*ੈ✩‧₊˚

„𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒂 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒑𝒊𝒅 𝒍𝒂𝒎𝒃” ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

[shiggyhatesme]

“i deserve it all„

—MIEKO (me-eh-ko), she/her, twenty one, sagittarius

⋆˙⟡k.bakugou centric

∘˙ ✶ mainly mha & jjk universes

m.list | in progress

mainly sfw content, open to nsfw. characters are always adults, reader is usually afab. though this blog is mainly sfw, minors please dni. 18+ blog.

© shiggyhatesme

please do not copy or translate my work.

[shiggyhatesme]

the production of dabi fics has gone DOWN tremendously. friends i fear i will have to step in….setting my k.bkg draft aside for now…

[shiggyhatesme]

masterlist

k.bakugou

smiley (series) controlled burn (series) exactly where i wanna be (one-shot)

t.todoroki

bleeding with (one-shot) everything and nothing at all (one-shot) suffocation (one-shot) hallucinogen (one-shot)

s.gojo (in the works)

[shiggyhatesme]

exactly where i wanna be

pairings & cw: k. bakugou x high-maintenance reader, f!reader, prohero timeskip, reader is a liiiitle ditsy, language, established relationship, diva alert

synopsis: so what you're a little bitchy, and maybe you don't think very hard, and maybee you need him to do everything for you...oh yeah you're a princess. its his fault though, and he loves it over here

wc: 3.6k

"baby."

you yelled from the bathroom counter, legs crisscross applesauce as you touched up your mascara, your silk robe sliding off one shoulder.

no response.

"babyyy." you drawled out, a bit louder this time, still fully focused on your own reflection.

you tore your gaze away from the mirror looking to your left at the doorway, nothing. the audacity. your cheeks puffed out as you sighed and got ready to yell again.

"KATSU—"

"what the hell woman?!" his voice raised as he whips around the doorframe, brows furrowed.

you instantly smile upon seeing him, turning back towards the mirror and finishing up your makeup. "baby i think the lighting in here is ugly. we need the warm lights, these are giving hospital. and you know how i feel about white light."

he pinches the bridge of his nose and observes you through the mirror. "you called me in here, no, screamed for me to come in here about the fuckin' lights?"

you stopped applying your powder to look at him inquisitively, your brow raised as if the answer was obvious.

"uh duh. it's making me look ugly, i almost took all of my makeup off and went back to bed."

he leaned against the doorframe fascinated. not just because there was a beautiful hot mess of a woman sitting on his counter, but also by the shit that comes out of your mouth before nine in the morning.

god—he wouldn't have it any other way.

"yes princess i'll fix it for ya tomorrow." he walked behind you and pressed a kiss to your bare shoulder, looking down at the watch on his wrist. "you have fifteen minutes. pick it up."

you turned toward him with wide eyes, holding your arms out so he could put you back down on the ground. "but i need my coffee first!"

katsuki chuckled as he placed you on your feet, walking away without another word before coming back with a delicious looking iced coffee in his hand.

"i was midway through making the damn thing when you started screaming."

you took it and scanned it, your eyes flicking between him and the cup.

"did you put sugar in it?"

"yeah."

"enough?"

"jesus christ."

you tap your foot looking up at him. "that wasn't an answer."

he squints at you, annoyed in the way only he can be when he's secretly entertained. "yes, brat. enough."

you consider him carefully, like a queen deciding whether or not a knight is worth sparing.

then: "okay."

you happily sip the coffee as you walk past him into your “shared” (because 90% of it was your clothes, shoes, and bags) walk-in closet rummaging through clothes with one hand and drink in the other. your mouth literally never leaving the straw. he watches from the bed, the tiny domestic performance of it was so stupidly dear to him that he'd rather die than say it out loud.

thats the thing.

everyone else thinks he's patient with you. as if he's suffering nobly. as if loving you is some kind of endurance sport.

they don't get it.

they don't understand that katsuki likes this. loves it, actually.

loves the sound of your voice when it gets whiny and put-upon. loves the way you drift around his space like it was built for you. loves that you complain to him with absolute confidence that he’ll either fix it, replace it, or tell you to quit bitching and then fix it anyway.

he likes that you only act this way because you know, down to your bones, that he can hold it.

that he won't embarrass you for wanting.

that he won't make you feel stupid for liking pretty things, expensive things, soft things. that he won't call you too much when he is, in fact, the one who made you this way.

oh he spoiled you rotten. toothache rotten. that part is entirely his fault.

you used to reach for the cheaper option out of habit, used to say no too quickly, used to look at price tags before you looked at whether you even liked something.

not anymore.

now, if you pause in front of a shop window even a second too long, katsuki notices.

if you say, "its cute, but—" he's already opening the door.

if you mention it, in passing, that you've run low on the serum you like, it appears in the bathroom the next day in doubles.

he got mean about it, weirdly. not mean mean, but katsuki mean.

the first time he found out you'd been rationing the stupidly expensive perfume he bought you for your birthday because you "didn't want to use it up too fast," he stared at you so hard you nearly laughed.

then he took the bottle from your hand, put it back on the vanity, opened something on his phone right in front of you, and bought three more.

you blinked at him from your spot on the bed. "thats excessive."

he hadn't even looked up. "no its fuckin' not."

"i don't need four bottles of perfume."

"then use it more."

"katsuki."

he'd finally lifted his eyes, sharp and flat and impossible to argue with. "i bought it because i like it on you, stop acting like you're gonna get in trouble for enjoying your own shit."

and of course, because he was an insufferable asshole incapable of letting a moment sit without making it a little hostile, he added, "you're spoiled. try acting like it."

so yes—this is his fault.

every silk pillowcase, every hair appointment, every shopping bag, and "baby, can you carry this?" and "katsuki, i don't like the towels here," and also "can we leave, i hate the vibe."

his fault. not that he'd change a fucking thing.

you placed your coffee on the little island in your closet, holding up two pairs of heels and turning toward him.

"versace or dior today?" puffing up one of your cheeks as you wiggled the two options in your hands. an extremely hard decision actually.

he rolled his eyes before getting up from the bed and making his way toward you, shaking his head as he walked.

"remember the last time you wore the versace? you lasted twenty minutes and i had to carry you. the dior is more casual, good for the breakfast, which i'll remind you we need to be at soon."

you nodded in agreement as you put the other heels back, slipping off your robe and stepping into the short white dress that you had picked out all by yourself. you looked up at him as you slid into your heels.

"you're so smart baby, what would i do without you?"

he shot an amused look before kissing your forehead and walking out, "you still have those clips in your hair by the way."

he especially loves it when you text him a million updates on your day while he's working.

you: my nail appointment ran long and now im starveddddd you: the place downstairs put pickles on my sandwich. they know i hate pickles. this feels targeted. you: can you come home with those like little fruit tarts from that bakery i like? you: omg not the big ones btw. the little ones. the big ones are ugly.

he likes reading them in the backseat of a car on the way to interviews, sporting a fresh bruise on his jaw, feeling the way his whole face goes weirdly soft before having to physically control it so no one notices.

suki: eat something real first suki: i'll handle the sandwich place suki: yeah

he loves that you call him immediately after and say, "why did you sound so mean in your texts? are you being sassy with me?"

"you text like a menace. im at work."

"you can still be sweeter."

"you're alive and fed and wearin' shit i bought ya. thats sweetness."

your cute little sigh through the phone warms his heart so much. "barely."

"you're annoyin'."

"you adore me."

a pause. a little hush. like the whole world knows better than to interrupt.

then he says, every single time, with no hesitation at all, "yeah."

he doesn't think you're a brat when you complain, he just thinks you're honest. saying the things that everyone else swallows. some call it no filter, no social cues, or even blunt.

katsuki likes the directness of it. likes that with you, there's no passive-aggressive little games, no pretending nothing's wrong until it curdles into resentment.

if you're upset, he knows.

if you want something, he knows.

if someone's pissed you off, oh he definitely fucking knows. just like tonight.

all it took was once glance at you the second he walked into the restaurant, spotting you already seated at the table with his friends. you're gorgeous, obviously. you're always gorgeous. tonight its in a slinky little dress that probably cost more than most people's rent, hair glossy, jewelry delicate, makeup perfect. oh but your expression is flat in a way that tells him you're two minor inconveniences away from homicide.

kirishima sees him first. "bro!"

"hey," kaminari says, grinning. "your girl's been bullying the waiter."

"i have not," you say, before katsuki even reaches the table. "i corrected him. there's a difference."

"you made him bring back three wine glasses," mina says, a little too delighted.

"because they were spotty," you reply. "am i supposed to drink expensive wine out of a fogged-up glass like i've lost all self respect?"

katsuki pulls out your chair a little and leans down to kiss the side of your head before he sits. "you eat yet?"

your whole face changes when you look at him, not necessarily softer. you never became some watered down version of yourself around him. more like the tension in you finds the exact place its allowed to land.

"no." you say. "i was waiting."

his hand settles over the back of your neck for a second, thumb brushing the skin there. "good."

across the table, sero makes a face. "that was weirdly hot."

"shut the hell up," katsuki barks, but his attention is already back on you. "what happened?"

you exhale dramatically. "everything."

"specifics, baby."

"the hostess tried to seat us by the kitchen. the menus were sticky. the waiter kept calling me sweetheart."

his eyes sharpened at that. "which waiter?"

you touch his wrist. "don't start."

"which one?"

"katsuki."

he looks at you, and you give him that look right back—the one that says you are perfectly capable of handling yourself and also maybe a tiny bit pleased that he's instantly ready to commit a felony on your behalf.

mina is trying not to laugh. "see, this is what i'm saying. you enable her."

katsuki reachers for the water glass in front of you, checks it like it personally offended him, then flags down another server without even raising his voice.

"this one's dirty," he says. "bring her a clean glass. and another menu."

the server blinks. "of course."

he turns back to the table. silence stretching thick.

kaminari weakly says, "you don't even look embarrassed."

katsuki frowns at him. "why the hell would i be embarrassed?"

"because—" kami vaguely gestures at you. "because she's being...y'know."

you raise your brows this time. "go on."

"specific." kirishima finished diplomatically, doing his very best to avoid conflict.

katsuki leans back in his chair, one arm draped behind yours. "and?"

"and thats hard to deal with," sero says.

"for you."

and there it was. that right there. you had to hide your smile in your hand.

he never asks you to be less.

never gives you that look, the one that says don't make this a thing, don't be difficult don't be too much right now. he meets you where you are. he'll adjust accordingly, and he'll make room.

because to him, loving you is not some great act of patience. it's not a burden he shoulders because there's a shiny award at the end.

you are the reward.

every specific little preference, every dramatic sigh, eye rolls when something is beneath your standards. every exacting opinion and offended pout and "be serious" look you send him when the world is not arranged to your liking.

its all you. and he loves all of you.

dinner goes better after that.

he doesn't even bother letting you order, or even asking what you want because he already knows. he switches your fork when it has a water spot you don't like. he pushes his drink toward you when yours is running low. when your heel suddenly catches against the chair leg and you mutter, irritated, he drops a hand to your ankle and rubs once, absent and grounding like your discomfort belongs to him too.

nobody else seems to know what to do with the way you are.

but he does.

later, in the car, you sit with one leg folded under you, your heels kicked off the moment you had entered. also something katsuki predicted would happen when you asked for outfit advice. the city outside the windows blurs in gold and white. katsuki drives one-handed, the other resting heavy on your knee.

you stare at him for a while.

he notices, obviously.

"you're doing that thing."

"what thing?"

"staring at me like you're about to either say somethin' emotional or start a fight."

"mmm maybe both."

he huffs a laugh.

streetlight spills over the hard line of his jaw, catches in the pale ash blonde of his hair. older now, broader, more settled into himself. confidence without the performance strain of it. he doest need to prove himself anymore. especially not to you.

"do i embarrass you?"

he looks over, eyes wide like you just said the most ridiculous thing in the world, which is also insane to say as ridiculous things fly out of your mouth every day. "the hell are you talkin' about?"

you look out the window.

the thing is—you know what people think of you. that you're spoiled, dramatic, materialistic, kinda mean.

and okay, maybe you are spoiled. because katsuki saw what made your life easier and prettier and softer, and instead of calling you too much for wanting it, he made it so you never even had to ask. he booked the hard to get reservations, the spontaneous flights, replaced those cheap sheets with the ones you liked. he memorized your orders, your dress size, which jewelry you liked for all day wear.

he built an entire life around your comfort like it was the most natural thing in the world. so yes, maybe now, years later, you complain a little more. maybe your standards are impossible for anyone who isn't him.

you're only like this, though, because he made the world feel safe enough to be particular in.

you didn't have to shrink with him.

you got bigger. brighter. needier in the way flowers are needy for sun.

your throat tightens a little.

"i know i'm annoying," you mutter.

his entire body language changes. "who said that?"

"no one."

"bullshit."

you sigh. "i just know."

katsuki stops at the red light and turns fully to look at you, like really look at you.

"listen to me," he says, low and flat and dripping with certainty. "you're not annoyin'."

you give him a look. your look.

"i complain all the time."

"so?"

"im kinda mean."

"you're picky."

"you can't say i'm not difficult."

he shrugs one shoulder and the light turns green, but he doesn't move for half a second because this apparently matter more than the honking car behind him.

"you are difficult," he says finally.

your chest sinks.

"—and i like that."

you blink. he drives forward, expression set, like he didn't just casually rearrange your entire internal organ system.

"you know how many people in this world are boring as fuck?" he goes on. "how many people expect you to make yourself smaller so they can feel comfortable bein' mediocre around you?"

your eyes sting a little, annoyingly so.

katsuki continues, voice rough and sure. "you got opinions, you got taste, you know what you want. you don't sit there smilin' through dumb shit just so other people can feel better about givin' you less than you deserve."

you swallow hard.

"and yeah," he says, glancing over, "you're a pain in the ass sometimes."

you laugh wetly, because of course he'd say it like that.

"but you're my pain in the ass." his thumb strokes once over your knee. "exactly where i want you."

tears slip freely now before you can stop them.

katsuki notices immediately and groans. "ah, hell, stop it woman."

"i hate you," you whisper.

"no, you don't."

"you made me cry in the car. my mascara is probably runny. and my nose is gonna be snotty."

he digs a tissue out of the console with one hand, passes it you you without looking. "you'll survive."

you dab under your eyes carefully. "i look pretty when i cry don't i?"

he snorts. "there she is."

you're mostly recovered by the time you both make it home. mostly.

enough to resume normal routine, which means standing in the entryway while Katsuki kneels to unbuckle the straps of your heels because you've declared your feet "too emotionally exhausted" to do it yourself.

he glances up at you from where he's crouched, beautiful ruby eyes meeting your own. "emotionally exhausted."

"yes."

"from sitting at dinner and being hot?"

"from enduring the public, baby."

he hums like this is a valid medical explanation.

there are men out there who would feel emasculated by this, maybe. by kneeling for a woman who complains about dirty wine glasses and insists on fresh flowers in the apartment every week and refuses to carry anything heavier than her own phone.

but he looks like a king from where he is. looks like worship doesn't diminish him whatsoever, looks like devotion—when done right—is power.

"what?" he asks.

"i love you."

his expression shifts—small, but devastating. a little surprise, even now. not because he doubts it. just simply because it still gets him, every time.

"yeah?" he says softly.

you hum in response.

you smooth a hand over the front of his shirt. "even though you're kinda bossy."

he quirks a brow. "kinda?"

"and mean."

"to everyone else."

"and occasionally to me."

"you like it."

you sigh dramatically. "unfortunately."

the corner of his mouth lifts. he slides both hands under your thighs and picks you up like you weigh nothing. you let out a small squeal and tighten your arms around him, indignant on instinct.

"your feet are emotionally exhausted," he says, deadpan, already carrying you down the hall. "wouldn't want you sufferin'."

you narrow your eyes. "you're making fun of me."

"a little."

"you're so rude to the woman you love."

he pushes the bedroom door with his shoulder. "and yet.."

and yet.

thats the whole thing, really.

and yet he knows the exact serum you're running low on without checking. and yet he moved your charger to your side of the bed because you always forget it in the living room. and yet he can identify the difference between your annoyed sigh and your actually upset one from another room. and yet he takes the pins out of your hair one by one when you're too tired.

and yet he still looks at you like none of this is charity. like loving you isn't labor. like you are not too much.

like you are, some fuckin' how, exactly enough to fill every empty place inside his fiery self.

he sets you on the bed and starts unfastening his watch, but not before unzipping the back of your dress because he knew you'd ask him to.

"you really mean it?" you say, because the feeling you have right now is too big to leave alone.

he glances over.

"when you say that," you add. "that im where you want me?"

katsuki stills.

then he steps back between your knees where you sit on the edge of the mattress, braces his big hands on either side of you, and lowers just enough that you can't look anywhere but him.

"there's nowhere else i want you," he says.

and you hate how much it affects you.

your fingers curl in the front of his shirt. "even when i'm being awful?"

his mouth twitches. "especially then."

and you both just sit there for a minute, eyes flickering between each others, back and forth.

then he kisses you. not a nasty sloppy kiss like he needs you desperately. the kind of kiss that says he knows, he understands, and he chose this. the kind of kiss that says every spoiled little thing about you fits into his scarred hands like it was made for them.

you melt into it, because of course you do.

you know he's the love of your life. your love in every life.

and you both get ready for bed in your normal routines. he hands you every serum and product you need without you having to ask. but don't be mistaken, because whether you realize it or not, you do all of these things for him too.

you do it as you put his watch back in the case since he always leaves it lying around. you do it as you mindlessly pull out the pants he likes to wear to bed every night. you do it as you grab a water from the mini fridge since he chugs one down every night before bed. you do it as you hang up his hero suit for tomorrow, already having cleaned it earlier.

you do it because you love him so damn much.

and you love the way he loves you.

and katsuki is exactly where he wants to be.

with you in his bed, in his shirt, asking for ridiculous velvet hangers after nearly crying over how loved you are.

his beautiful, impossible girl.

his favorite pain in the ass.

his princess.

i’ve been getting inspired by these like bitchy reader fics i’ve been seeing so had to do one myself (a lil different) this was the cutest thing i’ve ever written omg also reader is soooooo valid id be the exact same way if i was rich, unemployed, and obviously dating katsuki bakugou. love her.

[teefushi]

LAW & RAW, ORDER & OLDER !

CONTENT WARNING. MDNI, fem! reader, law student! reader, lawyer higuruma, 6.9k words, age gap (24&36), fluff & smut, slow burn? game of thrones references, porn with plot, unprotected sex, office sex, rough? sex, sloppy makeouts, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, higuruma is an EATER, spit, praise, choking, pussy spanking, dirty talk, belly bulge, big dick higuruma, he loves eye contact, dacryphilia? he’s mean & cocky if you squint. enjoy!

your pen sits between your teeth as your eyes switch from the thick textbook splayed open on your kitchen island and your laptop screen.

the cursor blinks for the millionth time in your setup word document. countless words plastered in that irritating format of times new roman size twelve that you’ve done a thousand times over.

words mutter under your breath as you multitask in reading, taking notes, and applying the newfound information to your assignment.

“hey, is your prof still asking you guys to take internships?”

your roommate comes from hibernating out of her room, eyes glued to her phone as she saunters over to the kitchen.

you barely catch the words that fly out her mouth, brows furrowing as you look up from your work for the first time in hours. the swivel stool you sat on creaks as you sit up straighter, cringing from how long you held that crouching position.

“uh…. no.” you shake your head, confused as to why she brought it up. she was never the type to dwell on your life as a law student unless overhearing about a case study that seemed ‘too juicy’ to skip out on. “deadline’s like, next week so they’re just talking about the paper due the week after to describe our experience so far.”

“oh.” she says, sounding surprised. “well, did you find anything?”

you hum. “i’ve got an interview tomorrow. it’s multi-hire so i’ve got a good chance. why?”

“nothing really.” she shrugs, taking a breath as she scavenges the freezer, grabbing the first pint of ice cream she sees. “a friend of my cousin works at this law firm and i think she said they’re looking for a temp since she’s going out of the country for a while.”

you nod, chewing on the end of your pen. “send me their info. i’ll check it out.”

so that’s exactly what you do. your roommate helps you exchange information with this friend who you’ve learned to be is a young woman named shimizu. she worked as a assistant for an independent defense attorney, higuruma hiromi.

you’ve heard his name a few times from news outlets, primarily known to take on difficult cases but nonetheless highly skilled and quite honestly a prime example of what you hoped to become as far as talent.

shimizu was going overseas for a little over half a year. that’s entirely way more than what your assignment calls for but you would be paid well plus it could serve as the perfect job to strengthen your experience in law.

it didn’t take much for shimizu to hire you, her eagerness to hurry up and leave was clear. she sent you an email describing her normal routine, things to keep an eye on that higuruma normally forgets and a warning to just be patient for any cases he picks up.

naturally, you were nervous. palms sweating as you clutched your purse and tucked the folder shimizu provided tightly between your arm.

your heels clack with each step you make up into the building then finally, in bold letters, ‘higuruma law office’. you knock, looking around as you wait for a response.

“come in.”

the voice is so deep it sends chills down your spine. anxiety pools your chest as you twist the handle, making slow hesitant steps into the office.

it’s small but not cramping and fairly neat. you continue forward, making your presence known. who you assume to be higuruma sits at a chair, pen scribbling against a paper at an incredible speed.

he doesn’t look up at first, deeply sighing and too focused on the work in front of him. that is until he takes notice of your silence following your entry. his eyes immediately lift, dragging over your attire for a momentary second. “i’m sorry.” he clears his throat, standing then approaching you with his hand out. “how can i help you?”

“i… uhm… i’m y/n.” you meet his hand with a nervous smile. “i’m filling in for shimizu?” it’s embarrassing how unsure you sound as if you hadn’t met shimizu yourself telling you detail for detail about the duties of the job.

his brows furrow slightly as he slowly slips his hand from your weak grip. he checks his watch then runs his fingers through his hair. “right, right. i forgot about that…” he sighs, moreso to himself and then nods, pointing to the empty cubicle beside his. “take a seat, did shimizu already inform you on what we’re currently working on?”

you nod, carefully setting your belongings down and making yourself comfortable on the chair.

“could i see? if you don’t mind.” he stands over you, watching as you turn the monitor on with quickness and log in to your email account, surfing through the important ones you had starred before finally landing on shimizu’s.

higuruma leans over, his presence immediately makes you feel small and you can slightly feel the weight of his chest as he gently grabs the mouse from your hand.

you keep your eyes on the screen, fiddling with your fingers while he looks at the lengthy details relayed. suddenly, he takes a breath then clicks forward and slides the keyboard over.

“looks good.” he finally stands, eyes dropping down to you. “we’ll just be working on that for today. if anything changes i’ll let you know.”

for the first three weeks of working for higuruma goes the same way. coming into the office, saying hello, and him sharing any updates on the current case. some days call for extremely long hours, others are your typical. then there were days like today where you’d be traveling together and have to stay overnight at hotels.

one room, separate beds.you and higuruma hadn’t crossed that bridge of being comfortable with one another just yet. it was still awkward smiles and brief exchanges of conversation only in relation to work.

with the work day being over, you showered and decided to walk around the hotel for a bit, maybe grab a bite to eat. you also brought your textbooks and laptop so you could use the time to study for the baby bar you have coming up.

you sat at a table, eating as you focus on your studies. no more than half an hour passes when a figure approaches your table.

