightly, and he hopes you can’t feel it through his fingers in your hair. “something else.”
you sit up slowly, blinking at him, and the movement makes him lose contact with your hair. your hand finds his instead, your fingers intertwining with his like they’ve done a thousand times before.
“you look weird,” you say. “are you okay?”
“i’m fine. i’m great. i’m—” he takes a breath. “i’m in love with you.”
you raise an eyebrow. “i know, toru. you tell me that like five times a day.”
“i know. but i mean—” he laughs, a little breathless, and pulls his hand away from yours to reach into his pocket. “i mean it in a specific way tonight.”
your eyes widen as his fingers close around the small velvet box. you’re looking at his hand, then at his face, then back at his hand, and your mouth falls open slightly.
“is that—”
“it’s not a vegetable chopper,” he says, and pulls out the ring.
he’d spent weeks looking at rings, had even asked megumi for advice (which had been a disaster—the kid had just stared at him for a full thirty seconds before saying “i don’t know, just pick one”). but this one had felt right the moment he’d seen it.
“satoru,” you whisper.
“i had this whole thing planned,” he says, and his voice is shaking now, he can hear it, and he doesn’t care. “i was gonna take you somewhere nice. do the whole dinner-and-candlelight thing. get down on one knee like a normal person. but i kept waiting for the perfect moment, and it never came, because—” he swallows. “because every moment with you feels perfect. even the ones where we’re watching commercials at three in the morning.”
your eyes are wet. he can see the shine of tears in the blue glow of the television.
“so i’m not gonna wait anymore,” he says. “i’m not gonna wait for the right restaurant or the right weather or the right anything. because i don’t need any of that. i just need you.”
he shifts on the couch, turning to face you properly. he doesn’t get down on one knee— there’s no room, and honestly, he’s pretty sure he’d trip over the coffee table— but he takes both of your hands in his, the ring box pressed between your palms.
“marry me,” he says. “because i want to come home to you every day. because i want to argue about vegetable choppers with you for the rest of my life. because you’re the first person i want to tell when something good happens, and the only person i want to hold me when something doesn’t.”
you’re crying now, tears, rolling down your cheeks, and you’re laughing at the same time, which is such a you thing to do that his heart feels like it might burst.
“you’re proposing,” you say, your voice cracking, “while an infomercial is playing in the background.”
“that guy can be our witness.”
you laugh harder, and you’re nodding, you’re nodding, and he hasn’t even heard the word yet but your head is moving up and down and you’re squeezing his hands so tight it almost hurts.
“yes,” you say. “yes, you absolute idiot. yes.”
he kisses you before he even puts the ring on you. his hands cup your face, and you’re both laughing into the kiss, and it’s messy and wet and perfect in a way that nothing else has ever been.
when he finally pulls back, his forehead against yours, he slides the ring onto your finger. it glints in the television light, catching the blue glow and turning it into something softer.
“it fits,” he says, surprised.
“did you measure my finger while i was sleeping?”
“…maybe.”
you look at the ring, then at him, and your smile is so wide it crinkles the corners of your eyes. “i love you. i love you so much.”
“i love you too,” he says. and then, because he’s still him, because he’ll always be him: “so… we can get the vegetable chopper, i guess. as an engagement gift to ourselves.”
you shove his shoulder, but you’re laughing, and he’s laughing, and somewhere on the television the infomercial guy is still dicing onions with reckless abandon.
neither of you notices. you’re too busy looking at each other, at the ring on your finger, at the rest of your lives starting right here, right now, in this ridiculous, wonderful, imperfect moment.
and gojo thinks that he’s never been happier to be wrong about what perfect looks like.
[ an. hello hello!! permanent taglist spots are still open!! ]
falling for a human salt shaker with a pole up his ass wasn't on your bingo card, but life is weird like that.
w/c: 3k, request, profanities, translations included
the gymnasium air in karasuno always smelled like a violent mixture of floor wax, sweaty kneepads, and the impending doom of coach ukai’s yelling. it was your favorite place on earth, mostly because it provided you with a daily stage to terrorize the resident dinosaur enthusiast.
you were loud. not just regular loud, but full-volume, hand-gesturing, laughing-with-your-whole-ribcage loud. your accent was a heavy, beautiful thing that wrapped around your vowels like a warm hug, turning sharp japanese consonants into something softer, bouncy, and undeniably rhythmic.