“mind if i sit?”

your eyes lift at the deep voice, widening for a short second as you realize it to be higuruma’s. he stands there in a plain black t-shirt and same colored plaid pajama pants with a plate of food in his hand.

it was different to see him in a more cosy state rather than being suited up. when you focus on the fact he’s still there, tilting his head as he waits on your response you sit up and nod a bit frantically.

“yes—yes, of course. please sit.” you gesture to the seat ahead of you which he takes.

it’s silent for a moment as you’re more frigid now, eyes glued to your book without reading a damn thing. higuruma pops a fry into his mouth, looking around the semi-packed dining area before returning his attention to you. “you’re still in school?”

you nod, “in my first year.”

he raises a subtle brow at that which you don’t even notice considering you’ve found it difficult to always make eye contact with him.

“first year?” he hums, chewing down on another fry. “you’re young.”

“i guess…” you laugh shyly. “it’s not like you’re old.”

he smiles at that, leaning in with his elbows on the table as he continues to take singular bites of his food. “you don’t think so? how old do you think i am?”

you shrug, finally lifting your eyes to scan the features of his face.

he was obviously older than you but you only deduced that from the way he talks and conducts himself yet he didn’t share any facial features that gave away his age.

“thirty?” you squint, not wanting to guess too high and he gets offended.

he chuckles, shaking his head. “no, but i’m honored you thought that low. i’m thirty six.”

“still young.” you smile, dropping your eyes back down.

“so what’re you learning?” he sighs, leaning back again, spreading his long legs to be more comfortable and points at your books.

“nothing really.” you mumble. “just studying for the baby bar.”

“wow…” he nods partially in shock, suddenly thinking of the age gap between you. it’s been so long since his days of staying up all day and all night long when preparing for that exam. “you think you’ve got it? i could help you out.”

you definitely don’t got it. there were still at least another two months before you’d have to take the exam. all the current information you were learning was still processing and quite honestly you had a habit of doubting your skills and weren’t sure if you’d be able to get the score you’re aiming to achieve.

you shake your head at higuruma’s offer. “no, it’s okay. you already have so much going on. i rather not add to that.”

“i’m offering.” he smiles warmly, wanting to assure that it wasn’t a big deal as he crosses his arms lazily across his chest.

it’s only for second that you ogle the surprising size of his bicep when it’s contracted. you shake your head again. “i’ll be fine. thank you though. i appreciate it.”

higuruma hums not pushing any further on the subject. “do you drink?” he asks after swallowing down a bite of his burger.

“sometimes.” you shrug, clicking through your documents of notes that you were hardly paying attention to with higuruma making small conversation.

“would you like to drink now?”

the second time you look at him you see the teasing look in his own as if he’s urging you to loosen up for the night. he’s clearly in the mood to get to know you. perhaps one night of a few drinks wouldn’t be so bad.

“i suppose…” you sport a bashful smile, clicking out of your tabs and shutting down your laptop. you set it aside with your textbooks as higuruma orders your first round of drinks.

it starts off timid as if he’s testing the waters with some cocktails then began to try a little of everything. tropical drinks, shots, beer, and wine. of course you limited yourself to one of each— aside from the shots due to the fact you had a busy day tomorrow but it was surely enough to get you a bit passed tipsy.

higuruma proved to be holding his liquor better than you, smiling fondly as you babble on about the targaryen family line. at first he was curious about a video you were laughing at from tiktok and had to explain it was from game of thrones. you then learned he never watched the show and thought he’d find major interest in it.

you would yap about the politics, power, family, loyalty, and corruption. though once you got to the targaryens, higuruma had to pause at the mention of inbreeding.

“so what’s the difference between velaryons’s and targaryen’s?”

“velaryon and targaryen are house names.” you giggle, toying with your straw. “family lines. being valyrian is like, their racial background.”

“interesting…” he nods, sipping on his rum & coke. “and what’s the relationship between uh… daenerys? and jon?”

“i really shouldn’t be telling you this.” you laugh. “don’t you want to watch it now?”

“…i guess you’re right.” he grins, followed by a sigh as he stretches his arms over his head. “should we watch it tonight?”

you check the time on your phone, it was late. nearing midnight. it was tempting to indulge in a late night watch of one of your favorite shows but you’d probably regret it by the morning.

you bite down on your bottom lip, hiding the smile that wants to show. “it’s late…” you sigh out. “we probably shouldn’t.”

“then let’s start now.” he urges, opening his wallet and dropping a few dollars to cover the tab and allow the server to end their night with a more than generous tip. “c’mon.” he gestures his head, holding his hand out to you.

even with being a little drunk, you still felt shy coming in such close contact with higuruma. as you lifted your hand to connect with his, he guided you through the hotel and it grew quieter upon reaching the elevators.

he’s still holding your hand, waiting for them to open. you attempt to ignore the way his thumb gently brushes against your skin rhythmically and how this must look to bystanders. the thought is cut short when the doors finally split open and higuruma lets go of your hand to palm your lower back.

higuruma follows you in, pressing the floor number. you stand side by side, him humming a soft tune whilst you stare down at your feet to avoid meeting his stare that you could feel burning into you.

it was like a breath of fresh air upon reaching your floor and seeing the doors open. higuruma places his hand to your back again, guiding you down the quiet hall before reaching your room.

he presses the keycard to the sensor, following you in. you take slow steps inside, dropping your laptop and textbook onto your bed.

“what’s it on?” he huffs, turning on the tv.

you make yourself comfortable under the sheets, sighing in relief from the cold. “hbo.”

he surfs for a few seconds before shaking his head. “i don’t think this tv has that.”

“oh…” you frown then look at your laptop. “i mean, we could watch it on my laptop?”

he turns, thinking on what that means.

you both knew that meant laying down on the same bed, next to each other. he rubs his chin in thought. “only if you’re okay with it.”

your body grows hot but you nod slowly, scooting over to make space for him. he eyes the empty space for a few seconds, making hesitant steps forward. “are you sure? we could always watch it another time.”

“…it’s okay.” you spoke softly. “i want to watch it with you.”

he smiles at that, proceeding to lift up the covers and tuck himself under the covers beside you. the immediate warmth of his skin brushes yours and the two of you look at each other the moment he’s settled.

his eye contact is so intense and… unsettling almost that it has chills run down your spine. you want to look away but higuruma speaks up before you can.

“you’re really shy for a future lawyer.”

your brows furrow at his statement. “m’not.”

“you are.” he chuckles, eyes low as he can feel the crash from all the drinks overtake him.

“i think it’s just you.” you boldly argue.

he raises a brow. “yeah? what about me makes you so shy?”

you open your mouth but nothing can follow through especially with him so close you can feel your stomach churn when you catch yourself looking at his lips. “just… shut up.” you huff, grabbing for your laptop.

higuruma laughs, watching you log into hbo, searching for game of thrones. he steps out of the bed momentarily to turn off the lights before you can press start.

you settle the laptop atop both your legs, sighing as you press play on the first episode.

within the first thirty minutes, you fall asleep, your head rested against higuruma’s shoulder. he stayed up through three episodes, thoroughly enjoying the cause of events but forced himself to go to sleep or else he’d be having a rough day.

by the time the morning comes and your alarm goes off, you groan softly, eyes struggling to flutter open. you aimlessly search for your phone, shutting off the annoying sound before laying back down but then you feel a touch of skin.

you fully open your eyes, face twisting in fear at the sight of higuruma in your bed sound asleep. you weren’t that drunk where you didn’t remember wanting to watch game of thrones together but you weren’t sure why he stayed on your bed through the rest of the night.

you poked him, the action immediately waking him up. he breathes heavily, eyes fluttering open. he turns his head to face you. “good morning.”

“…morning.” you mumble, all the slight confidence you gained last night completely gone. though you did feel a certain comfortability now around him.

“sleep okay?” he husks out, lifting himself from the bed.

you nod, nervously twisting the sheets.

he checks the time. it was still early and you wouldn’t be meeting with your client until the afternoon. “do you want breakfast?”

“sure.”

“anything in particular?” he grabs his keys from the nightstand, swinging them around his pointer finger.

“your choice.” you shrug.

he hums. “go shower. get dressed. i’ll be back.”

you do as he says, showering, getting dressed, then eat breakfast with him once he gets back.

the day follows on as planned, you meet with the client, discuss the case, write down details, aim to search for more evidence and layout options.

for the next few weeks, you spent long hours traveling with higuruma to collect more evidence in support of your case. for a time you were able to juggle all the work but the stress of your bar exam coming up was starting to take a toll.

you wanted more time to study but you also had to sacrifice a lot of time to help higuruma. so you start to force yourself to stay up most nights, hardly getting any sleep, caffeine intake drastically rising.

it not only began to present itself through your physical presence but with the way you interacted with higuruma. at first he could understand having been in your position of working between school, studying, and work but as the weeks passed he noticed your decline was starting to affect your work performance.

he’d allow for a few things to slide but not at the risk of a client's future behind bars. so when he asks you a question and you remain too zoned out to answer, he’ll sigh.

“y/n.”

“hm?” you’ll hum, pen twisting between your teeth, completely focused on the textbook laid out.

“look at me.” he commands, tone still gentle as he waits for your eyes to meet his. higuruma was completely aware of your inability to do so but he couldn’t care at the moment. so when you only lift them for a second as if to show you were listening then drop them back to your computer screen he shakes his head with a sigh.

you don’t even notice him stand then come around to palm your chair until he shuts your laptop closed and snatches the pen from your hand. he ignores your surprised reaction. “is this becoming too much for you?”

you frown, opening your mouth to say something but you can’t follow through. instead you shake your head.

he spins you in your seat, forcing you to face him. “can you look at me when i’m speaking to you, please?”

“higuruma, i’m sorry—” you start with a small pout, not listening to what he asked.

“you don’t need to apologize. just look at me.”

it’s silent for a few seconds and you finally flicker your eyes up to look at him. a hand rests on the chair, the other on your desk completely caging you in. you can smell the strong but warm scent of his cologne that radiates off his skin and clothes.

“is this too much for you?” he asks again. “i can give you a break.”

“n-no.” you deny his inquisition. “the work is fine. it’s just… the studying. i’ve got my exam coming up really soon, i’m sorry.”

“it’s fine.” he assures, “look, on the weekends and on our breaks, i’ll help you study. it’s not nice seeing you like this, okay?”

you nod and he stands at his full height, comfortably squeezing your shoulder then patting your head. “take a nap. you look like you need it.”

there was about one more month left until you’d have to take the exam and higuruma keeps through on his promise and dedicates any moment of extra time he has to help you study.

his methods actually allowed you to gain more sleep, balance work more appropriately, and retain the information easier. you genuinely felt like you were learning. you even complimented higuruma on his skills of teaching, claiming that he’d make a great professor.

this continues throughout the month until it was time for the actual day. he helped you study in the morning for a bit, not too much as he didn’t want to override your brain. he got you breakfast and decided to drop you off at the testing site.

“i’ll be right here, okay?”

you nod, looking at him with a solemn smile. you hesitate at first but overwhelmed by your emotions you reach over the console to give him a hug. “thank you…”

he lets out a breath that sounds close to a laugh, hands coming around to circle your body. his palm rubs up and down your back in a comforting motion. “you’ve got this.” he whispers. “good luck.”

you head into the building, gone for a total of three and a half hours. he fell asleep in the car for about an hour until he hears three rampant knocks to the passenger window.

he sees your figure standing there with other individuals following out the building. immediately, he unlocks the door, watching you hop into the car without a word.

“how do you think you did?” he sighs, turning the ignition of the car.

you can only shrug, anxiety riddled through your body. passing was the only option for you. you opted out in taking it the first month the exam is taken so you’d have more time to study. this was your last chance or else you wouldn’t be able to advance in your studies.

higuruma takes in your worrisome expression, reaching his hand out to gently squeeze your shoulder. “should we go out for some drinks?”

you let out a small laugh, looking at him and nodding.

the two of you settle for some small bar, doing the same as before. indulging in every kind of drink but still keeping limitations. eventually, higuruma suggested to watching game of thrones and you in your slightly drunk state of mind couldn’t deny.

you end up at his home because you were too scared of what your roommate might say if you brought higuruma home. you step into the threshold, eyes wide as you stare around in awe.

“why is it so empty?” you giggle, noticing the lack of… anything.

it was as if he simply bought the house and disregarded buying any furniture, dishes, and utensils. does he even live here? was your initial thought as you scavenged through his pantry, cabinets, and refrigerator only to find nothing that could saturate your hunger.

“i spend most of my time at the office.” he huffs, tugging off his suit jacket and tossing it on his sofa. “i mainly come back here to shower and change clothes.”

you hum, clutching your purse as you continue to look around, dragging your fingers along surfaces.

that’s sort of become your lifestyle too now. you’ve no doubt seen higuruma more than your own roommate— which supported why you definitely couldn’t bring him over without warning.

he steps towards you, pointing to your purse and jacket. “would you like to shower?”

“that’d be nice…” you nod, handing him your belongings to toss with his jacket.

he grabs an extra towel he luckily had and his pajamas for you to wear since you didn’t have any clothes of your own. “i plan to order some food, do you want anything in particular?”

“dealer’s choice.” you smile at him. he nods, leaving you to shower as he picks on what to eat. you shower for about half an hour as you spent half of that time snooping around his restroom for any indication of a woman being here.

it was surely none of your business but you couldn’t help but find yourself intrigued by higuruma. naturally, amongst the things you wondered about was if he shared a life with someone. though it should’ve been obvious with the way he never spends his time at home and the simple fact of you being here.

you dried yourself off, putting on his clothes and unsure of where to put the used towel, you walk into his bedroom searching for a hamper. though you find yourself eager to just look around. there wasn’t much to find except for the basics.

you open his closet and find a wide range of suits all in black and white along with his pajamas that were the same color. he also had a distinct collection of watches and cologne.

you end up spraying the different fragrances into the air, adoring the mixture of them being woody, earthy, and citrusy. you take one, spraying it onto yourself.

“having fun?”

you turn fast on your feet, startled by his voice. he sports a teasing smile and you can’t help but feel your body grow hot in embarrassment. “um… sorry…” you laugh nervously, placing the cap back on to the cologne and settling it back in its original spot.

he shakes his head, fond of how you looked, “it’s alright. i ordered chinese.” he then hands you the remote to the tv and his phone for you to track the food. “log in to hbo. i’ll go take a quick shower.”

you nod, heading back out and taking a seat on his sofa. you log into hbo and as you waited, you ended up using his phone to scroll through tiktok. you definitely could’ve used your own but it felt more fun to use his considering the fact he didn’t even have the app in the first place.

the food arrived and within ten minutes after higuruma was done with his shower, fully dressed. he was wearing the same thing as you with the exception of his clothes looking larger on your frame.

he takes a seat beside you, spreading out the arrangement of food he bought on the mini table he had. you press play on the show and hour after hour you felt happier, completely forgetting that you even had an exam today. forgetting that you spent months worrying about this very day all thanks to higuruma.

you always grew a certain amount of courage after drinking so it went without a thought for you to sigh after feeling full then lean sideways to rest your head on his shoulder.

“thank you for today.” you mumble, eyes glued to the screen.

higuruma’s sprawled back, legs spread until you lean against him.

he doesn’t want to think too hard about the current proximity, simply enjoying the moment as he throws an arm around you so you’d feel more comfortable snuggling up to him.

“you deserved it.” he squeezes you gently and you don’t say anything in response, just cozying up to him some more.

from that day, you and higuruma grew closer than ever and you began to notice that you often thought about him, smiled at him more, opened up, and gained the courage to look at him longer.

with every compliment, touch, and night that you spent at his house watching game of thrones whilst eating food, there was no denying that you shared particular feelings for him.

and as the weeks past, you began to wonder what you should do with these feelings until the time came where the scores for the bar exam were out. the two of you were sat in the office per usual, and you received an email notification describing that the scores for the exam were out and where to check them.

you swallowed thickly, logging in to your admissions portal.

“did you ever get a copy of the prosecution's discovery?” higuruma asks, mindlessly flipping through a file.

his question is followed by silence and he’ll lift his head. “y/n?”

upon the continuous silence, higuruma rolls on his chair, peeking his head over to your cubicle to see you hiding your face and your shoulders shaking. concerned at the sight, he stands, and approaches you to palm your shoulder and that’s when he begins to understand that you’re crying when a fragile sob falls past your lips.

his heart burns at the broken sound. “what’s wrong?” his eyes lift to your monitor and see the familiar page of the exam results. he scrolls through the letter to see you’ve passed.

a laugh of relief spills from his throat, glad that your reaction isn’t due to any devastating news. his hand circles around your wrist and tugs at it. “come here.”

you slowly stand, allowing your emotions to flow upon feeling his arms encircle you tightly. you’ll cry into his chest, managing to thank him through your tears. he’ll shush you, rubbing at your back and cradling the back of your head.

“you did such a good job.” he murmurs into your hair.

he continues to mumble praises into your hair and ear, holding and consoling you until your crying has calmed down. once he hears you letting out small breaths to control your breathing, he pulls back, wiping at your tear stained cheeks. “i’m so proud of you.”

your body grows hot at the compliment paired with his stare as he gently cups your cheek, thumb swiping across the skin.

you let out a shaky breath, not sure if it was from your crying or that feeling pooling between your legs. your eyes drop down to his lips then back up to his eyes. higuruma does the same and you can’t help but curl your fingers around his dress shirt.

both of your breathing picks up and neither of you are sure of what to do in this moment. you can feel his free hand drop from your back then down to your waist as you each exchange flickering looks between your lips and eyes.

“higuruma…” you breathe out and he shakes his head, closing his eyes then pressing his forehead to yours.

“hiromi.” he corrects, switching his hand that cups your cheeks to palm the back of your neck. “my name… say it. that’s all i need.”

you fight the whine that bubbles in your throat, gripping tightly onto him as you open your mouth. “hiromi…”

he gives in at the immediate desperation his name holds, roughly pressing you against him so your lips could meet.

the two of you have your hands moving everywhere along your bodies and a gasp rushes from your lungs as he frantically lifts you onto the desk.

items clatter everywhere as he knocks them away whilst dipping his tongue into your mouth. it’s frantic and eager the way your mouths clash together. soft groans and moans spilling into the air as papers crumble beneath your figure.

you kick off your heels as hiromi hikes your skirt around your hips, pressing your back against the surface and knocking your legs open with his knees, revealing the lace panties hidden underneath them.

he presses himself against you with a rough groan, one hand hoisting your leg at his waist, whilst the other taps your cheek then grips your face to press into them. “open.”

your jaw widens, and hiromi hums before spitting in your mouth then leaning in to connect your lips again.

he’s hard and big.

it’s all you can think of as your tongues mesh together in perfect harmony.

weeks of built up feelings that you both tried so hard to fight all falling at the seams. you reach up to tug at his black roots as he unconsciously ruts himself against your clothed core.

you take advantage when he finally pulls away, a string of saliva following with him. his lips are swollen and covered in spit as he leans down to kiss along your jaw, then suck at the skin of your neck. you pant feverishly against his ear, gripping tighter onto him each time his bulge connects with your clit just right.

deep shaky breaths fly through his nose as rolls his hips, eyes squeezing tightly from the tightness building in his pants. it felt so fucking good to hear those soft whimpers and moans escape your lips. “feels so good.” he groans, pressing his forehead against yours. you two practically rubbing against each other like bunnies in heat without even starting the main course.

you whimper feeling yourself clench around nothing. your hands grasp for higuruma and he hums, kissing just below your ear. “gonna cum?”

you nod, mouth slacked open as he breathes harshly against your neck. “that’s okay, sweetheart.” he huffs, using his free hand to travel down between your bodies. fuck, he thinks the moment his fingers feel how drenched your panties are. your eyes blow wide as he pinches your clothed clit then rubs in tight circles. “you can cum, it’s okay.”

“oh my god.” you tremble and writhe against his lengthy figure, clawing at his back and arms as you feel lost on what to hold on with your orgasm building every second.

he stops the movement of his hips, grasping your neck so you’d be staring straight at him as he picks up the pace of his fingers. “come on.” he licks his lips, maintaining the eye contact he forces you to hold. “i wanna see you. you’re almost there.”

“hiromi—” you choke on the air, threatening to close your eyes but he shakes your head, warning you to keep them open as your body trembles from the euphoria that overcomes you.

“good job.” he wipes at your forehead and cheeks, standing to his full height. you use his tie to lift yourself up, meeting your lips again and immediately sloshing your tongue with his. while he fumbles to unbutton your shirt you do the same then aggressively toss off his tie. his large hands grope at your breast before unclipping your bra to flick and twist at your nipple. you moan into his mouth, fingertips caressing the light muscles of his abs.

he finds it quite amusing how you flinch with each twist and tug but nonetheless you let him continue his worship of your body. he leaves your skirt cinched around your waist, squeezing your hips then slowly tugs your panties down your legs.

you can’t imagine what he plans to do next until he drops both his hands behind your thighs, pressing them down as far as he can before bending down to dip his head between your legs.

his tongue flattens against your leaking hole, sucking up all slick your pussy produced. you reach straight for his hair, choking on a moan. “w-wait, i can’t.” you tell him, quivering at the sudden sensation. it certainly didn’t help with how big his nose is, he had the advantage to nudge it against your clit each lick and suck.

“i just want to taste you.” his voice vibrates against you, eliciting a strangled moan out of you. “is that okay, love?” he pulls back momentarily, mouth and nose coated in your juices as he presses a kiss to either side of your thighs.

what gets you is the fact he genuinely waits on your response. you nod feebly and he presses a kiss to your clit. “thank you.” is all he says before continuing his actions. your eyes immediately squeeze shut and you’re not sure if you’re trying to push his head or pull him closer. regardless, your back arches off the desk, pulling at his hair as he holds you down to prevent any more of your squirming.

a sound of absolute satisfaction rumbles in his chest and higuruma loses himself in your taste. he’s quite filthy really. you would’ve never expected him to be the type of man that relentlessly switches between licking, spitting, and sucking the way he does. a small pool of liquid has likely formed under you by now.

“r-romi, m’ gonna cum.” he hears, feeling the way you buck up against his mouth and quite literally has to force himself off you at the announcement. he seethes in a breath, huffing and puffing, licking around his mouth.

higuruma stands straight again, unbuckling his belt, letting out a soft breath as he no longer feels constricted. your eyes fall when he drops his pants and briefs. shit. i mean, you figured he was big but not that fucking big.

you yelp as he pulls you to the edge of the table, slapping his thick cock against your drooling hole that pulses around nothing.

“can i?” he collects your mess between his fingers, spreading your folds and gliding his shaft between them.

you nod but higuruma shakes his head then grips your neck to pull you up. “tell me, sweetheart. can i?”

“p-please.” you look up at him, all doe eyed and desperate. his hand squeezes your neck and keeps you looking at him as he uses his other hand to pull you closer, prodding in just the tip then slowly pushes himself into your warm, gushing cunt. your mouth slacks open at the stretch, gasping for air as higuruma squeezes tighter from the way you sporadically clench around his length.

he’s only halfway in and it’s taking all his energy to not cum. your pussy is torturously sucking him in, so much so a quivering grunt echoes from his chest. he pats your thigh in response. “ease up, it’s just me, darling.” he tells you, and you want to laugh at how serious he’s being. ease up? not fucking possible when at least eight inches length and formidable girth was pushing itself into you.

once he’s finally filled to the hilt. your legs cross around his hips, grasping his wrist, preventing him from squeezing too tight on your throat. “you’re always such a good girl… so smart and beautiful.” he praises, leaning in to peck your lips then follows with butterflies kisses along your jaw and neck then comes back up to meet your lips again. your mouths twist slower, fiery and brimmed with passion to distract you from the roll of his hips.

“so warm.” he moans against your lips, biting down and sucking on your bottom one. he finally lets go of your neck, pushing you on your back again then clasping both thighs as leverage to pummel himself deep into your pussy. he groans along to your whimpers and moans, dark eyes focused on the imprint that shows itself on your stomach with every thrust.

his light abs glisten with sweat, his brows furrowed as he zones into the way he disappears in and out of your pussy that sucks him in and coats his base white.

papers crumble beneath your fist as your moans are pulled closer together, the indication that your orgasm was fast approaching. the effect likely to be huge since you already had your first and was denied your second. hiromi grunts, fixing you into a mean semi-mating press, legs over his shoulders as his balls mercilessly slap against your skin to echo around the office space.

“gonna cum.” you quiver but higuruma smacks your clit as if that’s supposed to help.

“hold it.”

“i-i can’t.” you look at him, pouting.

his eyes snap up to meet yours and he smacks you again. “hold it.”

he somehow moves faster and harder, harshly breathing with sweat beading down his temple. after a minute, you’re completely spent, eyes watering as you shake your head. “romi, please. i can’t hold it.”

“shhh.” he huffs, pressing his palm over your mouth, viciously chasing the high of his orgasm. he rolls his eyes shut, sticking two fingers into your mouth. “go. hurry up and cum.”

it’s only a few seconds after his command that your waves come crashing down, body yearning to close upon itself due to the overstimulation but higuruma keeps you spread open, still thrusting for what feels like over a minute.

he pulls out, a hand immediately coming to pump at his length, the other angling your body just right so when he forces your mouth open, hot spurts of his cum land on your breasts, chin, and tongue.

hiromi takes a breath that sounds like he’s inhaling fresh air, squeezing at his tip to extract every ounce of his fill. he takes a good and long look at your weak body, collecting his remains that landed on you to push back into your mouth.

“so beautiful…” he cups your cheek, holding you upright since you clearly can’t. “you alright? did i hurt you?”

“no… i’m okay.” you mumble, staring up at him as if he held up the moon and stars. “was i?… okay?”

“absolutely, love.” his brows furrow, gently caressing your skin as he looks at you. “more than okay. perfect.”

you smile shyly at that and he has a similar question on his mind as he helps in cleaning you up. “are we okay?”

“am i okay for you?”

hiromi has begun to understand your naturally shy and timid nature but it also crossed his mind that your sense of overthinking would come into play with your age gap.

it wasn’t drastic of course but he would never want to put you in a position that made you seemingly uncomfortable.

you nod with a small smile, gripping his bicep and pulling him in to press a gentle kiss to his lips. “more than okay… perfect.”

© teefushi × do not copy, translate, modify or repost any of my work on any platform, or claim it as your own.

[gojover]

✰ THE ART OF GETTING HIM

geto suguru is everyone’s first crush. having a crush on him is as hopeless as it is inevitable though your friends quickly disagree that the awe-struck, mouth gaping expression is a strictly you thing, and that he isn't as much of a campus celebrity as you believe he is. regardless, you're determined to put your inability to hold a conversation with him in the past. the solution is simple, you seek out his best friend. if geto suguru is everyone’s first crush (again, a completely objective statement), then gojo satoru is everyone’s first heartbreak.

pairing: frat&icehockey!gojo x reader

content: mdni, idiots in love, oblivious reader, baby’s first kiss + virginity taken by same person (satoru ><), suguru as the wingman, a little angst, mostly fluff + crack !! titjob, a little spitting, p in v, degrading, oral, fingering handjob etc etc 37k+

note: happy belated national arabian horse day! this was meant to come out on the 19th but life got in the way... regardless of the day hit up a friend and start beating a dead horse to celebrate!

Geto Suguru is everyone’s first crush. Your friends insist you’re seeing him through some delusional rose-tinted lens and that he is, in fact, not as much of a campus celebrity as you believe him to be. You reject that notion. One look at him from across the room, other party goers be damned, is all it takes to confirm what you already know. Geto laughs at something one of his friends says, tipping forward slightly as the alcohol softens his movements. You catch the tail ends of his laughter through the thumping bass, the glint of light reflected off his lip piercings when he smiles wide, his hand running through his untied black hair. It would be as easy as walking up and saying hi to start a conversation. It would be as easy as smiling for him to turn his head and grace you with a smile of his own. Oh, what you would give to be bathed in his gaze, for that pretty smile to widen at the sight of you. He’d spot you through the crowd, you’d tuck your hair shyly behind your ear and he’d politely excuse himself from his conversation to walk over to introduce himself to this mysterious beauty from across the room. Shoko makes a noise like she’s strangling herself but when you turn to save her, she’s staring at your face. “Do you have any idea what you look like right now?”

“What’s wrong? Did I smudge my liner?”

You pull out your phone to check your makeup using the reflection but between the flashing lights and someone’s elbow jutting from your peripheral, you’re only eighty percent sure you don’t look a mess.

Considering you dragged your roommate out to this party last minute, Shoko sips her drink with commendable patience. “Even if you did, that would be the least of your worries. Look, you really don’t have to overthink this. We didn’t just spend all night planning this for you to end up weirding him out with that look in your eye.”

“Shit, that was the rehearsed deer look I was talking about!"

“Rehearsed how?"

You decisively ignore her. “I just want to do this right."

Her eyes soften slightly. She’s always been weak to your woes. “You will. He’ll love you. If you don’t believe in yourself, believe in me. I promise you, I’ve known this guy for years and you’re exactly the type of person he just eats up.”

You think of all your attempts to enter Geto’s world. There's just something mystifying about him, some kind of aura he emits that has you tripping over your tongue and freezing at the worst moments. Your words become stilted, your humour and wit abandoned at every crucial moment, causing you to simultaneously dread talking to him as much as you wished for it.

Shoko turns you to face her, eyes steady in a way yours isn’t. “Are you ready?"

You let out a slow breath and attempt to mimic her determination with a single nod.

“Then go find him.”

When you hesitate to even take a single step forward, Shoko gives you a push and then you’re off, legs moving without another thought. The crowd swallows you, bodies brushing past and jolting your shoulders, knocking you here and there. But none of that matters. Not when your heart is already set. Not when determination is the one thing keeping you upright, guiding you closer and closer to the boy who somehow makes a packed, sweaty houseparty fade into background noise

For too long, you’ve let this intoxicating feeling linger, letting it settle deep in your chest, almost convincing yourself that watching from the sidelines was enough. As if anything short of his eyes on you, perhaps even his lips on yours, could quiet the restless longing twisting in your heart. Limerence is what Shoko diagnoses you with, but the word feels too small for the intensity that surges through you every time his name crosses your mind.

Geto appears like a beacon before you, the crowds having finally parted enough for you to catch a good look. The party music transitions to an angelic choir but admitting that is basically affirming Shoko’s concerns that your infatuation is unhealthy, so you quickly refocus. Your heart clenches, pounds against your ribcage, and you only hope the dim lighting will hide the warmth spreading across your cheeks. He’s right there, right within reach. All you have to do is say his name.

All you have to do is make him see you.

You take a step forward, mumble an apology to the girl you bumped shoulders with, take another step towards where he’s laughing with a friend—then veer sharply to the right and slip into the kitchen.

If talking to Geto were really as easy as saying hi, you would have done it months ago.

The kitchen is quieter, the bass reduced to a distant, muffled thump and you can finally breathe as the crowd thins. There’s still chatter though significantly more bearable and your eyes fall onto the small cluster of boys within, standing in the near dark.

Your feet instinctively slow but Shoko’s voice in your head tells you that you’ve done too much to stop now and with a deep breath, you step beyond the threshold. One by one, the group takes notice of you, their rambunctious laughter quietening into soft chuckles as heads pop up to look. It’s not strange for someone to enter the kitchen at a party so the most you get is a head nod in greeting before they return to their conversation. You reach for a red cup and then for a jug of some mysterious jungle juice. Unfortunately, the jug sits behind one of the boys. Even worse, it sits behind who you’re really here at the party looking for. Leaning lazily against the counter and nursing a red solo cup of something strong no doubt, stands Gojo, Geto’s best friend. If Geto Suguru is everyone’s first crush (again, a completely objective statement), then Gojo Satoru is everyone’s first heartbreak. You can feel the burn of Gojo’s stare as you get close enough to lift the jug and pour, hands trembling slightly. Before you can help yourself, you steal glances from the side of your eye, landing squarely on his shirt specifically at the crude letting that reads ‘Two Seater’, arrows pointing abashedly toward both his crotch and his face. You look back up immediately. You don’t want to know. The punch sloshes into your cup, some of it missing due to your shaky hands and you don’t notice until a sticky trickle runs over your fingers. You hastily stop pouring and lick at the mess. Before you can figure out how to announce your presence, there’s a rush of footsteps and another frat boy appears. Hikari, you think his name was, stands by the kitchen entrance, hair slightly disheveled from his usual style, loud and demanding as he’s always been. “Hey!” he calls, scanning the room. “You guys need to come see this." A chorus of half-drunk “what?” and “see what?” answers him like a herd of seagulls. “In the living room,” he says. “There's two people on the floor and—” He stops, glancing over his shoulder like the situation might escape him if he looks away for too long. “Just hurry up!" His vague words cause curiousity to spread faster than wildfire. The group of boys begin funnelling out of the kitchen, cups still in hand, voices rising with excitement. “What is it?" “Is it a fight?" “Please tell me it’s a fight.” “Did someone break something?” Hikari doesn’t elaborate, instead turning and leaving the kitchen, confident the herd will follow. One friend, Choso if you remember correctly, looks back at Gojo who remains calmly drinking from his cup, still leaning against the counter beside you. “Aren’t you coming, Satoru?” Gojo shrugs, tipping back the last of his drink. “Nah. You go on ahead.” Choso hesitates like he wants to ask why, then seems to think better of it. “Suit yourself,” he mutters, already backing toward the door as someone behind him shoves past with a whoop. Within seconds, the kitchen drains of bodies. You’re deathly aware of the warm presence beside you. You inhale deeply and turn, ready to get this over and done with only to find him shamelessly looking at you. For a moment, the two of you just stare at each other, his expression unreadable as he looks you over before his face splits into a lazy grin. “Hey.” “Hi,” you squeak, immediately reprimanding yourself at the awkward sound. His smile only grows. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Are you looking for someone? Or maybe you missed the exit? It’s down the hall to your right.” “That’s rude.” You cross your arms in an attempt to place distance between the two of you and to maintain a confidence you don’t feel. “I attend parties.” Gojo huffs and you feel slightly offended. He straightens and steps closer, close enough that his cologne hits you—sharp, expensive, and entirely too much. “I don’t know about that. I’ve never seen you at one of these before.” His head tilts, regarding you. “How do you even know Sukuna?"

For a moment you blank, wondering why he was asking about Sukuna. It hits you then that this party must be his. “Ah. I came with Shoko.” He hums. “That makes sense. Shoko always did have a habit of collecting strays." “Excuse me?” “Not a stray,” he amends lightly at  your glare. “More like her lost puppy.” "Just because you’ve only ever seen me when I’m with Shoko doesn’t mean I’m always with Shoko.”

“I was talking more about how you were holding onto her shirt in the crowds earlier. She didn’t bring a leash for you?"

“Don’t project your weird kinks onto me."

“Do you often spend time thinking about what weird kinks I might be into?” Thankfully, Gojo lets the topic go before you really do decide to throw it all away and walk out. “But alright, let’s say I believe you and you’re just here for the party. Why are you here in the kitchen, then?”

“What else do people come to parties for? I’m here to drink. And stuff.” You trail off, clearing your throat.

“Really?” He eyes your untouched cup. “Because that’s just juice. The good stuff’s over here."

He steps into your personal space to reach over you to grab a bottle from the top of the fridge and you’re face to face with the gross words on his top. He retracts his arm, bottle in hand, but doesn’t step back. “Want me to pour you one?”

You think back to the last time you let yourself drink under the unwise judgement of Shoko, and how you can only recall glimpses of light and the vague memory of a toilet bowl “It’s fine, I’ve already had a lot to drink."

“Right,” he says, in a tone that makes it clear he doesn’t believe you for a second.

You watch as Gojo pours himself another drink, sipping leisurely, pointedly ignoring the way you’re staring.

Gojo isn’t exactly a stranger, but it’s an overestimation to call him your friend. In truth, he’s Shoko's friend—which means she occasionally drags him back to your shared dorm before disappearing to do whatever it is best friends do. You catch glimpses of him in passing, fleeting and inconsequential, never quite crossing into ‘introduce-yourself’ territory. Why would he? He’s the kind of guy who turns heads without trying, long-limbed, effortlessly confident, wearing the grin of someone who’s never been told no in his life.

Where Geto is soft-spoken and warm, guiding you through conversation with patient smiles and gentle ease, Gojo is loud and vibrant and reckless. There's a challenge in his eyes, a knowing smirk on his lips, like the world is perpetually entertaining and he’s always in on the joke.

You, on the other hand, are about as normal as it gets.

When the silence draws into something a little less casual and far more awkward, you clear your throat. “I’m Y/N by the way."

“I know who you are.”

“You do?”

“Shoko’s roommate, right? We’ve seen each other before. She’s mentioned you too.” He offers a hand, eyes holding yours like he knows you’ll pull away with anything less. “I’m Gojo. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

You go to echo his words, that of course you knew he was the Gojo Satoru but hesitate, settling instead for shaking his hand. His grip is warm and solid, carrying none of the jitteriness you feel. Hell, maybe you should have accepted a drink after all. What is this, a job interview? Why are you shaking his hand?

When you let go, you become painfully aware of how damp your palms are and curse yourself silently.

Gojo picks up on the silence and moves to lean against the counter, mimicking your earlier pose such that his arms are crossed over his chest, only emphasising his biceps in his sleeveless top. “So, Y/N. If you didn’t come in here for a drink, why are you here?”

His words cause you to still. This was it. Every moment in your dorm, huddled around the whiteboard usually reserved for studying, now littered with far less academic plans, Shoko chiming in her own thinkpieces occasionally. It all accumulated to this moment.

“I was looking for you actually. I wanted to talk to you.” Your voice is barely a whisper and humiliation slowly sinks in when he doesn’t answer immediately. Perhaps he didn’t hear you considering you’re speaking to your shoes. When you finally look up, there’s an unreadable expression on his face. Gojo slowly tracks his eyes up and down your figure. Finally, he straightens, head tilted slightly. “Talk to me? Alone?" You nod, and his face breaks into a broad grin. “I wasn’t expecting that. Not that I hate it,” he purrs, voice dropping into something smoother as he steps closer and curls a loose lock of your hair around his finger. “What did you want to talk about, princess?" Your mind vaguely registers the gesture, feeling the dampness of your palms once again. “I don’t really want to say here." His fingers still, your hair wrapped around it. “Oh?" You wonder what that look in his eyes meant. “Could we go upstairs?” Gojo cocks his head, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His brows knit slightly, but his eyes gleam with amusement as he releases your hair, the strand falling back into place in a soft wave. “You do know I’m Shoko’s friend, right? And you’re her best friend?” “Why does that matter?” “Seriously? You don’t think it’ll be awkward?” Awkward? You blink, trying to make sense of his words. Perhaps Gojo and Shoko had argued recently. Maybe he didn’t want her catching sight of the two of you together else it put you in an awkward position. He’s more considerate than you expected. “It doesn’t have anything to do with her,” you say carefully. “Whether you or I are friends with Shoko—it doesn’t matter to me. I just want to talk to you.” You smile in satisfaction, relaxing a little at his kindness. Gojo suddenly laughs, brushing a hand through his hair as he throws his head back like you’ve said the funniest thing. When he looks back down at you, his eyes are shining. “That’s what I’m saying! But every time I joke about it to Shoko, she goes all crazy on me. Looks like we have a lot in common, huh? I guess that makes us compatible.” You continue to smile, the corners of your lips wavering a little in uncertainty. You’re not entirely sure what he means by that but considering you’re about to ask him for a favour, you appreciate his good mood. “Well, alright,” he says at last, taking your hand. “I’d love to hear you out. Lead the way.” Ignoring the little flip of nerves your stomach does as you hold his hand (perhaps he felt too drunk to climb the stairs alone?), you turn and lead him back into the living room and up the stairs to the quieter rooms of the house. The hand holding serves another purpose, you realise, as you weave through the crowds of people and he would surely have lost you had you not held on tighter, practically dragging him onward. You feel a tug before your feet can even touch the second floor, like he’s suddenly become immovable. Before you can turn and check on him, you feel the warmth of  his chest against your back, his hand slipping from yours to settle at your waist. You’re pulled to a stop, his breath now brushing against your ear, his hair tickling the side of your face. You’re certain he’s leaning over you despite being a step lower, and the faint scent of alcohol and sandalwood fills your senses. “I didn’t think you’d be so proactive,” he murmurs. You think he might have inhaled, slow and deliberate, but it’s hard to tell over the base vibrating through the floorboards and the frantic pounding of your heart. “What else are you hiding from me, hm?” He reaches for your hand and turns you slightly so you can watch as he licks your fingers, tasting the sticky residue of your spilt juice. His blue eyes seem to sparkle, mesmerising in a way that makes you freeze. “You taste sweet.” Your breath hitches and he must have heard because the hand on your waist tightens and pulls you against him, head leaning down to gently nip at your neck. Your stomach does that little flip again, this time accompanied with a hot flush that short-circuits your brain. 

“Wait!”  He chuckles softly, lips ghosting over a soft spot that makes your knees tremble a little. “Don’t be nervous. You have me right where you want me.”

You freeze, heart hammering, fingers twitching. When his hand slips just barely beneath the hem of your top, the words tumble out of you in a rush.

“I like Geto!”

For a heartbeat, everything goes still, his hand, his lips, his breath. Gojo pauses, lips pulling back from your sweaty neck. In fact, his entire body jerks back, both feet returning to the step beneath you, hand leaving your waist to turn you to face him. His fingers find your chin to tilt your face down, eyes dark as they hold yours.

“What did you just say?”

You swallow, looking him in the eye. “I like Geto.”

He stares at you wordlessly for a few more moments before he frowns, letting go of you completely and stepping down one more step just for good measure. “What the fuck are you doing here with me then?"

You gesture frantically between yourselves, finding the answer quite simple. “To talk? That’s what I said earlier, didn’t I? I wasn’t—I wasn’t insinuating… I wasn’t trying to—you know?”

“You said you wanted to come with me upstairs.”

“Yeah?”

“Alone.”

“Right.”

His frown only deepens at your easy response. “You know how that sounds, right? To get a guy alone upstairs at a party?”

“It sounds like I wanted to talk to you privately?” You try again at his disbelieving expression. “The music was super loud. I didn’t think you’d be able to hear me downstairs and I had to ask you something important so I didn’t want to risk it.”

He lets out a huff, something short and breathy, lips quirked upwards like he finds something amusing, even as his eyes stay locked on you, unmoving. “You’re kidding me, right?”

You hold out your hands as if to say, ‘What can you do?’.

Gojo groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Figures this was too good to be true.” His hand drops from his eyes to cover his mouth as he continues to stare at you. “Nothing about that situation implied you just wanted to talk. And about Suguru, of all things? Seriously, he’s being a cockblock and he isn’t even here.”

“What was that?”

“Forget it.” He drops his hand. “I’m leaving.”

You quickly hold onto his arm before he can completely turn. “Wait!”

Maybe it’s the desperation in your voice, maybe it’s your iron-clad grip on his bicep but he doesn’t attempt to pull away. Instead, he looks back and wrinkles his nose at you, a strangely childish gesture.

“I’m not in the mood to just talk. Not anymore.”

“Come on, please? There’s no one else I can ask!”

“I don’t see how that’s my problem.”

“If you could just please, out of the kindness of your heart, hear me out I would seriously appreciate it!”

He doesn’t budge.

“I won’t tell anyone I rejected you!”

He frowns. “First of all, you didn’t reject me because it was a misunderstanding. Second of all, are you really in a position to blackmail me right now?”

“I won’t tell Shoko you were the reason her favourite candle knocked over and singed a bit of her rug.”

His frown only deepens. Blackmail, you think, is surprisingly effective. “Hold on, how do you even know that?”

“What do you mean? I was literally right there.”

Gojo lets out a deep, long groan. He wriggles out of your hold, sending you a glare. “You know, you really suck at asking for help.”

“You don’t have to agree to helping me just yet. Just at least give me a chance to explain. We’re already here, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, well, I had other plans when we got up here that didn't involve just talking.”

You remind yourself to be patient. Again, you were the one asking for a favour, he’s the only one that can help you with your dilemma, you need him. Don’t call him a disgusting freak and walk away.

Clapping your hands together, you muster your best pleading look and send it his way. “Please, Gojo.”

You’re not really sure what broke through his defenses. For your own ego, you decide it must be because of your puppy dog eyes because he lets out a sigh and gives a reluctant nod.

“Go to the room to the right of the stairs.”