“hoy, payatot! look at this!” you bounced over to the bench where the blonde middle blocker was attempting to drink water in peace. (payatot - skinny)
tsukishima didn’t even look up from his bottle, though the slight twitch of his eyebrows gave away the fact that his peace was officially incinerated. “what do you want, short stack? and stop calling me that. my name isn’t ‘hoy’.”
“it means ‘hey’, sungit! and payatot means skinny. look at you, you are like a tall glass of water with no ice. eat some rice, please, i’m begging your mother through you.” you shoved your phone in his face, showing him a meme of a cat wrapped in a lumpia wrapper. (sungit - meanie)
“look! it’s you. a sad little lumpia.”
nishinoya and tanaka materialized out of thin air, drawn by the sound of your laughter like moths to a particularly chaotic flame. “y/n! teach us more bad words! we need to intimidate date tech at the next practice match!”
you grinned, a truly mischievous tilt of your lips that made tsukishima’s stomach do a weird, uncomfortable flip that he blamed on bad cafeteria yakisoba. “okay, okay. listen carefully. if kageyama hogged the ball again, you call him buwaya. it means crocodile. very greedy, very selfish!”
“bu-wa-ya!” the two second-years chanted, pumping their fists in the air like they had just been handed the nuclear launch codes.
“and if the opposite gets a point,” you continued, lowering your voice conspiratorially, “you say sayang. it means ‘what a waste’, but you have to say it with a lot of drama. like this: sayang naman!”
from the sidelines, tsukishima watched the display with a scowl that didn’t quite reach his eyes. he adjusted his glasses, his fingers brushing against the bridge of his nose to hide the faint dust of pink spreading across his cheekbones. you were an absolute hurricane of noise and unbridled energy, the exact antithesis of everything he preferred in a human being. he liked quiet libraries, strawberry shortcake, and being left alone to judge people in silence.
yet, for the past six months, his eyes had developed a traitorous habit of tracking your movements across the gym. he knew exactly how your nose wrinkled when you laughed too hard, how you unconsciously tapped your foot in a three-beat rhythm when you were bored, and the specific pitch of your voice when you were genuinely excited about something.
he wasn’t obsessed. that was a disgusting word used by stalkers and people who didn’t understand the concept of personal space. he was merely… hyper-aware. yes, hyper-aware of your existence because you were a safety hazard to the structural integrity of his calm demeanor.
“tsukki, you’re staring,” yamaguchi murmured from beside him, wearing a smile that was far too knowing for tsukishima’s comfort.
“i’m looking at the clock, tadashi. her voice is loud enough to shatter glass and i’m checking how much longer my ears have to suffer.”
“sure you are,” yamaguchi chuckled, unfazed by the venom in his best friend’s tone. “she’s teaching them ‘puta’ now. i think tanaka thinks it’s a type of pastry.” (puta - bitch)
tsukishima looked back. you were currently trying to reach up and pat tanaka’s head in approval, your face glowing with animated joy. a sharp, physical ache bloomed right in the center of his chest. it was an annoying, persistent tugging sensation that made him want to drag you away from the shouting second-years, lock you in a quiet room, and listen to you talk about absolutely nothing until his brain melted.
the problem was, tsukishima didn’t know how to handle warmth. he was a creature made of ice and sharp edges, and you were a tropical sun. if he got too close, he was terrified he’d just melt into a puddle of useless, vulnerable mush.
so, he did what any emotionally stunted teenager would do: he acted like an absolute jerk.