You bite back the instinct to cheer. Halfway through turning around, you look over your shoulder. “You’re coming too, right?” “Just get up there before I change my mind.” Wondering if souring his mood like this would backfire on you, you quickly hop up the remaining steps and head to the mentioned room just in case he really does change his mind. It would be beneficial to appease him before you ask for a crazy favour, after all. Therefore, you don’t even try to eavesdrop as Gojo continues to mumble to himself as he follows behind, worrying that somehow he might hear and turn around. When you both reach the room, he closes the door and leans against it, arms crossed over his chest and expression flat in a way that feels very un-Gojo. You’re suddenly struck by the unfairness of it, of how someone with such a careless, teasing exterior can also appear so unreadable when he wants to. “Five minutes.” You clear the irrelevant thoughts from your head. “Excuse me?” “You have five minutes before I’m going back down.” You take a deep breath. This is it, no backing out now. “Okay. I need your help.” He huffs, unamused. “So you’ve said. But with what exactly? Calculus? Because spoiler, I’ve been drinking.” “With Geto.” You watch in real time as the connection in his brain is made. He straightens off the door slightly. “Wait. Suguru? You want help with Suguru? What kind of help? Love help? You want love help with Suguru?” Every word from his mouth is like a bullet to your dignity. Through gritted teeth, you hiss, “Yes. Can you be any louder?” “I can try,” He says with a hint of humour. The smirk returns to his face and a feeling of foreboding looms over you. “This is what you wanted to get me alone to say?” “Look, I needed someone who’s close with him and you’re–” “Close? Please, I’m his best friend. I’m practically his wife.” “Oh. So that makes us competition?” He wrinkles his nose and looks you up and down. “You want me to help you get him.” You nod. “You want to confess to him.” “Obviously.” “Date him?” “That’s the goal." “Sleep with him?” You give him a look so incredulous that he laughs, short and amused. “If you want advice just hit up reddit. If you want him to like you back then an etsy witch has you covered for five dollars. I don’t see why you have to bother me.” “Because,” you say slowly. “He’s surrounded by people. He doesn’t even know me. I need all of that, the advice, the reciprocation, and I need someone who can get me close enough to him where he can notice me. And I feel like getting an Etsy witch to manipulate his dreams to include me would cost more than five dollars. And I’m broke. And I’m kind of bad with guys.” “So, what? You want me to introduce you to him?” “Sure. And maybe tell me what he likes?" Gojo looks you up and down again. He leans back against the door but this time, there’s something smug and arrogant about his posture, eyes lazy as he takes up as much space as he can. “You’re not even his type.” “That’s fine, I’m flexible.” “That’s something you say at a job interview, not when you’re trying to get a boyfriend.” “Just shows that I have an adaptable personality.” “He just came out of a 2 year relationship,” he shoots back. “I accept and embrace his past.” “He has a habit of leaving his jackets on the arm rest of couches.” “I have hands, I can put them away.” “Where’s your self-respect?” “With him. I’ll get it back after I get with him.” Gojo huffs. “He doesn’t even know you.” “That’s why I’m asking you for help.” “You know, I think I liked you better when you were just a shy little thing stumbling over your words.”

Again, you can only shrug.

When he only frowns, you decide to use your hidden ace. Before he can open his mouth and surely reject you, you beat him to it, voice overlapping his.

“I’ll tutor you!”

His eyes narrow and when he doesn’t say anything else, you push on.

“I know you’re aiming for that sports scholarship to study abroad next year.”

“How do you even know about that?” He catches on quick with a groan. “Shoko.”

You nod. “And I know that you’re looking for someone to tutor you because you need to get good grades to get accepted. If you help me with this, I promise I can definitely bring your grades up. We both benefit!” Gojo stares at you like you’ve just grown a second head and you think you’ve lost him when his lips twitch. Then, almost traitorously, one corner lifts higher. “You,” he says slowly, pointing at you like he’s identifying a rare species, “Are trying to bribe me. You’re trying to bribe me because you can’t get game by yourself.” “It's not a bribe,” you say stiffly. “I'm just saying there’s something in it for the both of us.” “It’s a bribe,” he repeats, delighted now. “Holy shit, Shoko's roommate is bribing me. How desperate can you get?” “I’m offering to give you academic support!” “With strings attached.” “Yes,” you sigh. "That's usually how deals work.” He grins, wide and boyish and every bit infuriating as you’ve ever known him. “You think I can't get a tutor without helping you bag my best friend?” “Well, you haven’t yet.” “That's because I don't need one.” “Right. So I should just forget all the times Shoko has ranted to me about how you keep asking her for help?” “You know, this conversation has really enlightened me on who my real friends are.” His gaze slides back to you, assessing. “And you’re confident you can help me?” You straighten your shoulders and give a solemn nod. “I’ve fixed worse than you.” He studies you, eyes tracking your features down to your shoes and you fight the urge to squirm self consciously. He seems to be recalibrating you, seeing you not as Shoko’s tagalong but as an actual person making a very earnest, albeit very ridiculous, request. Finally, he sighs, long and dramatic. “Well, at least you have one thing going for you. Suguru eats this kind of stuff up, hardworking, stubborn, a little pathetic—” “Hey.” “—in a cute pet way,” he amends smoothly. “Relax.” You glare at him anyway but the rational part of your brain reminds you that you need this. He grins back, entirely unrepentant. “Fine,” he continues, raising a finger, “If I do this, we’re doing it my way. That means we need rules.” You fight the urge to jump up and down in joy. “I was going to suggest that anyway! How about this, we—” “Rule one,” he says, face settling into something serious. “You can’t fall in love with me.” Unable to help yourself, you burst out laughing. “Trust me, that’s not going to be an issue. You're definitely not my type.” At your laugh he smiles though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Rule two, no complaining. Keep that mouth in check, sweets.” You giggle. “What's wrong, fragile ego?” He raises an eyebrow and you mumble irritated curses under your breath. “Sorry.” “Rule three, if Suguru ends up falling head over heels for you, you owe me big.” “How big?” His eyes flick down to your mouth again, then back up, smirk slow and dangerous. “I’ll decide later.” You catch the movement and swallow, feeling none of the humour from earlier. “Okay, deal. Then, rule four, you take your studying seriously. I don't tutor people who don’t care.” “I think between the two of us, I want to succeed the most so that’s a given. Any more rules, sweets?” When you shake your head, he nods. “We’ll start tomorrow.” “Not today? I mean he’s literally right here,” You quickly clarify. “Not a complaint, just a question!” “I came here to get drunk and have a good time. I’m going to need at least three drinks to get me back there so be a good girl and wait. I’ll text you tomorrow if you really can’t be patient. Unless, you want to back out already?” You straighten your shoulders, trying to match his confidence. “I’m not backing out! I just want to make sure you’re not going to ditch me. This isn’t really a normal request.” “Oh, so you know?” You roll your eyes at him but have the decency to at least look bashful. “Tomorrow,” he repeats then jerks his chin toward the door. “Go on, sweets. Before I sober up and regain some self-respect.” “Don’t call me that.”

“A complaint?” You bite your lip. “A suggestion.” “Here’s a real suggestion,” he starts, turning around to open the door. Standing in the doorframe, he gives you one last look. “Next time you ask a guy to go upstairs with you at a party, maybe start with the part about not wanting to make out.” Your face gets hot instantly, mouth opening to splutter, “I didn’t mean anything by it!” But he doesn’t stay to hear the end of it, rejoining the masses downstairs without another word. He lifts his hand once as a goodbye and then he’s gone, leaving you alone in the room, half mortified, half exhilarated. Unwilling to give him any sense of victory with his last words, you head back downstairs and find Shoko to tell her the results of the first step of your plan. It’s a struggle pushing through the thick waves of people but you finally find your roommate off to the side, musing herself in a conversation with someone you don’t recognise. Instinctively, your eyes search for Geto if only to recall what you’re doing this for. Standing beside him, arm swung over his shoulder is Gojo, already sipping from a cup and laughing into the conversation with a natural ease that reminds you of the gap between who you were and who he is. As if sensing your gaze, he looks over and you flinch as if burnt. Something stirs in your gut and you wonder if your little plan to get with Geto has taken a slightly unpredictable turn. “You okay?” Shoko asks, noticing your fluster. You nod, looking away quickly. “Of course. All going to plan, you know?” “Then I guess you’re up to step two.” “Right,” Your eyes drift back to Gojo and find him looking at you over the rim of his cup. The feeling in your stomach lurches. “Step two.” 

Step two begins with Gojo texting you at the ass crack of dawn. You blink the sleep from your eyes, squinting at the bright light of your screen in mild disbelief and annoyance as he tells you to pull up to his 9am lecture. Despite the lingering feeling that you’ve bitten off more than you can chew, you understand that this is necessary.

You know for a fact that you have no classes today and therefore no reason to make the trek to university. a whole day,just gone and tasked with the impossible task of putting up with that infuriating player.

No, you reprimand yourself as you text back your agreement. No complaining. Do it for him, do it for Geto. With those words repeating in your head like a mantra, you pull yourself together and out of bed to get to campus.

It would be helpful, after all, to see where his studies were at if you were going to take this tutoring business seriously.

You get a coffee at the station to combat your sleepiness and the chill of a winter morning before hesitating and getting another. With two coffees, one in each hand, you wait outside his lecture room until the doors swing open.

Spotting him wouldn’t be too hard, you muse, considering Gojo is impossible to miss.

And then, you see him.

His unmistakable frame, hair a messy white halo catching the late morning sun, strides into view. He's mid conversation as he steps out, animated, half-grinning, and you find yourself understanding why so many girls lose their minds over him.

“Gojo!” You call out, voice slightly drowned out by the chatter all around.

You’re about to give him a piece of your mind, him having been the reason why you kept to your phone all of last night like a wife anticipating the return of her war husband, when you freeze. Because when Gojo turns, your mind barely registering the amused look he gives you, the person he was talking to comes into view.

Because of course, where there’s Gojo there is Geto, the yin to his yang.

You weren’t ready for both of them.

Noticing your sudden stiffness, Gojo looks beside him and scoffs. Unimpressed, he starts walking over. You panic, attempting to smooth out your clothes and fix up your appearance though your hands are full of coffee so you end up doing an awkward wiggle.

“Look at you,” Gojo starts when he’s close enough. “Loitering outside my class like a fan. Maybe this is more urgent than I thought, not because you like Suguru but because you really need your self-respect back.”

You open your mouth to respond, to clarify, to deny, to just say something, but Geto catches up beside him and suddenly every possible word tangles up in your throat.

“Oh. Hey,” Geto says, recognition flickering across his face. “You’re Y/N, right?”

You blink, knees feeling weak and mind in shambles that he even knew your name let alone match it to your face. “Uh, yeah! That’s me!”

He smiles, soft and easy, all the charm you’ve seen him use on others now directed to you. “I thought so. You’re in one of Shoko’s tutorials, no? I think I remember her mentioning you.”

“I’m her roommate, actually.” You try for a smile and pray it doesn’t give off the extent of your adoration towards him.

“Right, that would be it. I’m Geto.”

You nod mutely, wishing your brain would reboot to say something, anything that doesn’t make you sound like you’ve never spoken to a human before. Geto, he says, like you didn’t already know his name, like he wasn’t one of the most known people on campus. Still, the fact that he so humbly introduced himself only proves his humility and your heart gives a quiver.

This moment was everything you’ve ever fantasied. His eyes on you, giving you that pretty smile you’ve only seen directed at others. You could have stood there and basked in his attention until the end of time if Gojo didn’t suddenly clap Geto’s shoulder and butt in.

“Great, so glad you’re both acquainted,” he says, ignoring your glare and throwing an arm around your shoulder to pull you into his side. “But as much as I’d love to keep standing here and soak in this riveting small talk, I think my very dedicated super fan here needs me for something.”

You shoot him a look. “I am not your super fan.”

“No? And is that not my coffee?” You look down at your hands as if only remembering now what you were holding. Biting back a remark, you thrust out a coffee. “It is.” He grins, taking it and letting his fingers brush against yours. “Thought so.” Geto looks between the two of you. “Oh, I see how it is." Your eyes fling back to him at the same time Gojo exclaims, “What?” “Woah, did I touch a nerve there or something?” Geto’s smile quickly turns smug. He returns Gojo’s earlier gesture and thumps him hard on the back twice. “I get it. I’ll get out of your hair then. Be gentle with him, Y/N. He’s actually a pretty sensitive guy.” It takes you a while to process his words so Gojo reacts first. “Dude, I’m telling you it’s not like that.” “Sure,” Geto says in a tone that very much suggests he isn’t convinced at all. “Guess I’ll see you around, yeah? Later, Satoru.” You only realise seconds after he leaves that you hadn’t said goodbye. In fact, after Gojo’s interruption, you hadn’t managed to say anything more to Geto. “Huh,” Gojo muses, breaking the silence. “You get like that around him?” You groan and find the lump in your throat gone. “I stood there like an idiot!” “You did.” “He probably thinks I’m a freak!” “Probably.” “And you!” You look up to glare at him. “You didn’t have to make it sound so weird!” “So now it’s suddenly my fault?” “You caught me off guard by calling me your super fan!” “Right, like that was the weirdest part of the conversation,” he shoots back, lips curled in dry amusement. “That, and not the super sour face you were making at him. Like a grimace.” He mimics your expression and you properly grimace this time, hoping against all odds that that was not the face you had been making at the person you were actually a super fan for. Deciding you will only lose if you continue to defend yourself, you choose to change the subject. “You should have told me he’d be here.” “You never asked. Besides, is it my fault if you didn’t prepare for that to happen?” You sulkingly mumble a yes and he wags his finger at you, tutting disapprovingly. “No complaining, remember? Come on, let’s go. We have things to talk about.” You sigh though relent to fall into step beside him, fingers curling around your own coffee as the crowd thins around you. Now that Geto is gone, the world feels marginally more comfortable, less bright, less sharp, but also less mortifying. You remember your stuttering self a few minutes ago. Still a little mortifying but now bearable. Gojo takes a long sip of his coffee, then glances sideways at you over the rim. “For future reference, I don't like coffee.” You dig your elbow into his side and he winces but doesn’t remove his arm around your shoulder. “Where are we going? I was thinking we could go to the library and look over your courses. That way I can pinpoint your weakness and where to target first. We only have a few months into graduation so we’re in a bit of a time crunch but I'm positive I can raise your grades from whatever they may be to… what?” You trail off when you find Gojo looking down at you in disbelief. He shrugs when your eyes meet and shrugs, though the gesture is a little awkward with his arm over your shoulders. “I just didn’t think you were serious about the whole tutoring thing.” “I keep to my promises, Gojo,” you pause. “And I hope you will too.” He reaches over with his free hand to ruffle your hair, ignoring your squeak. “Desperation isn’t a good look on you, sweets. Relax, relax, I'll get you two together. Trust me.”

You grumble but don’t voice your suspicions, instead letting him drag you in a certain direction. You perk up when you don’t immediately recognise your surroundings.

“Where are we going?”

“I get it, you want to check me out. I'm just taking us somewhere where that can happen.”

“Your studies, not you,” you clarify.

“Yeah, and my studies are mine so you’re checking me out.”

You grimace and he chuckles, turning you around a corner. “The library is too quiet so we’re going back to my place.”

You stop abruptly.

“Your place?” “Yeah.” “Your place?” Gojo cocks his head as if listening to something in the distance. “Did you just hear that echo too?” “Forgetting the fact that we should clearly just go to the library or somewhere on campus at least, I thought you lived in Sig Kap?” “Right you are. Wow, I'm really starting to see why you’re the perfect choice as a tutor.” “But you just said we’re going to your place.” “Nothing gets past you.” “Your place as in the Sig Kap house.” “Look at you go.” You stare at his side profile, waiting for a punchline that won’t come. “Gojo.” “Yeah?” “I am not going to your frat house.” “What happened to not complaining? That was the first rule and you’re already breaking it, sweets. I'm starting to dread this whole arrangement,” he continues to tease, looking ever so peaceful. “I'm sorry, I don't know what you think I'm about but I wouldn't willingly walk into a den full of men named things like Chad. Do you even have furniture?” “I only had a cot for the majority of first year but now I've upgraded to a mattress on the floor.” “Great. Let's end this here.” Gojo hooks his finger in your belt hoop before you can walk away. “First of all, we don’t have a Chad. We do have a Kyle though.” “You're not doing yourself any favours.” “Second,” he continues on, pulling you back towards him with his finger. “It’s ten in the morning. Half of them are in class and the other half are probably legally dead.” You stand your ground. “Library.” “Sig Kap.” “Library.” “Sig Kap.” “Gojo.” He leans in suddenly, close enough that you can see the faint crease at the corner of his eyes from squinting in the sun. “You want Suguru, right?” Your breath catches and despite yourself, you hear him out. “So? How is that relevant?” “Because,” he says mildly like he’s talking to a little kid. “Sig Kap is where Suguru hangs out. He's my best friend, you know he’s my best friend that’s why you came to me. Why wouldn’t he be over at mine all the time? If you can’t handle coming over now how are you ever going to fuck him?” “I am not—” you choke, voice pitching before forcefully lowering your voice when you notice people looking at you. “That is not— I haven't even—” Gojo hums, watching you with a victorious grin. “So you don’t want to sleep with him?” You make a startled noise and start walking in a random direction, eager to leave him behind. Life, however, is full of disappointments considering he follows, his arm draping over your shoulder once more. “So where are we going?” You give in. “Sig Kap.” “Wrong way, sweets.” You groan but follow as he steers you in the opposite direction. Gojo chatters in your ear the entire walk to where the frat houses are situated on campus, about how his least favourite professor is out to get him, about someone in his frat who set off the fire alarm this morning, about the latest philosophical debate holding the frat hostage: whether cereal is a soup or not. It's a steady stream of nonsense, ridiculous but unbroken because at least he wasn’t talking to you so much as at you. At some point, you stop responding entirely. Somehow, his mere presence is enough to change your opinion and you actually feel relief when you finally see the house before you. Sig Kap stands broad and sunlit, paint only mildly chipped, windows open to let in the winter air. There's a couple bikes leaning against the porch railing and there’s an abandoned hoodie on the outdoor chairs. “Oh thank god,” you mumble under your breath when he finally stops talking. He lets you go to jog up the steps, opening the door to what you’re positive is about to be an overstimulating nightmare. Warm air hits you first, carrying the scene of coffee and something oily. Sunlight stretches across worn hardboard floors until Gojo closes the door behind you and the hallway dims. A TV murmurs somewhere deeper into the house and there’s a loud conversation happening upstairs.

“You said everyone would be either in class or dead!” you hiss. “It was an exaggeration,” he says lightly. "Don't worry, everyone’s harmless. But if you’re worried, you can just stick close to me.” You ignore his cocky grin and shove him to get him walking. Unfortunately, getting to the stairs meant walking past the living room and you know things won’t be as harmless as he says when a voice calls out. “Yo!” Gojo pauses and steps back to poke his head into the living room. “Morning.” You awkwardly step back to let him, pushing you into view too. Two heads snap toward you at once. One of them is sprawled across the couch, blanket half-tangled around his legs and a bowl of popcorn balances on his stomach. The other is slouched in an armchair, controller in hand, eyes bloodshot and face pale as if he was still hungover. Considering the state of the party last night, you don’t doubt that he might be. Speaking of the party, you recognise the one on the left as Hikari. “You’re bringing a girl back in broad daylight?” The controller guy says, no tact whatsoever. Hikari snaps his fingers in recognition. “Hey, you’re the girl at the party.” “Damn, back for more?” Hikari shoves controller guy’s head down at the crude comment. “She's here to save my GPA,” Gojo explains. “So keep it down, yeah?” “That's what we should be saying to you,” controller guy smirks. Unfortunately, Gojo smirks back. “You know they can’t help it. I'm just too good.” He guides you back towards the stairs as the boys in the living room chuckle, and when you finally think of something to say you’re already standing in the middle of his room. By then, there’s another something to take up your mind and computing power. Despite the relatively large floor plan, Gojo has decided to use none of it. True to his words, there’s a mattress lying on the floor against one wall, blanket a mess and a single pillow sitting flat at the top. A stack of old textbooks make up a bedside table where there’s a cute small lamp. On the other side sits a couch and a giant flat screen in front of it at a distance that would make optometrists frown. Maybe that’s why Gojo is sometimes seen wearing sunglasses indoors. Maybe they’re prescription. “This is what you bring girls back to?” Gojo drops his bag on the floor and flops down onto the couch, patting the cushion beside him. “Come sit.” You eye the seat in disdain. “What's with the look?” “Is that even sanitary?” He snorts. “Worried you’ll get cooties or something? Relax, I rarely bring anyone back. Usually I go to the girls’ place for that kind of stuff. Fucking on a mattress is pretty harsh on the back, you know. You’re the first girl I've brought back in a while. Lucky you, right?” You grimace but sit down gingerly. “Can you tell me what courses you’re doing?” “What's the rush? Let's get to know each other better,” he says but he still reaches over to grab his laptop from his bag, opening it on his lap. You can picture it so clearly, Gojo coming back from a long day of (skipping) classes to do his assignments and homework like this, slumped over his laptop on this surprisingly comfortable couch. The bare mattress on the floor might be a big contributing factor to his back pain, but you have no doubts that this routine wasn’t doing him any favours. “Here,” he places his laptop on your knees and leans back, pulling out his phone from his pocket. “You look.”

Considering his complete disregard of safety is not your issue, you don’t protest and quickly type in the college website. As if sensing this is not the right time, a prompt pops up to log in again.

“Password?” you ask, tilting the screen to him.

He barely looks up from his phone, one arm behind his head, the other typing away. “Sixeyes69 question mark exclamation mark.”

You pause and type it in. It goes through.

“What's the number?” He asks, disinterested.

You look on the screen. “67.”

He chuckles. “Nice.” “Are you seriously okay with telling me your password like that?” He shrugs, screenshotting the multi authenticator screen before hitting enter. The website in front of you loads and opens to his details. “Tt’s not like there’s anything you can do with that. Are you planning to sneak in and do my assignments for me?” Finding no fault in his words, you accept it and click through the tabs. Your brows quickly knit together as you read the contents. “Gojo.” “Mhm?” “You’re missing three assignments in this class, you have a midterm for another in two weeks and you’re barely passing first year statistics.” Gojo looks up at the ceiling in deep concentration before looking down with a smile. “Yeah, that sounds about right, why?” “This is insane! I'm not a miracle worker!” “Better find a lamp that grants wishes soon because your love life is on the line,” he points out. “That was the deal, you find a way to get me into that scholarship and I get you and my best friend together. It's not my fault you were weirdly confident and didn’t check to see where I was at before proposing that.” Flabberghasted, you can only open and close your mouth like a fish. “Look, the midterm in two weeks, I can probably help with. The three assignments? You failing statistics?” “Pretty sure I passed that last quiz. Maybe check again?” “51 is just barely passing which is basically a fail.” “Oh no, it seems like you can’t do this after all. Looks like the deal is over. Hey, by the way, since you’re already here, why don't we—” Gojo sits up and leans in, one hand on your thigh above his laptop. “I demand another favour.” He freezes. “You can’t just do that.” “I can,” you square your shoulders and meet his eyes. “I did this statistics class during my first year so I still have my notes. I can easily alter them and give them to you and if you have any questions, we can meet up and I'll go through the questions with you. There's no way you can submit two of the three missed assessments as late but I can help you write the one that was due last week. There will be a mark reduction but I'll make sure it’s as good as can be. And, like I said, studying for the midterm is possible in two weeks.” Gojo stares at you as if seeing you for the first time. When he finally moves, it’s only to remove his hand from your knee and slump back into his leather couch. “You’re insane.” You wonder if he’s sulking. “But,” you continue on. “If I help you with this then I can add to my condition. Besides, I made it too vague earlier and you’ve helped me see that. So thank you.” He rolls his eyes. “Just tell me.” You bite your lip. “Go on a practice date with me.” He blinks at you, giving you that same incredulous look before bursting into a fit of laughter that does wonders for your ego. “Hey.” He keeps laughing, one hand resting on his chest. “Hey!” You hit his arm and he finally cracks an eye open to look at you. “You’re kidding,” he chuckles, struggling to catch his breath. “Gojo Satoru doesn’t do dates.” “Don't refer to yourself in third person.” You smack his bicep one more time for good measure and because he’s weirdly solid under your touch. “It won’t actually be a date. I just need to know how dates work. I can't just go from zero to not-zero without practice!” His laughter trails off though the smile remains on his face. He tilts his head to the side. “You’re at zero?” You freeze, feeling like you’ve walked into a trap. “Define zero.” “Have you kissed anyone?” You look away. “Define kissed.” He laughs again, though mercifully shorter. “That's crazy. Next thing you know, you’re going to ask me to teach you how to—” “Please!” you say quickly. “It won't be anything serious. I just need to know the mechanics, you know, how dates actually work. What you’re supposed to say, how you sit, when you pay, whether eye contact should be continuous or intermittent—” “Jesus,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You’re actually a lost cause.”

“Well I've never done one before!” You clamp your mouth shut after, mortified at how loud you just got. Gojo watches you for a long moment, the amusement still there though dimmed now by something closer to curiousity. Maybe even concern if you squint. Silence stretches between you, warm sunlight pooling across the floor, distant house noise muffled beyond the door. He looks down at his laptop on your lap then back up to your face. “...okay.” Your heart stumbles and you inhale sharply. “Okay?” “I’ll do it.” “Really?” Relief overwhelms your system and your shoulders relax. “Gojo Satoru doesn’t go back on his promises.” He straightens and places a hand over his heart, a mock solemn expression on his face. Before you can poke fun of his use of third person again, he continues. “Besides, I need to figure out where you stand. Let's go on a date tomorrow.” “Eager much?” He shrugs. “Rip the bandaid off. Besides, I have no other time this week, I have practice all of this week for the upcoming game.” Though you were ready to disagree, you find yourself nodding. “Okay, tomorrow.” “It's a date,” he says sweetly before clapping his hands together once loudly. “So, does that mean I'm off the hook for today? Steam is having this massive sale and I have money to spend.” You snort. “What makes you think you’re free to go?” “You got what you wanted,” he points out reasonably. “Practice date secured so mission accomplished, right? Seems like a natural stopping point and the Steam store is calling me.” He reaches lazily toward the laptop. You smack his hand away without hesitation. “Well hang up because you’re failing statistics and the submission box for that technical report is waiting for you. I'm afraid you’re going to have to reschedule.” “You're kidding. I dragged you here and gave you nothing to prepare with, there’s no way you'll have anything to tutor me with.” You stretch out your arms, fingers interlaced, and listen to the satisfying pop of your joints. “Watch me.” Night has long since settled by the time you return to your dorm. Despite his perennial sulking throughout the entire tutoring session, lips jutted out when he isn’t whining, eyes drifting from the screen when you’re not giving him your full attention, he still offers to walk you back to the opposite side of the campus where the dorm houses are. Guiding him through the writing assignment was somewhat akin to extracting teeth from a little kid, but he’s surprisingly quiet when you’re talking and only chooses to complain when you’ve stopped. And by the end of it, you’re proud to announce that he has 500 words on a once empty doc that was almost ready for submission. Hey, you did mention before that you can’t create miracles. Still, there’s something bright in his eyes when he reads through his own work, mumbling the words under his breath. So then, when you had reached down to pick up your tote bag and call it a day, he’s on his feet almost instantly, laptop snapping shut as he follows.“I’ll walk you,” he says, like it’s not even a suggestion.

The campus at night feels different, all those late nights in the library had taught you that. It’s quieter, softened at the edges and maybe it's placebo, maybe it isn’t, but the air feels fresher and time seems to slow. Streetlamps cast warm pools of light along the pathways, the winter air crisp enough to bite at your cheeks. Your breath fogs slightly as you walk, footsteps echoing in companionable rhythm.

For once, Gojo isn’t talking.

He makes the occasional comment, something about how dead campus feels after dark, how he hates early morning practices, how someone keeps taking his chocolate milk from the fridge, but for some reason you don’t find it so tolerable. Maybe it’s the way he’s saying it, slower and calm, nothing like before.

You steal a glance at him.

His hands are shoved into his jacket pockets, shoulders relaxed, expression softer than you’re used to seeing. Without the performative grin and constant chatter he looks less like the campus celebrity Everyone knows and more like he’s just some guy. Albeit, very attractive but you digress. 

“You didn’t have to walk me,” you say into the silence that he hadn’t immediately rushed to fill after his last anecdote. “I know.” “Then why are you?” He shrugs. “Just felt weird not to. Besides, it’s late out and your dorm is half a century away. I need you alive to fix my grades, remember?” You give him a faint chuckle and look forward again. A few more steps pass in silence, broken only by the shuffle of feet. “Hey,” he says suddenly. You look up, watching the light scatter over his side profile. “Thanks.” “For what?” “For today.” He kicks at a pebble on the path, watching as it skitters ahead. “For not giving up on me after the first five minutes.” You huff softly. “I said I'd help. And Y/N never goes back on her promises.” He looks over at you and you both share a smile before his expression turns thoughtful. “Yeah, but people say stuff all the time.” You study him. “Do they?” He hums and doesn’t elaborate. The dorm building comes into view ahead, lights glowing warmly through the windows. There's still a couple students drifting in and out, bundled in hoodies and coats and wearing slides, soft laughter spilling into the night. You slow, suddenly aware that the walk is almost over. You turn to him so you can look at each other. “You know, you’re not as hopeless as you think,” you say quietly. “I think you’ve just never pushed yourself to seriously try.” He snorts. “Thanks, real inspirational.” “I’m serious,” you protest but the corners of your lips quirk up. He looks at you then, properly looks, eyes searching your face with a small frown. When he can’t find whatever he’s looking for, his brows relax. “You really think I can pass?” “Yes.” Something in his shoulders loosens, tension easing away. “Okay,” he breathes out. “Then, my grades are in your hands, teacher.” You make a face. “I think I prefer sweets.” He laughs and you turn to walk up to the entrance. The automatic doors remain stubbornly closed until you step into the sensor’s range, humming softly as they slide open. Warm air spills out, smelling faintly of old carpet and air freshener. For some reason your feet slow. “Hey, Y/N.” You turn, looking at him as he stands just outside the warm lobby light, hands in his pocket, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. “Yeah?” He hesitates. “See you tomorrow." You bite your lip and nod, repeating his words softly. Then, before you can do something stupid, you turn and walk into the building. The doors close with a soft thud, sealing you inside. Through the glass, you watch him turn and head down the path, white hair catching the glow of the streetlights. And of course, he doesn’t look back. Your reflection stares back at you instead, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes a little too bright, heart still beating faster than it should. Tomorrow, apparently, you’re going on a date, practice or not. For some reason, Geto pops up in your mind and you tighten your hold on your tote bag, making your way up the stairs. The soft curve of his smile earlier this morning, the way he had said your name like it belonged in his mouth, or maybe that was just wistful thinking. But the warmth in his eyes that had nearly short-circuited your brain was most definitely real and you cling to the image. Right, this is for him. Your phone buzzes a little after you settle into bed that night, making you jolt. you roll onto your side and reach for your phone, pulling it free from your charger as you read through your notifications. gojo: i made it back safe in case you were wondering ><

You get comfortable, tucking your doona under your chin as you type back, your phone the only light source in your dark room.

you: trust i wasn’t worried but thanks ig gojo: who said anything about being worried? also don’t flake on me tomorrow i’m taking this mentorship very seriously so u better asw you: i won’t flake ik i’m already asking sm of u

gojo: oh u know do u?

so ure going to pay for our date tmrw?

you: it’s not a date

gojo: sure it isn’t

you: it’s just practice

gojo: i didn’t say it wasn’t but if you admitted it was a real date i’d pay yk you: please like i’d actually want you to pay for my coffee not a date, not real, don’t need u to pay for my drinks gojo: ure a hard girl to please you: if its from someone like you, its gonna be harder than just hard try impossible gojo: harder than hard? you: ? gojo: something feels wrong about that sentence for some reason anyway is the campus close for you or should we meet up in the city you: the campus works for me gojo: ure not just saying that to avoid the date allegations are you you: no way gojo: sure sweets i believe u don’t wear anything boring first impressions matter yk you: oh my god stop pushing the date allegations its just practice !!!! gojo: okay and you can practice dressing up for me for suguru like for practice you: ? i know what u meant but sure as long as u do too theres no way im embarrassing myself by showing up overdressed if u show up in sweats and a hoodie gojo: wouldn’t dream of it see u saturday sweets You stare at the nickname longer than you should. Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before moving. you: goodnight gojo The reply bubble appears then disappears before appearing again. Nothing comes of it as it disappears one more time and stays gone. You swipe off the app and place your phone back on your bedside table, ignoring the pleasant buzz running through you. 

You show up early like a super fan.

You’ve been sitting at the little corner table situated at the back of your favourite campus cafe for the past ten minutes now, stirring your drink just to look busy. The cafe hums around you with soft chatter, clinking spoons against teacups and ceramic against ceramic, a mellow playlist faintly playing in the background, but your nerves drown most of it out.

You’ve already gone through three mental checklists as you sit there, waiting. Your fingers curl around your empty cup, feeling the beads of water drip down your fingers and you really hope you won’t need to make an awkward break for the bathroom anytime soon considering he should be here about now.

You tell yourself you’re not nervous but you catch yourself glancing at the door every other second, heart jumping each time it swings open.

The bell chimes again and you look up with a start, eyes immediately locking onto Gojo as he saunters in, lifting his sunglasses so they rest on his head. He’s dressed casually, a white and blue jersey over a pair of blue baggy jeans, but his good looks mold the outfit into something appropriate for a date.

Gojo spots you at his first look around and grins, sliding into the seat across.

“Morning,” he greets, a wide smile on his face. His eyes flicker down once at your empty cup. “Did you wait long?”

“No, not at all!” You remember who you’re talking to and relax a little. “Actually, I got here fifteen minutes early. I guess I got a little anxious.”

“Well, you don’t need to be. You look nice,” he says, tone light. His eyes look you over once to make his words comprehensible and then one more time purely for the love of the game. “Trying to impress me?”

You scoff, trying to recover. “You told me to dress nice.”

“C’mon, sweets. Play along. We’re on a date, you know. Your next lines should be something like,” he suddenly tucks his elbow in, body curving to the side slightly, hand half closed and held delicately over his lips and chin. His eyelashes flutter over his cheek as he looks down and to the side, a faux shyness that makes you want to laugh. “‘Thank you, you look good too’.”

You let yourself laugh, shoulders relaxing. “What the fuck?”

“You give it a try. It always works in anime.”

“No way in hell,” you continue, laughing fading into occasional giggles as his gesture replays in your mind. “Besides, this is a practice date. I'll save that technique for the real deal, thank you very much.”

“And for practice, we’re going to pretend this is a real date.” He leans back into his seat, legs stretching out and bracketing yours under the table. His feet bump against yours lightly.  “Let's give it another try. Did I make you wait long?”

You stir the straw inside your drink, pretending to be nonchalant, though your fingers twitch slightly against the glass. “Not long… I guess.” You try a mysterious act, hearing that guys like a woman with secrets. At least, that’s what Shoko told you though a small part of you wonders if you should be taking “how to seduce a guy 101” from a lesbian. “‘I guess’?” he echoes, tilting his head. “That’s the best you can do? You’re supposed to be charming me, remember? At least try to make it look like I'm not coercing you here.” “I don’t care if I charm you or not,” you say quickly, cheeks warming. “I’m here to learn and you’re here to teach me.” He laughs, a low, easy sound that makes your chest tighten. “You know, I'm not exactly made of time. Do you know how many girls and guys would kill to be in your position right now?” You resist the urge to roll your eyes though don’t stop yourself from making your voice dry. “Oh sure, let’s spend this entire date talking about all the competition I have.” “We would need at least four more dates to cover it all.” “I didn’t know getting into a relationship with you would be such an investment.” You snort. “If all five of our dates are just going to be you listing my competition, I'd rather stand you up now and save myself the time. And the money.” “I did offer to pay for your drinks.” He grins at the back and forth, the sides of his shoes bumping into your ankles lightly. “That’s it, you’re getting into it.” “For practice.” “Sure, sweets. Practice. Speaking of,” he says, leaning forward just enough that the sunlight catches his hair. “You should call me Satoru. We’re on a date, remember? I can’t tell if you’re on a date with me or my dad if you call me Gojo.” You grimace. “Calling you by your first name makes it too real.” “It is real. That’s what you should tell yourself to get into this.” He juts out his lower lip, drawing his eyebrows inward. “Come on, sweets, let me hear you say my name.” “When you say it like that, it makes me want to throw a drink in your face.” “Just once, Y/N.” You huff and roll your eyes. “Satoru.” “Oh my god, a girl called me by my first name!” he squeals. You almost stand to get out of here if it means preventing people from associating you with him. He grabs your hand and drags you back down into your seat before you can properly escape, much to your dismay. “Relax, I’m just playing.” “Are you here to mess around or help me?” “Well, you need to tell me so I can help you. What do you even know about him?” “About Geto?” “Yeah, unless there’s someone else you want to know more about?” He grins, easy and confident. You ignore his comment. “Well, I know he… likes books. music. He's kind… thoughtful. Plays the guitar. Ah, specifically electric." “Are you listing off what’s on his dating profile right now?” “Shut up,” you snap, but it comes out weaker than intended. “He isn’t actively on any dating app right now, just for your information.” “And how would you know this? What are you doing on there?” “I’m not on hinge, unfortunate for the female population, I know. We just tell each other everything,” he says, leaning back, one elbow resting on the armrest of his chair as he studies you from across the table. “I’m helping you, you know? First rule, don’t just parrot his interests. Though maybe I don't have to worry about that since you’re clearly struggling to even remember them.” “I wasn’t going to parrot him.” “I know you were,” he interrupts, wagging a finger. “Last time I checked, liking exactly what he likes does not make you compatible. It makes you predictable. And desperate.” “Okay, harsh.” “It's all tough love, sweets.” You fold your arms, slumping back in your seat, letting gravity do half the work of your sulk. “Fine then, oh wise love guru. What should i say instead? Like, let’s say he asks me what I'm into and my mind goes blank like last time. What then?”

“You're asking like it’s that difficult. Just be honest, tell him what you like regardless if it matches his interests. Do you want to be a groupie or be something more than a friend?” “I want to be someone he likes.” “So you're going to play the role of Suguru’s perfect girlfriend? And what after that, genius? Are you just going to pretend forever?” Gojo looks over to the front counter and smiles at some waitresses standing there already looking in his direction. He turns back as they start giggling and playfully arguing over who should come over to take his order. “Don’t force yourself to perform for him or curate yourself to be digestible. If the two of you are meant to be then he should want you.” You look away, picking at nothing on your glass. “That's easy for you to say.” “It's actually incredibly tiring being this emotionally intelligent all the time,” he says, face neutral. You snort despite yourself and he looks satisfied. “And what if I tell him and he doesn’t like it?” Gojo shrugs, slow and deliberate. “Then he’s not for you.” You frown. “Wow, you’re terrible at pep talks.” One of the waitresses finally makes it to your table, an eager smile on her face and a determined look in her eyes. Behind her, you catch the rest of the staff shooting encouraging looks. She clutches her notepad a little too tightly, taking in a deep breath before talking. “Hello, are you, um, both ready to order?”

“Yeah,” Gojo says easily, flashing her a smile. “I’ll just grab a hazelnut toffee latte with soy milk.”

The woman quickly scribbles his order down. “Of course! One hazelnut toffee latte with soy milk.”

“And whatever she wants,” he adds, nodding toward you.

You blink, caught off guard. “Oh, I already ordered earlier. I'm fine for now, thanks.”

The waitress spares you a glance, eyes flickering briefly over you before returning to Gojo like a magnet snapping back into place. “Not a problem. Is there anything else I can get you started with today?”

“We're good, thank you.”

Her face falls. She nods, but lingers a moment too long, clearly hoping for something, another question, a joke, anything to keep the interaction going.

Gojo’s grin grows just a little bit wider as he obliges.

“Busy today?” He asks casually, tone warm and interested.

Her face lights up and she quickly steps forward again. “A little! It's usually busy in the mornings what with the morning rush and all. Honestly, it’s like nonstop until at least 1pm.”

“That’s brutal,” he sympathises, leaning back in his chair, posture loose and open. “At least you’ve got good coffee to survive on.”

She laughs, a bright and breathy sound that makes it clear she’s not just laughing at the coffee comment alone. “Perks of the job, I suppose. Do you come here often?”

Gojo tilts his head as if the question deserved genuine thought and wasn’t just a throwaway pick up line.

“Not as often as I should,” he decides easily. “But I might start if the service is this friendly.”

Her smile widens, pink creeping into her cheeks. “We try our best.”

“I was talking about you, sweetheart.”

You’ve been listening and watching with apt attention, taking mental notes on the right time to smile, when to tilt your head just so, when to tuck your hair behind your ears and when to employ the double tuck, when his last words make you frown.

You clear your throat, eyes fluttering away when both Gojo and waitress look over at you.

“Well,” the waitress starts suddenly, glancing down at her notepad like she needs to remind herself she’s on the clock, "I'll bring your drink out as soon as it’s ready.”

“Looking forward to it,” Gojo replies, though he hasn’t looked away from you yet.

She lingers half a beat longer, then turns and walks away, shoulders a little straighter than before.

“Done staring?” He teases.

“I was not staring. Don't you have the tact to not flirt with someone else when you’re on a date?”

“Oh, so now it’s a date? Only when it’s convenient for you, huh?”

You reach over for a napkin and crumble it up to throw it at him. It barely makes it halfway across the table before it starts fluttering down.

“It’s only manners,” you insist, cheeks warm. “I didn't know what to do when the two of you were talking.”

He snorts. “You could’ve joined the conversation.”

“And said what? "Hello, I'm also present and this jerk’s date for the day?”

“Hey, I like the sound of that,” he muses. Your next crumpled up napkin doesn’t get any further than its predecessor. You glare at him, something about that conversation rubbing you the wrong way, echoing unpleasantly in your head in a way that makes you want to peel your skin off. You clear your throat again. “You're here to teach me like I taught you statistics, right? Even though one is clearly harder than the other.” “Right. Getting you to date ready is much more difficult.” You ignore him to save the life of one napkin. “So, how do I do that? Flirt so effortlessly and not make it cringe?” “You want to use what I just said with the waitress on Suguru?” He actually laughs out loud. “Do not, he’s going to see right through you. You should have met his last ex. The two of them were absolutely disgusting and— oh wait, should I not talk about that?” “Yeah, let’s not.” He hums and changes the subject. “Anyway, just let it happen. Be natural. You talk to me just fine.” “Yeah, but you’re you. frivolous, class clown, never takes anything seriously, probably never commits to anything,” you start listing, counting them on your fingers. “I feel like the first thing and the last thing mean the same thing. Put one finger down.” You refuse, still holding up four fingers. “Sleeps on a mattress on the ground.” “So does half of Sig Kap. But relax, I get it. So you suck at flirting. Shouldn’t you be happy I gave you a live demonstration of how it’s done?” That gets you frowning again. “Do you always call everyone something?” “What does that even mean?” “You called her sweetheart.” “I don't know her name. I wasn't about to call her ‘woman’, that sounds very sexist and I'm a feminist at heart. Thoughts on banning periods?” “She has a name tag.” “I don’t look at that area on a woman on the first date,” he pledges. You continue without thinking.“How is anyone supposed to know when you actually mean it when you give everyone similar nicknames?” He goes quiet, eyes narrowing slightly. “What?” Before you can elaborate, or maybe divert and make him look away so you can dig yourself out of the hole you just created, the waitress returns with his drink. She leans over him, placing it down carefully. “Here you go!” “Thanks,” he says, polite but no longer quite as engaged. In fact, he hasn’t looked away from you, still giving you that same disbelieving look. You fiddle with your own drink. Maybe you should have ordered something else if it meant spicing up the number of objects you have in your possession to pass awkward silence with. The waitress lingers a moment before hesitantly leaving when it’s clear there’s no encore performance. “I just meant it’s confusing for anyone, hypothetically,” you say in a rush, beating him. “Anyway! Flirting techniques, let’s talk about them!” He watches you for a moment longer before dropping his head and ruffling his hair. You grimace, eyeing how close his head is to his open drink. When he looks back up, whatever conflict on his face has disappeared. “Fine, okay. Let's talk. First of all, it’s important where the date takes place. There's unspoken etiquette for every typical date location.” “Like how you go on a coffee date, you shouldn’t flirt with the waitress.” Gojo cracks a grin. “You’re getting it. Look, Suguru is kind of an artsy guy. He'd probably take you to an art museum or like a jazz bar for your first date.” You narrow your eyes. “How do you know that?” “I told you, he tells me everything. Focus.” He dismisses your look. “He’s kind of an enjoy-the-moment kind of guy. Probably won’t talk too much while you’re both admiring something together and saves all the talking until after when he leads you to some underground totally underrated dinner spot.” You wince. “Shit. I kind of like making little jokes in the moment.” He snaps his fingers, face brightening. “Right? Like when you’re watching a movie in the cinemas!” “Okay, that is a bit tricky. It depends.”

“Don't Genshin theorycraft me.” “You're lucky I got that reference.” Gojo shrugs. “Well, Suguru enjoys just existing with his special someone. Don't get me wrong, he definitely talks when you get him started but I think he’s kinda cool for being able to sit in silence with someone.” You chew the inside of your cheek. “I’m kind of bad with silences. I end up embarrassing myself just to fill them. Do you think it’s fixable? Should I just not talk?” “Woah, slow down. It’s fine, he has enough social awareness to fill in the gaps if you’re uncomfortable. But i’m just telling you what he likes,” he studies you. “He doesn’t like petnames, by the way.” Heat creeps up your neck. “That’s fine, it’s not a dealbreaker,” you mumble.

“I'm just saying. He's a real fan of using your first name. When you two get on that basis, of course.”

“Anything else, Geto expert?”

Gojo hums, taking a long sip of his latte, eyes tracking up. “He likes meaningful stuff like art with a story behind it, long conversations about philosophy. Like yeah he still likes doing things just for fun but there’s a difference between like and love.”

You wince. “But love is meant to be silly, meaningless stuff. Like sending pictures of dogs cuddling because it reminded you of us or whether you’d still love each other if you turned into worms. Like taking the longer way back home just to spend more time together. Or, I don't know, building blanket forts as adults.”

Gojo’s mouth twitches.

You stop, suddenly aware you sound like you’ve been storing these thoughts and they’ve suddenly all gotten loose.

“Stuff that doesn’t matter,” you finish weakly.

He rests his chin on his palm. “Like going to the arcade and getting plushies for each other at the claw machines?”

You laugh, shoulders relaxing. “I'd obviously do better. You look like you have no hand eye coordination.”

“Did you forget I literally play ice hockey?”

“Right, your role as the benchwarmer?”

“My ass has never once graced those benches.”

“I don't know, I swear I remember seeing you on the sidelines.”

“You’ve come to watch me play before?” He grins, cheek slightly smushed from his position.

“Because Shoko went.”

He juts his lower lip out. “Harsh.”

There's a few seconds of silence as the conversation replays and you feel a sudden rush of embarrassment. You look up to see if he clocked your earlier slip up but he only tilts his head more into his hand.

“What?”

“Nothing.” You clear your throat and look down at your drink. It's left behind a ring of water around its base. “How are you two best friends when you’re so different?”