𓏵
the tragedy began with a notebook. a small, pocket-sized green notebook that tsukishima kept hidden in the deepest recesses of his school bag, right behind his english textbooks.
he was a top student; learning a new language shouldn’t have been this difficult. but tagalog was a complex beast filled with repeating syllables, actor-trigger verbs, and a sentence structure that made his logical brain want to riot. still, every night after finishing his actual homework, he would sit at his desk, put on his headphones to drown out the sound of his brother breathing in the next room, and write.
mahal. love.
maganda. beautiful.
marikit. gorgeous.
ikaw lang. only you.
his handwriting in the notebook was cramped and precise, filled with arrows pointing to grammatical rules and phonetic spellings. he wanted to surprise you. he had this stupid, agonizingly vivid daydream where he would casually drop a perfectly accented sentence in your native tongue, and the shocked, brilliant smile you would give him would finally make his heart stop pounding against his ribs like a caged bird.
the universe, however, possessed a deeply twisted sense of humor.
it happened on a tuesday afternoon during lunch. you were heading to the vending machine to get a melon bread, hum-singing a catchy opm song under your breath, when you spotted tsukishima and yamaguchi sitting on a bench in the courtyard.
you were about to bounce over and demand a bite of whatever tsukishima was eating, but you stopped when you heard your name.
“…and you really think this is going to work, tsukki?” yamaguchi was saying, looking over a small green notebook.
“it has to,” tsukishima’s voice was low, laced with a harshness that he usually reserved for kageyama or hinata. “it’s insane. she doesn’t stop. she talks and talks, and it’s driving me crazy. i need to get this over with so i can finally have some peace of mind.”
your heart, which had been doing its usual happy drum-roll at the sight of him, suddenly felt like it had been plunged into a bucket of ice water.
“but don’t you think she’ll be hurt?” yamaguchi asked softly. “i mean, she really likes talking to you.”
“i don’t care,” tsukishima snapped, snatching the notebook back with a jerk. “hearing those words coming out of her mouth makes me feel like my skin is getting goosebumps. nakakairita. it’s annoying. i just want to put an end to it.”
you stood frozen behind the hedge, your hand clamped over your mouth to stifle the small, wounded sound that wanted to escape your throat.
nakakairita. you knew that word. you had taught it to hinata last week when he wouldn’t stop poking your cheek. it meant annoying. irritating. bothersome.
and tsukishima had just used it to describe you. he had used a word from your language to talk about how much he hated hearing you speak.
tears, hot and furious, blurred your vision. you weren’t a crier—you were the girl who laughed off insults and turned awkwardness into a joke. but this felt different. this felt like a physical blow to the stomach. you had thought that underneath all his sarcasm and eye-rolling, there was a mutual understanding. you thought that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t mind your chaos as much as he pretended to.
how stupid could you be? he was tsukishima kei. he was cool, calculated, and sophisticated. of course he hated your loud voice, your thick accent, and your invasive presence. you were a nuisance he was actively studying how to eliminate.
you didn’t get your melon bread. instead, you turned on your heel and bolted back to the safety of your classroom, ignoring the way your chest felt like it was splitting wide open.
𓏵
for the next two weeks, the karasuno volleyball club experienced a phenomenon that was scarier than coach ukai’s training camps: you went completely, utterly silent around tsukishima.
it was a targeted radio silence. you still brought sliced oranges for the team, you still helped kiyoko with the clipboards, and you still taught nishinoya how to say “you’re beautiful” in tagalog (maganda ka), which he was currently screaming at random girls in the hallway.
but whenever tsukishima approached, you became a ghost.
if he sat on the bench, you stood up and walked to the other side of the gym to help yachi organize the towels. if he asked where the extra water bottles were, you would point to them without looking at him, your lips pressed in a hard, thin line. you stopped laughing at his dry remarks. you stopped shoving your phone in his face to show him ridiculous memes. you didn’t even call him payatot anymore.
the silence was deafening. and it was driving tsukishima absolutely, positively feral.
by day five, he was missing normal serves by a mile, sending balls flying into the back wall with a terrifying amount of force.
by day ten, his mood was so foul that even kageyama was avoiding him. he was snapping at everyone, his sarcasm dripping with actual venom instead of his usual bored mockery.
by day fourteen, he was a hollowed-out shell of a giant, his eyes rimmed with dark circles because he couldn’t sleep. his mind was a broken record playing the same question over and over again: what did i do?
he checked his green notebook every night, tracing the words he had painstakingly written down. had he said something wrong? had his pronunciation been offensive? he hadn’t even gotten the chance to use any of it yet.
𓏵
the breaking point came on a rainy friday evening after practice. the gym was mostly empty; only a few stragglers were left to lock up. you were in the storage room, wrestling with a heavy bag of deflated volleyballs that refused to fit on the top shelf.
“let me,” a cold, familiar voice said from behind you.
you jumped, dropping the bag. a large, pale hand reached over your shoulder, gripping the bag and effortlessly sliding it onto the shelf. you didn’t need to look up to know who it was. the scent of clean linen and ironed cotton gave him away instantly.
“thanks,” you muttered under your breath, your voice small and devoid of its usual lively melody. you immediately turned to leave, keeping your eyes trained on the scuffed wooden floor.
a hand shot out, slamming against the doorframe right next to your head and blocking your exit. you stopped dead in your tracks, your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird.
“no,” tsukishima said. his voice wasn’t bored. it wasn’t calm. it was shaking with a raw, jagged edge that you had never heard before. “you’re not walking away from me again.”
you refused to look up at him. “i need to go home, tsukishima. move your hand.”
the use of his last name felt like a slap in the face. his jaw clenched so hard you could hear his teeth grind.
“why are you doing this?” he demanded, leaning down so his face was level with yours. his golden eyes were flashing behind his glasses, filled with a desperate, agonizing frustration. “what did i do to make you look at me like i’m a piece of trash on the sidewalk? why won’t you talk to me anymore?”
“because i get it, okay!” you suddenly burst out, the dam holding back two weeks of hurt finally breaking. you looked up at him, your eyes brimming with hot tears that made his chest seize with a violent wave of guilt. “i know you hate me! i know i’m loud and annoying and that hearing me speak makes your skin crawl! you don’t have to keep reminding me with your face!”
tsukishima blinked, completely blindsided. the anger in his eyes vanished, replaced by pure, unadulterated confusion. “what are you talking about? i don’t hate you. when did i ever say that?”
“i heard you!” you wiped furiously at your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket. “two weeks ago at lunch. you and yamaguchi were sitting on the bench. you had that notebook and you said i was driving you crazy and that i was nakakairita! you used my own language to insult me, tsukki! that was… that was really mean.”
the realization hit tsukishima like a freight train traveling at full speed. his face went from pale to a shade of red that rivaled a ripe tomato. the notebook. the lunch conversation.
“you… you idiot,” he breathed out, his voice cracking. he dropped his hand from the doorframe and dragged it through his blonde hair, looking incredibly stressed. “you complete and utter absolute airhead.”
“don’t call me that!” you snapped, sniffing loudly. “just let me go.”
“no! listen to me!” he grabbed your shoulders, his grip firm but careful not to hurt you. he was staring at you with such intense, blazing urgency that you forgot how to breathe. “you didn’t hear the whole conversation. yamaguchi was asking me about the notebook because i was getting frustrated with the grammar. i was complaining because i couldn’t get the pronunciation right and i wanted it to be perfect for you!”
you blinked, the tears freezing on your eyelashes. “perfect for… me?”
“why would you want to be perfect for me? to taunt me? to make me feel worse than i already do?” you scoffed.
tsukishima let out a sound that was halfway between a growl and a sigh of pure desperation. he was done being cool. he was done playing the detached spectator. his pride was in absolute tatters, lying in a puddle on the storage room floor, and he didn’t care at all.
“kase mahal kita!” he shouted, the filipino words bursting from his lips with a thick, distinctly japanese accent but a mountain of raw emotion behind them.
you froze. your brain short-circuited. because i love you.
“i have been staying up until three in the morning every night trying to learn your stupidly complicated language because i am so hopelessly, pathetically in love with you that it makes me physically ill!” his voice was rising now, his chest heaving as he poured out the feelings he had kept locked behind a titanium wall for months. “i wasn’t calling you annoying, you dense girl! i was calling the language rules annoying because i was impatient! i wanted to be able to talk to you in the words that make you happiest. i wanted to be someone you could feel at home with!”
you stared at him, your mouth falling open. tsukishima was breathing hard, his glasses slightly crooked, his face a deep shade of crimson. his eyes were wide, filled with a terrifying vulnerability, searching your face for any sign of rejection.