“Because he slows me down,” Gojo says like it’s simple. “And I drag him out of his head. But he doesn’t need another person to do that for him so don’t even think of taking my spot.”

You both share a laugh and it lingers a little longer than the joke deserves, warm and easy, until it naturally tapers off into something softer.

“Why do you even like him?” He suddenly asks, voice soft against the murmur of the cafe.

You slowly slide your gaze out the window as if reliving the moment. You can almost feel the rain on your skin, the warmth of a hoodie not your own, and the residual laughter at the back of your throat that makes you smile.

“Last semester when it was pouring rain, he saw me waiting outside a building without an umbrella and we ended up running through the storm. It’s stupid but it was fun and meaningless and definitely what I needed after my finals.”

Your words make him frown, finger tracing a random shape on the wet surface of his glass absentmindedly. “That doesn’t sound like him.”

“Maybe you don’t know him as well as you thought?” You offer.

“Don’t be ridiculous, he’s my other half.”

“Again, should I be concerned right now?”

“Are you homophobic?”

“No?”

“Then you’re fine.”

“Wait…”

Gojo glances down at his phone and sighs. “It's getting late, sweets. I'd love to stay longer but I promised the boys we’d go do this carwashing event.”

He pauses and looks up.

“Did you want to come?” he quickly adds on, “You don’t have to come alone, you could bring Shoko along or something.”

You wrinkle your nose. “No thanks.  You can imagine that she’s not keen on seeing a bunch of shirtless boys.” He grins. “Suit yourself. I'll walk you out. It's the least I can do on this date.” You roll your eyes but stand and follow him out anyway, ducking under his arm as he holds the door open for you. Stepping out, you’re almost blinded by the bright sun and you have to cover your eyes to look up, squinting even with the shade provided by your palm. He moves to stand in front of you. “Well, I'll see you around.” Next tutoring session,” you remind him, letting your arm drop to your side. "Don't forget to watch the online lectures before then. And remember to do the weekly quizzes this time. And—” He reaches over to ruffle your hair fiercely, laughing when your words turn into a startled squeak. “Yes, yes, I got it,” He lets you go and watches with a toothy grin as you start fixing your hair, glaring up at him and his audacity to smirk. His face quickly softens. “Sorry I can’t walk you back to your dorms. I'm already running kind of late.” “Don't worry about it,” you say when you feel like you look presentable enough. “Um, get there safe?” “I will,” he starts stepping back. “Text me if you need anything.” “Okay, make sure to—” “Relax, sweets, I got it,” He says with a chuckle and a wave, before he turns and starts walking off in your opposite direction. You watch him go for a little longer before heading back to your dorm.You stare up at your ceiling. your ceiling stares back down at you. You've been staring at your popcorn ceiling for so long that you’ve begun to discern shapes and different shades of what you had previously considered to be beige, plain and simple, but was now warping into the image of Gojo.

Something he had done yesterday clung to you even hours after the date. The ease in which he allowed the waitress’ fingers to brush his as he handed her the menus, the way he easily held onto your hand at the party, the lack of concern as he stood close to you on the walk back. You lift up your hands and slowly interlace your fingers. It's comfortable, familiar. until you start wondering one hand as someone else's.

Before you can doubt yourself, you pull yourself up and gather your phone and keys, heading to the door without another thought. On the way through the dorms, you send a quick text.

you: u free? im coming over

You stand outside Gojo’s door and knock. There's a muffled, incoherent reply before the door is pulled open, revealing Gojo. His hair is slightly damp with stubborn strands clinging to his forehead and he’s brushing his teeth. He's not wearing a shirt.

You stare at his chest.

“One second,” he says around the foam in his mouth. He holds the door open a little wider and ushers you in, letting the door fall to a gentle click behind you. “Sit on the couch.”

Wordlessly, you do, watching his bare back as he heads into his bathroom. The sound of water muffles your racing thoughts until he reappears, still shirtless but at least he’s not brushing his teeth anymore.

“Hey,” he says, irritatingly casual. “I saw your text. You didn’t even wait to see if I was free or not. For the record I am but imagine I wasn't. That would have been an awkward situation and between you and her, I would have picked her.”

You blink away your surprise and look up at him. “Her?”

“It’s a Friday night, Y/N. You’re lucky I don't have someone over.”

You frown a little at that and he continues, heading to his kitchenette to open his fridge, pulling out two beers. He hands you one, pushing it towards you once more when you don’t immediately take up his offer.

“So, what are you doing here?”

“Are you going to put on a shirt?”

He blinks before a wide grin splits across his face. “I was wondering what you were looking at so deep in thought. I didn't want to assume again after you made a fool of me at the party but I guess you do have working eyes after all. Do you want me to put on a shirt?”

You blush, finally looking away. “Obviously.” He chuckles and places his beer down on the coffee table before going on a hunt to find a clean shirt. “But from the way you were eyeing me it really wasn’t that obvious. Besides, you’re telling me to put on a shirt in my own home?” “It's common sense when you have a guest over.” His voice carries over from his room. “You’re not really a guest, more like a pest. A guest implies I invited you over, no?” “But yesterday you said I could come to you for anything.” “Right. What was I thinking?” Gojo comes back out and flops next to you, the couch dipping under his sudden weight. He takes the beer from your hands and cracks it open before handing it back and doing the same to his. “So, you finally going to tell me what’s up or are you just here to leech off my dwindling beer supply?” “I don’t even drink,” you mumble, watching as the water beads down your fingers. “No, but I do have some manners for my guest.” “You just said…” you trail off, recognising that you’ll only go round and round in circles if you keep up this conversation. you place the beer on the floor and turn to him. “Forget it. I'm here because I need your help.” “Figures.” He holds the beer to his lips and takes a deep swig. “What can I do for you today?” You bite your lip before turning to him. “Can I kiss you?” Gojo chokes, pulling the beer from his lips with a hack, liquid spitting out onto his no longer clean shirt and sweatpants. He finally manages to get his mouthful of beer down, but he only coughs and hits at his chest. Hesitantly, you reach over and pat his back lightly. He shrugs your touch away, looking at you in disbelief. “What did you just say?” “I was wondering if you’d let me kiss you?” “Just because you’re saying it politer now doesn’t take away how crazy you sound.” He stares at you incredulously. “Look, I know we went on a date yesterday but I thought you of all people knew it was a practice date. I'm sorry but I don't feel the same way. Gojo Satoru doesn’t do relationships.” You groan, rolling your eyes. “I didn’t suddenly develop a crush on you, Gojo.” “Satoru,” he corrects you despite his shock. “Satoru,” you emphasise. “I don’t like you.” “Could have fooled me.” “Yesterday just got me thinking. You’re so natural with touching and stuff and I realised that I have literally no experience whatsoever. I know Geto isn’t the type of person to care about whether I'm a virgin or not but I care. I care because I know I'll freeze up if we ever get to that part.” He stares at you. “When i asked you a few days ago about whether or not you wanted to sleep with him, you told me to shut up.” “That was a few days ago.” You shuffle closer to him on the couch and watch as his eyes drop to your thighs inching closer, then back up, something like fear on his face. “I know this is a big favour but I thought since you’ve kissed so many girls before and they’ve never meant anything that you might be okay with this? I mean you thought we were going to kiss that time at the party. So is this really that crazy to ask?” “Yes,” he says immediately. “It is. because you like Suguru and I'm his best friend.” “But this is practice.” “You can’t just echo what I've said in the past.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking off in the distance before coming back to you. “Suguru isn’t the type of person to rush to things like that. You'd be in good hands.” “I know but this is for me. So I know what to expect.” His face is contorted in a way you’ve never seen before. You decide to give another push. “Just think of me as one of your hookups.” He exhales softly, eyes staring into yours. “Are you sure? Have you even thought this through?”

“Yes, I have,” you lie. “I mean, there aren’t any cons. I'll lose my first kiss, get experience, and it’s all under practice anyway so it won’t mean anything. And you get a hookup for the night. It's a win win!” His face only seems to pale more at your words. “You haven’t had your first kiss yet? Fuck, that’s a lot of pressure. And I feel like you have the wrong idea about what a hookup entails.” You shrug. “Kissing? Making out?” “Sex.” You pause. “Well, we won’t go that far. Maybe.” “Maybe?” He exclaims and you quickly deflect because he’s looking more and more shocked. “We can start with kissing.” You shift closer, your thigh pressing against his. “Come on, it doesn’t have to mean anything.” Gojo looks at you, really looks at you, from the encouraging look in your eyes to the determined line of your lips. He huffs, running another hand through his hair at the absurd change to his Friday night plans. Sure, kissing someone wasn’t a big deal for him, not when he’s tasted the lips of many before, but there was something different about taking someone’s first kiss. Finally, he sighs, long and hard. “Just a kiss.” You beam, face lighting up. “Of course!” He hesitates, cursing under his breath something long but incoherent, before gently reaching out to tilt your chin up. “Tell me if you change your mind. Just shove me away, okay?” You nod enthusiastically. “What do I have to do?” “Just let me take the lead for now. And if you feel confident enough to kiss back, go for it.” Again, Gojo mumbles something under his breath, the absurdity of the situation still not lost to him. He leans forward as if to seal the deal before pausing, moving his hand up to caress your cheek tenderly. Your breath hitches, eyes wide as you curse your own touch-starved form. “You okay?” He asks, stroking your cheekbone with his thumb. “Changed your mind?” You shake your head slightly. Gojo huffs and you feel the puff of air against your lips. When his lips finally press against yours, fitting against yours in a way you’ve only ever seen in movies, you feel… nothing. You squeeze your eyes tighter, trying to dig through the sensations and pick out the one that’s meant to set off fireworks and melt your stomach into goo. Instead, it just feels like there’s someone’s lips touching yours. Sensing your discomfort, Gojo pulls back, eyes fluttering open to meet your unsure ones. His nose scrunches up a little as he studies your expression. “Hey,” he starts, voice low. “You're hurting my ego.” You lick your lips, trying to return your lips to their usual sensation. “It just wasn’t what I was expecting.” “What were you expecting?” “Butterflies?” He chuckles, hand still caressing your cheek. “You're kissing me without any feeling. It’s not my fault you’re as stiff as a board. Relax. Imagine Suguru or something.” Now it’s your turn to make a face. "Wouldn't that hurt your ego more?” “Just relax,” he repeats and you make the conscious effort to focus on the way he’s stroking your face soothingly. “That’s it. Good girl.” “Don't call me that, I cringed.” He laughs, leaning in. “Abandon the part of you that cringes not the part of you that is cringe.” With that, he brushes his lips against your again, letting you feel the slow movement and determine the pace. It’s not exactly rocket science, this kissing business, and you start to mimic the motion of parting your lips against his. It takes a few tries for him to hum in approval and deepen the kiss, his free hand sliding up to cup your neck and gently pull you closer to him. You let out a soft squeak and quickly pick up from the momentary break in rhythm on your end. When his tongue slides against the seam of your lips, you blanch and pull back. “Okay,” he starts. “That really hurt my feelings.” “What was that?” You cover your mouth with your hands, the slimy sensation replaying in your mind. “That was my tongue.” “Why didn’t it feel good?”

He rolls his eyes at your complaint and slides an arm around your waist, pulling you closer until you’re half on his lap. “Because you’re thinking too hard.” “I was not thinking at all, actually,” you say, scandalised. “I didn't know I was going to be ambushed.” “Okay, my bad, I should have given you a heads up.” He pauses and announces solemnly, "I'm going to start using my tongue.” You make a face and he huffs out a laugh, forehead dropping briefly against yours. Up close like this, you can feel the vibration of it in his chest, the way his grip tightens just a little like he doesn’t want you getting any bright ideas about you escaping. “You're doing fine,” he says more softly, thumb brushing slow circles at your waist. You think briefly that this must be the allure to him that has girls fawning for his attention. You're not immune either, and you sub consciously melt under his touch, relaxing again. Once you’ve done it once, given into his temptation, it’s easy to fall back again. “Fine doesn’t seem like outstanding status,” you mumble, trying to maintain some resistance. “For your first time, it wasn’t so bad.” His nose nudges yours, playfully and coaxing and you’re in his web again. “C’mere.” Gojo doesn’t pull you this time. Instead, he just waits, one arm warm and steady around your hips, hand stroking your hair as he waits for you to come to him. It's a sign of consideration that has you feeling jittery and warm, though there’s a lazy smirk on his lips that suggests he has other ulterior motives that makes it as infuriating as it is attractive. Your gaze flicks to his mouth then back to his eyes. His lashes lower just slightly, watching you watch him, and something in your stomach flips over completely. Probably your common sense. “Just… slower,” you mumble. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Slower.” He still doesn’t move first which is deeply unfair, because now you have to be the brave one. You lean in. It's clumsy at first, more of a gentle bump of noses and a too-soft press of lips than anything smooth or cinematic like he had kissed you earlier. You almost pull back in embarrassment, ready to admit that maybe he was a better kisser than you had given him credit for if it’ll mean this pathetic peck of yours can end and he can make it good again, when his hand tightens on your hip and he takes over. His mouth settles properly over yours, angle shifting until the awkwardness disappears, until it stops being baby’s first kiss and starts becoming a warm, steady pressure that has your toes curling. Yhe faint brush of his breath against your cheek, the subtle tilt of his head that fits your mouth together and when he nips at your bottom lip, a soft startled sound escapes before you can stop it. He swallows it down without hesitation. His hand tightens reflexively and slides down, cupping your ass as he leans back and guides you onto him, fingers pressing into the fabric of your clothes to keep you there, not that you had any plans of moving. One moment your body is twisted awkwardly to meet him and the next you’re seated full on his lap, his warmth solid beneath you. His breath fans across your cheek in uneven bursts, warm and damp, and the faint scrape of his teeth lingers as a tingling awareness. You realise, distantly, that you’re no longer stiff. Your hands, which had been braced awkwardly against his shoulders, loosen without permission. One slides up into his hair as you lean into him, damp strands cool at the ends, warm near the scalp, and the sensation grounds you in a way nothing else does. His mouth opens at the sensation and when his tongue sweeps along your lower lip again, you don’t pull away. It isn’t slimy or invasive like last time, in fact you welcome it, mimicking his openness and the kiss deepens.

Your breath mingles, movements syncing up and under the guidance of his lips and tongue, you start getting bolder. You shift closer, just a fraction, your head moving up and face tilting down to angle yourself deeper when a low sound slips out of him. Your eyes fly open and you pull away. “Was that—” “Nope,” he says immediately, eyes darker than when you last checked. He's panting beneath your palms, a slightly warm tint to his face as he stares at you. You swallow. “You just—” “I didn’t,” he insists, far too quickly. When he’s so adamant like that, it’s a little hard to say anything more. Besides, while it’s almost fun to poke the bear, the memory of his mouth on yours has you thinking about something else entirely. You don’t move from his lap and he doesn’t push you off. “Think you’re getting it?” he asks, watching you with something unreadable lurking in his eyes. You don’t hesitate. “No.” You stare at each other, catching a much needed breath. “Alright,” he says, voice rough. “One more. and then we have to stop.” You lean in and he lets out a soft sigh like a man doomed before meeting you halfway. Gojo doesn’t start slow this time, maybe because he knows if he does, he won’t be able to control himself. His hand slides more firmly to the back of your neck, guiding you towards him with a kind of impatience, mouth finding yours with confidence, your chest tightening at the gesture. Your fingers clutch at his shirt instinctively and he makes a low noise at the back of his throat, deepening the kiss until you slide your fingers up and into his hair. A low exhale slips through his nose, almost shaky and he tilts his head in response to your faint tugs. “That’s it,” he murmurs against your lips. Emboldened, you tilt your head and slide your tongue into his mouth to taste him. He tastes like beer and minty and something addictive that has you repeating the movement over and over. When he reciprocates, your stomach swoops instead of recoiling. You shift, suddenly desperate to get closer and settle over his bulge. Wow. You both jerk away from each other quickly, your hands leaving his hair and his arm retracting from your waist. The break feels violent in its suddenness, like surfacing too fast in deep water. Cold air rushes between you where there had only been warmth seconds ago. Your lips tingle, oversensitive, parted as you drag in a shaky breath. Gojo’s chest rises and falls sharply, eyes wide in a way you’ve never seen before, pupils blow dark. For once, there is no smirk, no teasing glint, just a raw, stunned awareness, like he’s trying to process several things at once and failing at all of them.

You become acutely aware of exactly where you’re sitting.

Heat floods your face and to the tips of your ears. you scramble backward, knees slipping against the couch cushions, putting space between your bodies even as the loss of his warmth makes your skin prickle.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, horrified. “I didn’t—I mean, I wasn't trying to—”

“Don’t,” he groans, slumping back, covering his flushed face with his arm. His other hand reaches down to adjust himself though he doesn’t seem to have any ideas of covering himself so you watch unabashedly. “Just don’t say anything for a second.”

You clamp your mouth shut obediently.

The room feels too small, too quiet, every little sound like the rustle of fabric or the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchenette, even your own uneven breathing, suddenly feels magnified.

Eventually, Gojo pulls himself up, fixing dark eyes on your figure.

“I’m sorry.” You rush to say, though you’re not sure what you’re apologising for.

“It’s fine, it’s not your fault. It wasn't because of you, I guess I've just been pent up,” he runs his hand through his hair and you watch as he pauses, something passing over his face before he abruptly pulls his hand away. “Anyway, it’s normal.”

You nod too fast. “Right, yes. Totally fine. Super normal, nothing weird happened.”

“Right,” he says. “Nothing weird.”

Your shoulders sag a little, tension leaking out now that that’s been cleared up. The adrenaline leaves behind a strange floaty sensation and you try, and fail, to push down the sudden desire to continue, to explore even further. “We’re definitely stopping the practice today,” he says, crushing your dreams. You nod again, somewhat grateful that a decision has been made for you considering the conflict thoughts warring in your head. “Okay.” He suddenly ruffles his hair all messy and stands up with an exaggerated groan that makes you jump. “Okay! That's over. You did good by the way. You’re gonna be trouble when you actually start dating someone.” You frown. “Why?” “It's a compliment, sweets, learn to recognise them, yeah?” He starts walking over to his kitchenette. “Want an actual drink?” Your brain is still somewhere back in that last kiss, struggling to catch up. “Sure. Just water, right?” He snorts. “I’m not a creep.” When you lean back against the couch and close your eyes to recenter yourself, he steals a glance and lets out a long exhale. He closes his eyes for a moment like he’s deeply exhausted. When he opens his eyes again and makes his way to you, his signature smirk is back.

If anyone saw how nervous you look about to text Gojo, they might think you had a crush on him. Which is absurd because you clearly have a crush on Geto. Your thumb hovers over the send button, chewing the inside of your cheeks as you debate whether this is a good idea or not. It’s been a week since you first asked Gojo for advice and though his methods weren’t orthodox nor was he incredible help, you still had to give him his merits. Talking to him was relaxing in a way, the constant back and forth familiar and even his judgement didn’t seem to come from a bad place. The physical stuff was a whole other story and did not influence your thoughts on how you felt about him whatsoever. In summary, Gojo has given you determination that you couldn’t have achieved on your own. Using this newfound confidence, you take a deep breath and finally hit send. you: hey are you in class today? Not even a full minute later, his reply buzzes. gojo: yeah i am stalking me, super fan? you: god this is exactly why i hate texting u gojo: :( why whats up though ur class doesn’t finish until 2 right? you: yeah how did u know that? u sure ure not my super fan? gojo: guilty! i just know dont ask what u cant handle so u gonna leave me in suspense or are u gonna tell me you: well you have class with geto right The inside of your cheeks starts getting a little tender as you continue to gnaw and bite at the flesh, anxiously waiting as Gojo’s typing bubbles appear and disappear. gojo: yeah i do you: can i come see you? gojo: what you: like ill come to your class but can you leave after so its just me and him u were talking about creating these situations on saturday right so like wouldnt this be perfect? gojo: god this conversation isn’t good for my heart you: ? gojo: our class ends later than urs you: that’s fine i can wait !! gojo: nah i dont feel like it you: ????? man what the hell you said you’d help me gojo: and i did on saturday what if i want suguru all to myself today? you: come on please??? gojo: what if i dont want to see u you: well i wont be bothering u this time i just need an excuse to see him i think whatever magic u casted over me on sat worked im feeling like scarily confident i want to talk to him before the feeling goes away like i feel like i can really do it this time you know? please satoru? gojo: god u have no idea how evil u are fine ill get us to go to the library you: THANK YOU@!!!!!! gojo: u owe me you: YES DEFINITELY gojo: another date this friday then you: OKAY!!! wait what Waiting at the library is agonising. you attempt to complete some smaller tasks for your courses that you’ve left in lieu of thinking about, well, boys. But just like every time before, your thoughts stray and settle on him. His pretty effortless smiles, his soft laughter, that sparkling glint in his eyes when he looks at you and it’s like the world quietens just to listen too. his long fingers, the mole on his earlobe, his white— When your phone buzzes again an hour later, you jump up from your seat to find the location of the photo Gojo sent. You slip into the fifth library floor as quietly as possible, scanning the endless rows of students for the familiar top of someone’s head. It doesn't take long for your eyes to settle on him. Gojo is impossible to miss, slouched low in a study booth, hood up and drooping over his hair and the bottom pulled up to cover his mouth. His arms are crossed over his chest as he stares at his laptop screen. And of course, Geto sits across from him. Taking in a deep breath, you slow your pace into something that might pass as a casual stroll as if you had randomly come upon them by chance and stop by their booth.

“Oh, hi Satoru!” He doesn’t look up. “Hey.” Then, after a manual moment, you turn to Geto. “Oh my god! Geto? Wow.” Your voice comes out pitched a little too loud. “What a coincidence!” Geto looks up with a smile. “Hey, Y/N. What are the chances we ran into each other?” Gojo snorts and you don’t miss how pointed it is. You take the chance to glare at the side of his face but he only sinks into his hoodie with a grumble. You continue to stare, even narrowing your eyes as if it’ll sharpen your gaze and he finally lets out a loud groan, flipping the hood down to ruffle his hair and sit up. “Oh no,” he announces into the silence, loud enough to draw a few irritated glances, not that he cares. He checks his phone, staring at his empty notification list. “It looks like my best friend accidentally locked himself out of his dorm.” Geto pauses. “I'm your best friend.” You purse your lips, watching as Gojo begins to slowly pack up his things. Granted, he only needed to close his laptop and shove it into his tote bag, without a case mind you. He refuses to look up despite your efforts to catch his gaze. “Sorry man, duty calls. I can’t help that i’m such a good friend.” He stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder. When he passes by, his arm brushing against yours despite the empty space all around, he leans down to whisper, “Good luck.” You don’t have the time to decipher if it’s sincerity or sarcasm that you detect because he leaves, his lingering cologne the only sign that he was ever there. You turn back to Geto, offering a small, awkward smile, wondering if he’s caught on. “What was that about?” You laugh. Geto chuckles softly. “Sorry about him. You know how he can be sometimes.” He looks up at you patiently. “Well, an empty spot has opened up. Are you staying to study?” You fight the urge to celebrate. You happily erase thoughts of Gojo from your mind, leaving the gruelling task of decoding his strange behaviour for another day. Gojo’s seat is still warm when you take it, pulling out your laptop just for the act. There was no way you were wasting this golden opportunity with actually studying, don’t be silly. “So,” you begin, picking at the corner of your sleeve. “Any plans this weekend?” “You didn’t hear? Satoru is having a game this weekend. It’s just a preliminary but he’s been hyped for it. I'm sure he’d love it if you rocked up.” You almost laugh out loud. “No way. He'd hate that.” Geto’s brows lift, amused. “Why would he hate it?” “Because,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “We're not really friends. More like we have a symbiotic relationship. If we didn’t have that, I doubt we’d even talk to each other.” “I don't think so,” Geto smiles at you but instead of giving you the butterflies, it leaves you feeling unsure. “But you should come. Not by yourself, of course, I'm sure Shoko would come along.” “If she was going to go, she’d just take Utahime.” You shift in your seat, throwing the idea around in your head. “Even if I wanted to, I don't think I know anyone else who’d want to come with.” “Do you want to go with me?” Your brain blanks. “What?” “I was planning on going anyway,” he says, tone casual and all your senses tunnel-vision on him. “Besides, I've been curious about the girl who’s been taking up so much of Satoru’s time.” Your answer is obvious. “I’d love to!” It comes out a little too fast, a little too bright, but you can’t quite bring yourself to care. Relief, excitement, disbelief, it all tangles together in your chest until the only discernable thing left is a giddy sort of lightness. Geto’s smile widens, clearly pleased and you beam back. He hands you his phone. “Can I have your Insta then? So I can text you the details later.”