“i’m desperate for your love, okay?” he continued, his voice dropping to a raw, aching whisper that made your knees go weak. “it’s pathetic. i can’t focus on volleyball, i can’t sleep, i can’t even eat properly because all i can think about is how much i miss the sound of your voice. i miss you making fun of my height. i miss you forcing me to try filipino snacks that are way too sweet. i miss you. and the thought that i had genuinely hurt you and made you hate me was tearing me apart. so please, don’t ever be silent around me again. scream at me, call me names, teach me more swear words, i don’t care. just… please talk to me.”
the silence that followed his outburst was thick and heavy, filled only with the sound of the rain drum-rolling on the metal roof and your own frantic heartbeats.
you stared at him for what felt like an eternity, processing the absolute masterpiece of a confession that had just been delivered by the most prideful boy in school.
and then, you did the only logical thing. you burst out laughing.
tsukishima’s heart plummeted to his shoes. he winced, his shoulders sagging as he prepared to be utterly humiliated. “fine. laugh at me. i know i sounded ridiculous. my accent is probably terrible—”
you didn’t let him finish. you launched yourself forward, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his chest. the impact was so sudden that he stumbled back a step, instinctively wrapping his long arms around your waist to keep both of you from toppling over.
“you’re such a giant torpe!” you muffled into his shirt, giggling through a fresh wave of happy tears.
“a what?” he asked, his voice muffled against your hair, though his arms tightened possessively around your small frame.
“a guy who is too shy to confess his feelings. a coward in love!” you pulled back just enough to look up at him, a wide, dazzling smile on your face that illuminated the dark storage room like a thousand suns. “but it was a very good confession, tsukki. your accent is actually very cute. a bit stiff, like a robot trying to be romantic, but cute.”
tsukishima looked down at you, the sheer relief flooding his system making him feel lightheaded. a slow, genuine smile—the rare kind that reached his eyes and made his whole face soften—tugged at his lips.
“shut up,” he murmured, leaning down until his forehead was resting against yours. “i was being sincere.”
“i know,” you whispered, your hands moving up to cup his face, your thumbs gently tracing his high cheekbones. “i love you too, you giant glass of water. mahal din kita.”
the effect of hearing those words directed at him was instantaneous. tsukishima’s breath hitched, and without giving himself time to overthink it and let his brain ruin the moment, he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours.
it was clumsy at first, born from weeks of pent-up yearning and desperate anxiety. but as your lips parted and you melted against him, pulling him closer by his collar, it turned into something incredibly sweet, deep, and impossibly soft. it was the feeling of a long-awaited rainfall after a grueling drought.
when he finally pulled away for air, his eyes were heavy-lidded and incredibly dark. his glasses were completely askew now, sitting lopsided on his nose, which made him look endearingly disheveled.
“was that okay?” he asked quietly, his thumbs tracing the curve of your waist under your jacket. the level of raw devotion in his gaze was enough to make your soul leave your body.
“it was perfect,” you beamed, standing on your tiptoes to straighten his glasses for him. “but we still need to work on your accent. you sounded a little bit like a dying microwave when you said ‘kase’.”
tsukishima groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “you’re never letting me live that down, are you?”
“never! i’m going to tell the whole team tomorrow. nishinoya will make a banner!”
“if you do that, i’m never kissing you again.”
“you’re lying,” you chirped, kissing his cheek. “you’re completely whipped for me, tsukishima kei. you said it yourself. you’re desperate.”
he didn’t even try to deny it. he just sighed, pulling you flush against his chest and resting his chin on top of your head, listening to the beautiful, chaotic rhythm of your laughter filling the quiet gym. he was hopelessly, utterly defeated by a hurricane of a girl, and for the first time in his life, he didn’t mind losing at all.
n: tsukishima kei, pregnant? no, he’s just in love.