Your hands shake as you take it, thumbs clumsy as you type in your username, backspacing more times than you’d like to admit. You’re suddenly hyperaware of everything, the way he’s close enough to see your screen, the warmth of his hand where it had just been, the ridiculous desire to go through your own profile but through his eyes settling on your mind. Later, you can already imagine stalking your own profile, scrutinising every photo, every caption, trying to imagine what it would look like to be him scrolling through for the first time. When he takes his phone back, he doesn’t immediately pocket it. Instead, he actually looks, thumb scrolling down, humming. Oh god, he’s looking right now. "Where's that quote from your bio from?” He asks, glancing up briefly. “It sounds familiar.” “Oh, um. It’s from my favourite novel.” Your eyes flutter across his face as you tell him the title, sneaking in a quick description to try to sell it. “I’ll have to check it out then,” Geto says, putting his phone away. “Do you read often?” “Not as much as I want to. You know how it is, with school and everything. Not to mention books are crazy expensive nowadays.” He nods sympathetically. “There's this small bookshop tucked away near the city. It's actually close by the rink where Satoru’s game is. I could show you after his game on Saturday.” Your breath catches. “After the game?” You repeat, trying very hard to sound normal and not out-of-breath. Geto nods, completely at ease. “If you’re not in a rush to get back after,” he adds, considerate as ever. “It says open pretty late.” You stare at him for a second, thoughts scrambling over each other. He’s inviting you out after a game. That meant walking together, talking more, being alone without the buffer of a crowd screaming over a bunch of men slamming into each other and hitting with their sticks. You realise you’re meant to give an answer and quickly hurry. “Yeah, that sounds perfect actually!” You say, a touch too fast, then wince and try again, softer. “I mean—yeah. That sounds really nice.” “Good,” he says simply, smile deepening. “It's a cozy place. You could get lost in there for hours.” “That sounds dangerous. I already have a book-buying problem." “Secondhand prices,” he reminds you. “It's much safer.” You hum. “That's debateable. Lower prices just means I have to buy more.” You can’t believe your luck. Not only had Geto basically invited you on a date to Gojo’s game, he’s also asked you to go book shopping together afterward. And somehow, you had just finished a perfectly normal conversation with him without embarrassing yourself beyond recovery. Could things possibly get any better? “You know,” he starts up again and you lean in. “Satoru’s doing suspiciously good in his classes recently. Any clue why?” You freeze, temporarily thrown off guard. “He better be. I don't tutor him for nothing.” “I knew it was you. Why are you tutoring him? If he’s blackmailing you, I can help,” he says with a straight face. “No, no! Nothing like that!” You rush to explain. He cracks a smile. “I’m just joking. He's not actually as bad as his reputation makes him out to be. It's all bad rep, you know?” While you’ve known Gojo through his reputation for as long as you can remember, you’ve never once stopped to consider that might not be everything about him. “What do you mean?” “Sig Kap had a frat sweetheart two years ago,” Geto explains, folding his hands loosely on his laptop. “She was nice, really sweet but some of the older guys treated her like shit. When Satoru called some of the boys out for messing with her they weren’t too happy.” Your brows lift. “So did they kick him out or something?” “Not that there’s much they could have done considering his family.” “What about them?” He glances at you surprised. “You don’t know?”

You shake your head. “Huh.” His expression softens into something gentler. “Yeah. A lot of people approach him because they want something, connections, favours, you know the deal. He absolutely hates it. Ironically, that influence is also what kept the older guys from pushing back too hard and they couldn’t exactly scare him off so he’s there to stay.” “And some people still don’t like him?” “Some still don’t,” Geto confirms. “So they spread all those stupid rumours instead. Probably easier that way since it’s not exactly traceable.” Your stomach tightens. “What kind of rumours?” He hesitates, then shrugs. “Stuff about him sleeping around. that he’s messed with every girl on campus, that kind of thing. You don’t have to look so devastated, it doesn’t bother him much. If anything, it gets him more game. But it’s far from the truth. I mean you’re a girl on campus and he hasn’t messed with you.” Something about the way he says it, calm and matter-of-fact, makes your chest ache. “He did earn a lot of respect back,” Geto continues, oblivious to your growing distress. “Especially from the younger guys. But some of the older ones never really got over it.” He falls silent, studying you with that gentle, searching look that makes you feel like you’re under a microscope and the spotlight is shining down on you. Whatever he sees under the lens makes him smile. “It’s nice,” he says softly. “That you’re so genuine with him. He doesn’t get that very often.” The words hit like a punch to the gut. Couldn't he have used a word other than ‘genuine’? Because you aren’t genuine, far from it, and that realisation makes your stomach drop, nausea blooming sharp and sudden and upheaving the contents. You approached Gojo with a plan just like all those who have approached him with ulterior motives in the past. And you’ve used him for his friendship and his willingness to help, to get closer to the person right in front of you. You are no better than the people Geto just described. Worse, even. Heat rushes to your face, then drains away just as quickly, leaving you cold. You push your chair back abruptly, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. “Where did Gojo go?” you ask, wincing internally. Geto blinks up at you, startled by the sudden shift. “Oh, uh.” He gestures vaguely toward the exit. “He said he had to help me—that is, his friend unlock his door. He's probably back in his room now though.” You nod too quickly, already stuffing your laptop into your bag with fumbling hands, cables tangling as if they’re conspiring against you. “Are you going after him?” Geto asks gently. You freeze for a split second. Are you?Here you are, sitting across from the person you supposedly like, the person you engineered this entire situation to get closer to, and you’re about to abandon the conversation to chase after his best friend. This is your chance, the perfect golden opportunity, and you’re throwing it away. and yet, you can’t bring yourself to completely doubt yourself. “Yeah,” you say, half a smile hovering on your lips. “I’m so sorry. There’s just something I need to say to him.” You bite your lip. “See you at the match though?" Geto’s surprise melts into an easy grin. "Don't worry about it. Good luck. And Y/N, seriously, take care of him, okay?” The words prick at your skin with a faint sense of deja vu, but you don’t stop to examine it. Instead, you give Geto one last shaky smile, sling your bag over your shoulder, and hurry toward the exit. Your heart pounds so loudly it drowns everything else. 

You knock at what you believe is his door if memory serves correct. “Go away, I'm jerking it.” You can’t decide if he’s being serious or just scaring unwanted guests away. Regardless, you clear your throat and talk. “Sorry for interrupting? Look, it’s me, it’s Y/N. Can I come in?” No sooner had you said your name, the door flies open, Gojo standing right behind, eyes wide and face flushed. “Y/N?  What are you—I mean, I thought you had that date with Suguru?” He goes to run a hand through his hair but pauses, switching to his other hand. “Yeah well, clearly I left him to come see you.” You sigh deeply and brush past him into his room. “There’s something I need to say to you and it’s really eating up at me for some reason.” “No sure, go ahead. Walk right in,” he mumbles but doesn’t try to stop you, instead closing the door gently. “What are you doing here? Because if you’re here to gloat or have a girl talk, Shoko is the one for you.” You flop onto his couch, staring up at his ceiling. He pauses before following, the couch cushions dipping under his weight as he drops down beside you. “Gojo, I’m really sorry,” you say, turning to him. He stares back unamused. “I told you to call me Satoru.” You blink, momentarily caught off guard before correcting yourself. “Satoru. I'm really sorry.” “Okay.” His frown lifts and he leans back to look at you. “About what?” You open your mouth, then close it again, suddenly unsure where to even start. “About everything?” You try weakly. He raises a brow. “That narrows it down.” You groan, dragging a hand over your face. “Okay, specifically I feel like I've been using you and being annoying and dragging you into my mess. And also I abandoned you in the library which was rude and I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess I wasn't and I'm really sorry.” Gojo blinks at you and you hold your breath for the verdict. “...that’s it?” “That’s not ‘it’, that’s a lot,” you argue, pushing yourself up. “You've been helping me this whole time and I'm just barging into your life, asking for unreasonable favors and taking up your time.” He watches you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, surprise, confusion, maybe even something softer that he quickly buries under a flippant expression. “That's it?” he repeats, slower this time. You nod, twisting in your fingers together in your lap, the fight leaving your body as quick as it came. “I mean, it's not nothing. I know I've been a lot. And you didn’t have to help me at all, with any of it, but you did and I…” Your voice falters. “I don't want you to think I was just… using you.” Silence settles between you, thick but not entirely uncomfortable. The hum of his mini fridge in the corner fills the gaps. Somewhere down the hall, a door slams and laughter echoes faintly before fading. Gojo exhales through his nose and leans back, head tipping against the couch cushion as he stares up at the ceiling. “You’re terrible,” he mutters. He turns his head to look at you properly, blue eyes sharp in a way that makes your chest tighten. Up close like this, without the buffer of banter or crowds or motion, it’s impossible to ignore how intense he can be when he isn’t performing for anyone. You've had the privilege to see this side of him a few times, and the thought that he’s let you in and you’ve only gone and used him fills you with more guilt. “You didn’t abandon me in the library,” he continues. “I left on my own free will, remember?” “Yeah but—” “And you’re not using me,” he adds, voice flattening slightly. “If you were, then you aren’t using me to my full potential.” You huff a weak laugh. “Thanks?” “I mean it,” he says, not smiling. “People who use others don’t show up at their door looking like they’re going to throw up from guilt.” Heat creeps up your neck. “I did not look like that.” “You did,” he says easily. “Still kind of do.”

You shove his shoulder lightly. He barely moves, solid as ever, but the corner of his mouth lifts and the tension in your chest loosens at the sight. “So… you’re not mad?” You ask carefully. He considers that more seriously than you expected. “I was.” The worry comes back tenfold. “But not for the reason you think. So stop looking like you’ve aged ten years, sweets, it’s not a good look on you.” You wait for him to elaborate but he doesn’t. You sigh, unable to keep up with the emotional whiplash and opt to instead throw it all away. “Okay, well that’s cryptic," you mutter. He shrugs. “I'm a mysterious guy. It’s all part of the irresistable, untouchable charm.” “I don’t see how you can be mysterious when you’re so loud.” “I open up to you and this is what I get?” “You did not open up.” He turns his head back toward the ceiling. “And now I'm closing back down.” You roll your eyes, but the knot in your chest has loosened enough that you can breathe again, you almost miss this back and forth and it seems he does too because he relaxes fully into his couch. Without thinking, you mimic him, shoulder brushing his. This time, neither of you moves away. The proximity feels different than before. You've been closer to him than this, and you randomly recall being on his lap for some reason unrelated to this specific moment and the charged, quiet atmosphere. After a moment, he speaks again, softer. “Did you at least get what you wanted?” You hesitate, the question knocking you out of orbit. “I think so. I mean he asked me to go to the game with him. and then a bookstore after.” Gojo goes still beside you. “My game?” He shakes his head with a scoff. “Figures. Well, good for you.” You twist the fabric of your sleeve between your fingers, suddenly unsure why that answer feels so unsatisfying. “Yeah,” you say anyway, forcing brightness into your voice. “It is good.” He hums noncommittally, eyes still fixed somewhere on the ceiling. For someone who never shuts up, his silence feels louder than anything he could say. You sneak glances at him from the corner of your eye, observing the strong curve of his nose, the harsh bob of his Adam's apple, the rise and fall of his chest and his big hands you’ve had the opportunity to feel on your ass. The quiet stretches, though it is far from quiet inside your head. Then, before you can stop yourself, you’re already opening your mouth. “Can I ask you something?” His gaze slides to you instantly, sharp and attentive as if he was waiting for you to break the silence first. “Not to be that guy but you just did.” “A real question.” You roll your eyes though his somewhat predictable rage bait helps ease some tension. Still, you hesitate, throat tight. If you say it out loud, it becomes real and no longer a suppressed fantasy. But if you don’t say anything, this feeling in your chest might never go away, tainting every future you might have with Geto. “How do you know what you’re doing?” You ask. One white brow lifts. “In what context? I'm good at a lot of things. You're gonna have to narrow it down, sweets.” You groan softly. “With girls. With… touching. And stuff. Etcetera.” Understanding dawns slowly, then all at once. You don’t catch the shift in experience because you stare stubbornly at your hands clasp in your lap, heat flooding your face. “Oh.” “I just don’t know,” you admit, voice small. “I don't know what I'm doing at all and it’s embarrassing.” He sits up a little, attention sharpening in a way that makes your skin prickle. “Y/N.” You press on before he can interrupt. “I mean, I know theoretically, obviously. That's what bio class is for right? But I know in practice I’ll just freeze. Or overthink or do nothing. And if things ever go further with Geto, I don't want to be useless. You mentioned he’s had exes before, right? But I haven't. And that kind of sucks to think about.”

Then softly. “You're probably the closest thing to experience I have.” “Useless,” he starts. “Is not the right word I'd use. Suguru would never think that. He’s not a dick.” You finally look at him. “I don’t want him to regret it. Or think I'm awkward. or that I don't want him.” He studies you for a long moment, jaw tight, eyes searching your face like he’s looking for something he hopes not to find. “And you’re telling me this because…?” You scoff. “You're not stupid. I mean sure, you almost failed baby’s first statistics but you’re not dumb.” “No, I guess I'm not, thanks,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “But I was kind of hoping maybe I'm still fantasising.” “You were fantasising before?” “Let's not go there.” “It’s a Friday,” you say slowly. "Shouldn't you have a hook up right about now?” He pouts, looking oddly down. “I wasn't feeling like it.” “So you had to use your hand.” “I wasn't jerking off, Y/N.” Neither of you believe that statement. Here you are, sitting on the couch of campus heartthrob Gojo Satoru, joking around about the lack of a female body against him while you’re upset about being a virgin. Even Gojo, who isn’t admittedly the best at math, shouldn’t struggle with putting two and two together. “Right, I believe you.” You bite your lip, opening your eyes wider as you plead. “I just hate feeling unprepared. You’ve seen just how bad I freeze. Can’t you help me?” He chews on his lips aggressively before finally groaning, running a hand down his face. “You have the worst ideas known to man. Fine. I'll help you. But we're stopping if it gets weird.” “Obviously.” “Do you even remember how to kiss?” “Find out for yourself.” You grab his collar and tug him towards you, smacking your lips against his the second he’s in range. It's not the graceful, fireworks-exploding moment from rom-coms, more like two magnets clashing awkwardly, teeth bumping before you recall the right angle. Gojo chuckles into the kiss, the vibration tickling your mouth, and you pull back just enough to glare at him. “It hurts that you don’t remember my lessons, sweets,” Gojo purrs, clearly enjoying your fluster. “Shut up and kiss me properly,” you mutter, snarky even as your cheeks burn. You dive back in, and this time it clicks, most likely due to his more active participation. Your lips move in sync, his tongue slipping past your teeth. It's surprisingly nice, all heat and shared air, making your stomach flip in a way that’s equal parts nerves and excitement. You didn’t realise how much you were craving this since the last time. Gojo’s hands stay loose on your waist, respectful but firm, until he deepens the kiss with a low hum. You feel him shift under you, his body reacting before his brain catches up. When you break apart for air, his eyes are darker, pupils blown wide. He adjusts his hips, and there’s no missing the semi-hard bulge straining against his jeans because it nudges insistently against your inner thigh. You both look down. “Uh, yeah,” he says, voice a little rough, something like accusation in his eyes as he glares down at Gojo junior.  “Guess that means you do remember lesson one after all. Mind if I lose the pants?” You snort, trying to play it cool despite the heat pooling in your gut. “Not so reluctant now, huh?” “Game is game.” He grins, all cock swagger, and pops the buttons off his jeans. They slide down his legs in a heap, leaving him in snug black boxers that do nothing to hide his growing interest. Gojo’s leaner than you’d pegged him for, abs carved from lazy gym sessions, waist dipping in before flaring to solid shoulders. But your eyes zero in lower, where his cock twitches half-hard against the fabric, outlining a decent length that’s got you curiously intrigued rather than intimidated. When he sits back down, he leans back on his palms and smirks. “You can touch me, you know. I bet it’s better than just looking.” “Anywhere?” “I'm practically offering myself up to you on a platter. Yes, Y/N. Everywhere’s fair game.” 

You eye him for a little longer. He's not as big as he carried himself around to be. As if sensing your unspoken realisation, he hurriedly explains, "I'm not completely hard yet.” You nod, sympathetically. “Right, no I get it.” “I’m serious, Y/N, stop looking at me like that.” He grabs your hand and places it on his abs, ignoring your sudden squeak. “You’re going to have to work to get me there.” He watches as you hesitate, his heartbeat quickening slightly under your touch. “This seems less like teaching and more like you just wanting someone to get you off.” “You’re learning.” Despite his teasing tone, he eases you closer to him. “Look, it’s not exactly rocket science and what I tell you probably won’t apply to everyone. But most guys are animals so if you can make them feel good then that’s all that matters. What's meta for most guys though is probably their neck and lower stomach. But you can start anywhere.” His smirk falters just a tad when you explore, tentatively at first, palms sliding over his ribs and thumbs brushing his nipples until they pebble under your touch. Gojo’s breath hitches, but he keeps it together, murmuring encouragement. “I guess you could try there too. Fuck, this is kind of embarrassing. Can’t you be normal and go at my neck or something?” “Your neck?” Your fingers slide up to touch him there but he laughs and gently brushes your hand away. “Okay, don’t strangle me. When I say touch, I don't just mean with your fingers. You can touch your lips too, can’t you?” You bite your lips and nod, wetting them quickly with your tongue. You lean in closer, your lips finding the pulse point of his neck. It's a quick peck at first, testing, and he just arches a brow, unimpressed. Fine, challenge accepted. You brace yourself on his shoulders and lick a slow stripe up the tendon, tasting salt and faint cologne which isn’t the best tasting thing in the world, so you nibble the skin. Gojo hums, head tilting to give you better access, and you dive in, sucking lightly, alternating with kisses that leave faint marks. It’s heady, this rush of control. His bare chest radiates warmth against your arm, heavy breaths ghosting your ear as he lets you lead. “Hungry, are you?” Gojo finds his footing against the absurd situation because if there’s one thing he knows, it’s receiving attention from pretty women. If he closes his eyes like so, focusing only on the cute licks against his neck, he can almost ignore the fact that it’s coming from you. “I'd be careful not to leave any marks. Girls get jealous easily, you know?” You roll your eyes at his very unsexy comment. He's underestimating you, you’re sure he is, and you’re even more determined to prove him wrong. You kiss down his neck, licking at the column of his neck, and when you find this soft patch of skin, pale under your lips and glimmering with a thin layer of sweat, you do what your instincts roar at you to do and bite him as he’s mid yapping. “I never really let girls kiss me like this, so be grateful that I—ohfuck!” Gojo’s reaction is immediate as a downright sinful moan escapes his pretty lips unchecked. His hands tighten in your hips, head dropping forward, panting as he catches his breath from the sudden sharp inhale. You let go, licking at the mark left behind. “Oh, sorry. You don’t do marks, right?” “That was…” He trails off, eyes dark as he holds you in his gaze. “Jesus, sweets, where did you even learn that kind of stuff?” You shrug, letting him hold you back and feeling a little bit like a rabid animal. “It was just something I wanted to do. Was it bad? Did it hurt?” “No, it was fine. Keep going just… use your hands a bit more too,” he hurries to add on, clearing his throat and loosening his hold on you. “It feels better if you use both your mouth and hands at the same time. Keep going, but don’t forget the rest of me.”

Finding no error in his words, you enthusiastically go back to kissing and sucking on his neck, tasting the salt of his sweat. Meanwhile, you slide your hands down his chest, marveling at how smooth he feels despite his muscle. When you graze your finger tips between the medial line of his abs, you feel him shiver and you detach your lips from his neck to watch his eyes track your every move, hungry and unblinking. “Atta girl,” he rasps, abs flexing under your palm and he shivers as you slide even further down, hand hovering his stomach. His cock visibly thickens in his boxers as you trace the ridges of his abs.“That’s it. Take your time, sweets. I'm not going anywhere.” You never considered that Gojo would be so vocal during sex, not that this even counted as sex yet. If anything, that made you even more curious, wondering if he himself knew how much he was talking and how little any of it even meant. In case he didn’t, you didn’t dare talk in case it would break the spell. Your fingers skim the waistband of his boxers and he sucks in a breath, voice dropping an octave. “Fuck, yeah. That’s the spot.” The fabric tents fully now, his cock hard and straining, the tip outlined clearly. It's thicker than you expected, pulsing with need, and the sight sends a thrill straight to your core. Gojo’s eyes flick between your hand and your face, flushed and focused. “See? told you it’d wake up. want to see all of it?” You nod, eyes trained on his bulge. He grins, taking your hands to hook your thumbs into the sides of his boxers. He helps you slightly though he lets you do most of the work. Emboldened, you tug the boxers down just enough to free his cock, watching it spring up, thicker now, veins prominent along the shaft, the head flushed and glistening with a bead of precum. Your first words are, of course, very sexy. “Oh damn.” Gojo laughs breathlessly. For my own ego, I'm going to take that as a good thing.” “It just doesn’t look how I expected it to.” That makes him frown. He ducks his head to meet your gaze. “Hey. She has feelings too, you know. Don’t imply that she’s ugly, she’ll sag.” “She?” It's so ridiculous you snort, the nervousness running away to let curiousity fuel your movements once again, fingers curling around his hot, velvety length. He's rock hard under your soft touch, precum slicking your palm as you pump him experimentally. Gojo groans low in his throat, head falling back against the couch. “Shit, just like—ngh—that,” he grits out, voice wrecked. The sound hits you like a spark, raw and primal, making your thighs clench. “My—my dick has she/her pronouns. It’s 2026 now, get woke.” Still looking at you, he takes your hand again, wrapping it around his shaft. “Hold it properly. Feel how hot it is.” He groans softly as you hold him, guiding your hand up and down in a slow stroke, pressing down where he’s sensitive just the way he likes it. “Squeeze gently and twist your wrist as you move.” He demonstrates the twist motion, his large hand enveloping yours, precum beading at his tip from both the sight and feel of you. He lets you go, leaning back on his elbows, enjoying the view of you jacking him off. “You’re a natural, keep going, just like that.” His breathing becomes heavier, his abdomen tensing. He can’t help but buck slightly into your hand. Despite his unattractive dirty talk, it doesn’t drive away the power you feel and it doesn’t take away from the sounds, the way his body trembles under your control. It's all so intoxicating, way better than any awkward fumble you’ve imagined with Geto late at night with your hands down your pants. To shut him up, you squeeze a little tighter and he hisses, pulling you away. “Slow down,” he pants, catching his breath. He closes his eyes for a moment before locking you in a fierce gaze. “Do you usually shove your finger inside when you’re dry?”

“What?” “This is why lube exists, woman. God, my poor lady,” He looks up at you, eyes trailing down from your eyes to your lips. “Please don’t refer to your dick as a lady.” “I’ve gotten no complaints so far.” Gojo reaches up, tracing your bottom lip with his thumb, dragging it down slightly. “Have you ever spat on anyone?” “Excuse me?” You look down at him as if he’s grown another head. He lets out a strangled groan, hips bucking up under you. “Yeah, keep looking at me like that and spit on my dick. Give her the good old hawk tuah.” Your grimace only grows and he bites his lip, the corners quirking up. “Please,” he whispers and you’ve lost. The word hangs between you like a dare, his blue eyes locked on yours, all wide and pleading in a way that clashes hilariously with his usual attitude if the unsure quiver to his lips didn’t wreck you. Gojo’s cock throbs in your loose grip, the head leaking more precum that drips down the shaft, making your fingers slick without even trying. You hesitate, face heating up at the sheer audacity, but the way his abs tense, the subtle roll of his hips begging for more, chips away at your resistance. “Fine,” you mutter, rolling your eyes to mask the flutter in your stomach and you must have imagined the way he groans. “But just know I’m judging you the entire time.” “Even better,” he moans. You lean over him, one hand steadying on his thick thighs, firm muscle under smooth skin, and purse your lips as you spit on him. It’s awkward as hell, the glop of spit landing off-centre on the underside of his shaft, but you smear it around with your palm. The glide turns smoother instantly, wet and filthy, your strokes picking up speed as his cock slicks up fully. Gojo’s reaction is immediate, a deep, rumbling moan spills from his chest, his head knocking back against the couch with a thud, not that he notices. “Fuuuck, yes—that’s it, just like that.” His hands fist the fabric of the couch on either side of his hips, knuckles white, like he’s fighting not to grab you and take over. But he doesn’t, he lets you work him, hips jerking up in shallow thrusts to meet your rhythm, the tip bumping your palm on every upstroke. “Keep going, tighter… shit, you’re killing me here.” The power rush hits you harder now, watching him come undone under your touch. His cock feels massive in your hand, thick and veined, pulsing hotly as you pump from base to tip, thumb swiping over the slit to collect more precum and spread it down. You can feel every ridge, every twitch, and it’s nothing like the vague fantasies you’d spun about Geto. This is real, messy, and way more intense. Your own arousal builds, thighs pressing together as you grind subtly against nothing, the heat between your legs turning insistent. “Does it… feel good?” You ask, voice breathy and you slow your strokes just to tease, squeezing the base and watching in awe as a fresh bead of precum pearl at the head. He cracks one eye open, gaze hazy and dark, lips parted in a pant. “Good? Sweets, don’t sell yourself short.” A grin tugs at his mouth but it falters into a groan when you resume, faster now, the wet schlick of your hand echoing in the room causing you to squirm. “Don’t stop,” he all but whines. “Gonna cum if you keep this up. Want me to, sweets? Want me to paint your hand or what?” The crudeness should turn you off, but it doesn’t, it only amps up the thrill, making you bold. You nod, biting your lip as you lean closer, free hand bracing on his chest to feel his heart hammering. “Yeah, do it. cum for me.” Gojo’s control snaps like a rubber band. his moans pitch higher, body arching as his cock swells in your grip, veins bulging. “Fuck—fuck, can’t help it, I’m gonna—” He bucks hard once, twice, and then he’s erupting, thick spurts of cum shooting from the tip to splatter your fingers, his stomach, even a streak across his abs. It's hot, sticky, rope after rope as you milk him through it, not knowing what else to do. You slow your strokes until he’s spent, twitching sensitively in your palm. 

He slumps back, chest rising and falling like he ran a marathon, a lazy, disbelieving laugh bubbling out. He runs a hand down his face, groaning softly. “I am…” He lets out another breathless laugh, head dropping back against the armrest of the couch. “So fucking washed. What the hell was that, sweets?” You blink, a little dazed yourself. Your hand is still loosely wrapped around him, slick and messy, and only when his eyes flick down do you jolt and snatch your hand back like you’ve been burnt. “I—I don’t know,” you mumble, gratefully accepting the tissue he hands you, awkwardly deciding to dab at his stomach and abs too, anywhere your eyes can safely land that isn’t his softening cock. “That was… hey, wait a minute. Shouldn’t i be asking you? What the hell was that spitting thing?” He shrugs, your body moving with the motion as you remain on his lap. “I told you, there’s some things some guys like and some don’t. As a note of reference, maybe don’t spit on Suguru. You’ll kill his ego.” He has the audacity to smirk at the thought considering the state of him, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, mouth pink and kiss-swollen from all the swearing and groaning. “You're disgusting,” you accuse weakly, trying not to think about how he’d looked under you a few seconds ago, jaw slack, eyes glazed, like you’d wrung the soul out of him. “Mmm.” His gaze drags over your face, down the line of your throat, lingering a beat too long at your chest before he drags it back up. “So, how are you feeling after all that?” “Embarrassed,” you say immediately. “But kinda turned on, too?” he guesses, just as fast. Your mouth drops open. “I did not say that.” “Don’t have to,” he says, maddening. “You’re still sitting on me, you know.” You freeze. You're still straddling his lap, knees planted on either side of his thighs on the couch, hips pressed to his, fingers bunched at his stomach. You'd be so focused on that scrunched up look on his face when he came that you kind of forgot to be mortified about the position. Now you remember. “I was busy,” you mutter, shifting like you’re about to climb off. His hands come up automatically, one at your waist, one braced at your hip, holding you there without quite pulling you back down. “Hey, hey. I didn't say you had to move.” “But you’re all…” you wave a hand vaguely at his lap, face burning. “Post-nut clarity or whatever. You should be resting or something.” “That’s hilarious, do you think I’m an old man?” He huffs a laugh. “If my stamina lasted one puny handjob I would never show my face anywhere. Hey, don’t glare at me like that. you know what that does to me. you glaring at me and spitting on my cock while you jerk me off—fuck.” “Don't say it like that,” you hiss, heat flooding your chest. “You literally told me to.” “And you did so good,” he croons. “Look at you, all flustered now. You were seconds away from calling me pathetic, you know.” “How are you turning this on me? You’re the one that liked it,” you shoot back, shoulder tensing. His fingers flex at your waist, like he’s remembering it. “Yeah. I really, really did.” The way he says it sends a tiny shiver through you. You feel ridiculously aware of yourself suddenly, of your damp palms on his chest, of the way your thighs are pressed around him, of the restless thrum under your skin you’ve been trying not to notice since he first groaned for you. You shift again, intending to put some space between you, and hiss as the movement drags you a little too firmly against him, sparking through the ache low in your belly. You go very still and so does he. His eyes flicker, dropping for a fraction of a second to the point where your hips meet his. You can feel the change in him, no longer wrecked and loose-limbed, but sharpened like he’s honing in on every tiny flinch. “Oh,” he says softly. “Feeling something, sweets?”

“Don’t start,” you warn, feeling every urge to catapult yourself off his lap. His hand tightens on your waist, thumbs rubbing absent circles, maddeningly casual. “Can you let me go already?” “But it’s not over yet, are you sure you want to miss the best part? If I said I wanted to make it your turn, would you say no?” The question hangs between you, heavier than his usual teasing. “This isn’t… about that.” “Sure it is,” he whispers, lips curved into a wicked grin. “You wanna learn how to make a guy feel good right? Then you also need to know what you like. If you know what works for you, it’s easier to tell him what works for him.” Has Gojo always been so reasonable? “Besides,” he continues when you’re not rushing to sign up to his touch. “I’m being selfless here. You can’t seriously think I'd let you walk out of here without repaying the favour first, right?” “Way to sound like a douche.” You swat at his chest, a weak attempt to appear levelheaded. “How else am I supposed to say it?” He laughs softly, catching your wrist but not pushing it away, thumb stroking over your pulse. “I want to touch you. properly. Can I?” Your stomach swoops. “Just to know what it feels like?” “Exactly.” His smile goes crooked at the edges. “Now you’re getting it.” You stare at him, breathing shallow. Your heart is thudding way too fast. you’re hyperaware of your own body again, of the way your panties stick uncomfortably, of the restless ache that’s only been getting worse, of how easy it would be to fall into his tempting embrace. “Hey, come back to me,” Gojo murmurs. “We don't have to do anything you don’t want. I promise I'm not a dick. So? What do you want, sweets?” You look down at where his hands rest, big and warm on your hips, fingers flexing like he’s trying very hard to stay put. You could say no, you know that. He'd let you hop off, probably make a dumb joke to break the tension, and the both of you can go back to pretending the constant physical touch is driving you up the wall. But you also know your legs are still a little unsteady, and that every time you shift you have to bite back a sound you really don’t want him to hear. You swallow, hard. “You have to listen,” you say finally. “If I say stop, you stop. and none of your stupid comments either.” His expression sobers instantly, hands jumping a little at your hips. “Promise. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.” “I’m telling you, when you say shit like that, everything goes back inside.” “Yeah, yeah, I get it, you want me quiet. So can I touch you or are you going to keep torturing us both?” “You deserve the torture,” you grumble, then quieter, “But, yeah. okay.” He hums. “Not good enough. Say it again?” You bite back a complaint. “I want you to…touch me.” It comes out barely more than a whisper, but it hits him like a truck. His eyes darken, lashes lowering as he sucks in a breath. One moment you’re straddling him, the next he’s sat up and turned you around so your back leans against his chest, his breath tickling your neck. “You don’t know what you do to me,” he groans, hands sliding down to your stomach. His fingers play with the hem, nails barely grazing your bare skin. “Can I?” You shiver, looking down to watch his hands with anticipation. Swallowing, you brace yourself and nod. “Good girl,” he breathes. His hand trails under your shirt, fingertips tracing nonsense shapes on your skin. He doesn’t go straight where you know you’re aching for him to go. Instead, he takes his time, mapping out the sensitive spots he finds, where your muscles jump when he squeezes, lowering his hand to where your breath stutters when he drags his knuckles along the inside of your thigh. “You're wound so tight,” he murmurs, half to himself. “Relax for me, Y/N.” “Shut up and stop teasing,” you hiss, and then gasp when his hand finally slips higher, brushing over the edge of your waistband. “Is that a no?” He asks instantly, stilling. 

]You want to throttle him. “I’m just… nervous.” “Of course you are,” he says, voice going stupidly soft in your ear, hands playing with the fabric. “The first time’s always weird. But it doesn’t have to be bad-weird.” He slowly slips his hand under the band, feeling you go still. “Hey.” He presses his lips to your hair, mumbling soft words of praise. “You're okay, you’re doing good. Just breathe for me.” You do, albeit shakily, his fingertips brushing the damp centre of your panties. “You’re already… Jesus," he says quickly. “I really did a number on you, huh? And without even touching you, too.” “If you don’t shut up, I'm leaving,” you threaten weakly. He chuckles, guiding your attention away. Gojo slides your shorts down so you can see exactly where his fingers press against, a rush of heat flooding your cheeks at the sight of his thick fingers prodding against the backdrop of the panties you chose out this morning. If you knew something like this would happen, you would have worn something else. Gojo thankfully doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he slowly explores, no sudden movements, no overwhelming pressure, just the occasional slide against your clit. “Okay?” he asks, and you realise you’ve gone silent, holding your breath again. “Yeah,” you gasp. “Just feel different than—nevermind.” “Different good?” He prompts, thumb pressing down on your clit and you jolt, an audible inhale escaping you. You feel his arms tighten around you. “Oh, there we go,” he mutters, sounding ridiculously pleased with himself. “That got you.” You don’t dignify that with an answer, not that you have the capacity to because the next moment, he’s moving his fingers with practiced purpose. His thumb circles your swollen clit through the damp fabric, the barrier muffling any sharp pleasure though it helps you wrap your head around the sensation. When you start lifting your hips to meet his touch, he knows he has you where he wants you. With his other fingers, he slowly slides your panties to the sides and touches you directly. The effect is immediate, your eyes snap down to watch, body tensing, want like you’ve never known it before shocking you. The sight of your own arousal makes you wetter and he abandons his touch to touch you directly. “Look at that,” he coos in your ear, voice breathy with awe and smug satisfaction. “Here you were acting like you wanted to leave when you’re this wet. Thought I wouldn't know, sweets? That I couldn't see you eye my dick all hungry like that?” He emphasises his words with a harsh pinch of your clit and your head falls back to rest on his shoulders with a filthy moan ripped from your throat, raw and unprocessed. Gojo takes the chance to kiss your neck. You should hit him for his words, you really should. But instead, your hand flies up to his forearm, nails digging in when he slides a finger to circle your entrance and the world briefly whites out. He groans quietly, like your reaction is doing something to him. “That’s—fuck, you’re so cute. Do that again.” “Don’t tease,” you say again, voice barely there and brain too mushy to think of something original. And like he knows, Gojo slowly slides a finger into your pussy and the pressure temporarily pushes out all of the pleasure. But then his free hand is playing with your clit and he’s telling you how good you are and how pretty you sound, and it comes back. He thrusts that finger in and out slowly, letting you adjust to the intrusion and when you’re sighing soft moans and broken demands again, he curls it and doesn’t stop moving. He could easily overpower you, could pin you down and take, take, take, but he doesn’t. Every time you tense like you might pull away, he backs off just enough, murmuring at your ear, though by the time you’re close you haven’t panicked in a while. He’s the one breathing hard when you start to chase your peak, like he’s the one being touched. You’re writhing now, his arms having to tighten around you to keep you still as he slides another finger inside. 

“That’s it,” he whispers, panting when your thighs clamp around his hand, head tipped back on his shoulders and eyes starting to roll back. “There you go. I've got you. Let go for me, yeah? Doing so good for me, sweets.” “S-Satoru,” you choke out, the name ripped from somewhere deep. His whole body jolts behind you and you feel a twitch near your ass. “Oh, fuck,” he groans, like you’ve done something filthy. “Say my name like that again, I swear to god—” You don’t because suddenly, you’re gone. His fingers pressed against the spongy spot inside, his thumb circling your clit, and suddenly everything tightens then snaps and you’re tumbling, shaking around the steady anchor of his hand and his arm and his voice in your ear. He doesn’t speed up, letting you ride your orgasm on his hand, mumbling sweet nothings against your sweaty neck. It’s messy and overwhelming and a little scary for a second, then his palm is flat over your lower stomach, grounding you as waves of sensation roll through your body. His other hand finally gentles and you can breathe again. When you finally slump back against him boneless, the room feels dimmer. your chest heaves, skin prickling with aftershocks that he guides you through. He eases his hand away and wipes it on his pants, keeping you steady on his lap. “Hey,” he says softly, lips brushing your hairline. “You still with me?” You nod, or at least you try to. “I think so.” “Yeah?” He presses, smiling against your skin. “Yeah.” “Good.” he exhales like he’s been holding his breath with you. “You did amazing, sweets.” “You're making me sound like a dog.” “Well, you were very obedient,” he says lightly, then winces. “Okay, that sounded kinda bad.” He huffs a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest where you’re still half-leaning against him. One of his hands comes up, hovering for a second like he isn’t sure if touching you again is allowed, then settles gently at your side. You catch your breath, stealing a glance. His hair is a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes still blown wide but there’s something softer around the edges, so different from his usual cocky composure that it does something strange to your chest. “You're the worst,” you mumble, just to say something. “Oh?” his brows lift. “You seemed pretty satisfied with the lesson.” You keep your mouth shut because there is absolutely no winning that argument. Silence falls, not heavy nor awkward, but certainly unfamiliar. Without the distraction of movement or adrenaline, your mind starts spinning into the consequences of your actions. And the fact that you’re still sitting between his thighs. You stiffen and he notices immediately. “Uh. Do you… want to—” “Yes,” you say at the exact same time he says, “We should probably—” You both stop, voice overlapping as you tell each other to continue then stop again. It’s funny if not awkward and you laugh, startled and breathless. “Okay,” he says, hands lifting slightly in surrender. “You first.” “No, you go,” you insist, scrambling upright a little too fast. The room tilts for half a second and you grab his thigh to steady yourself. His hands hover again, then settle at your waist just in case. “Careful,” he murmurs. “You’re still a little… y’know?” You straighten and stand away from the couch, legs wobbling in a way you pretend not to notice. The cool air hits your skin and reality comes rushing back in a tidal wave of embarrassment. Your skirt rests on your thighs but they’re crumpled, and your hair is surely a mess. Gojo watches, biting his lip hard enough to leave teeth marks. He stands too, running a hand through his hair, suddenly looking almost shy as he grabs his discarded shirt and pulls it back on. For a moment, neither of you know where to look. You fixate on a crack in the wall and he studies the floor. “Do you, uh… want me to walk you back?” The normalcy of the question feels surreal. “I’m fine with walking,” you say quickly. “The weather’s nice so.” “Yeah,” he nods. “Fresh air. Definitely.”

You grab your bag with fumbling hands, nearly knocking it off the couch in the process. He catches it before it hits the floor, fingers brushing yours again as he hands it over. Neither of you pull away immediately. Then, you both do at the same time. “Right,” you say. “Right,” he echoes. He opens the door for you, peeking into the hallway first before gesturing. “You sure you don’t want me to walk you back?” You almost cry at the visual of a way out. “No, no, I'm fine. It’s not too far anyway.” Gojo studies your face like he’s trying to decide whether to argue or not. For once, he doesn’t look like he’s in on some big secret. He just looks uncertain. “If you say so,” he mutters, stepping aside. You slip past him into the hallway, letting out a big sigh of relief when you hear the door close gently behind you with a soft click. Looking over your shoulder, you see Gojo follow you out anyway. Your feet slow. “You don’t have to, I'm really okay.” “I’m not,” he says quickly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’m just heading in the same direction. That's all. What a coincidence?” “Uh-huh.” The staircase is only a few doors down, but the short walk stretches, each step heavy with things unsaid. You can hear voices downstairs, life continuing on, oblivious. At the top of the stairwell, you stop. “Are we still going the same way?” He shakes his head. “I’ll see you around,” you settle on when the silence stretches. “See you, Y/N.” You take one step down, then another. After a third, you glance back. Gojo is still there, watching. your chest does something uncomfortable as he waits. “Goodnight, Satoru,” you say softly. He blinks, like the name catches him off guard every time. Then he smiles, small but warm. “Night, sweets.” When you reach the bottom and push out into the night air, it feels shockingly cool against your overheated skin. The campus is quiet, streetlights painting everything gold and shadowed, the distant sound of traffic humming like white noise. You walk faster than necessary because if you slow down, the thoughts will quickly flood in. And if you start thinking, you might realise that somewhere between asking him for help and leaving his room tonight, something has gone very, very wrong. 

You’re not sure why you care so much. 

You tell yourself it’s because Geto will be there, because this is a chance to make a real impression, because this is what all of it has been building toward. But as you stand in front of your mirror, turning this way and that, smoothing imaginary wrinkles, adjusting your hair for the third time, checking your reflection from angles no one in real life would ever see, you realise this isn’t normal. 

You’ve never put this much thought into a “casual” outing before. 

Not the outfit, carefully balanced between cute and effortless, like you didn’t spend forty minutes deciding between two nearly identical tops just for the jersey to cover it anyway. Not the makeup, soft enough to look natural, deliberate enough to feel like armor. Not the way your stomach flips every time you picture stepping into the arena. 

You know deep down this isn’t about Geto. That thought alone makes your chest feel tight. 

You grab your purse before you can overthink it further and leave. 

When you walk into the arena, the roar of the crowd hits you like a physical force, loud and electric, buzzing with anticipation and cheer. It bleeds through the concrete walls, through your bones, and through the floor beneath your shoes. 

The game hasn’t officially started yet, you made sure to come before then, but the energy is already at a fever pitch.

Your eyes sweep the rink automatically, searching. And you spot him immediately. 

Gojo, in his navy and white jersey, skates across the ice like it belongs to him, like the rink exists solely to accommodate his momentum. It doesn't seem to matter that his helmet obscures most of his face, you’d recognise him anywhere. the easy confidence in the way he moves, the loose, effortless posture, the casual speed that looks like he isn’t even trying—it’s unmistakable. 

His hair, damp under his helmet, peeks out in soft white tufts. His cheeks are slightly flushed from exertion, breath fogging faintly in the cold air as he glides past teammates, exchanging easy shoves and taps of sticks. He's the easiest person in the world to look at and the hardest to look away from. 

He glances up towards the stands during warm-ups, scanning lazily, and your heart stutters. You freeze, suddenly aware of yourself, of the crowd, of how ridiculous it is to hope he’ll notice you among hundreds of people wearing the same colours. 

I mean, all these people? All wearing the team jersey? And you wouldn’t call yourself beautiful, not in the kind of way that makes someone stand out across a packed arena, and certainly not in a way that draws eyes automatically, not—

Gojo turns a little more. and then his eyes meet yours. 

The jolt is instantaneous, sharp and electric, like touching a live wire. Your breath catches, lungs forgetting their purpose entirely as a stupid, bright grin spreads across his face. 

A strange warmth floods your chest, blooming outward until it feels too big to contain. You bite your lip, trying and failing, to suppress your own giddy smile as you tug lightly at the hem of your jersey, lifting it just enough to show the number at the front and point at it. 

06. 

If it's even possible, his grin widens. He spins around without hesitation, and easily mind you, skating backward for a few seconds just to show off the back of his own jersey, jabbing a glove thumb at the matching number with pride. 

Heat rushes to your face. 

It's ridiculous, childish even, but your heart is pounding and the warmth in your chest swells until it’s almost overwhelming. 

When warm-ups end, he lifts his stick in your direction in one last, unmistakable acknowledgement before skating toward the bench, where his teammates swarm him instantly. One of them hooks an arm around his neck, dragging him down while another plays bongos on his helmet, elbows digging into his ribs. 

From this distance you can’t hear what they’re saying, but you don’t need to. His expression gives everything away, the wide grin and mock protests, and the way he shoves them back half-heartedly while still laughing. 

Someone whistles, another bumps his shoulder and one even points toward the stands, toward you. Your stomach flips. 

“Y/N?” 

You start, tearing your eyes away as if caught doing something incriminating. Geto stands beside you, already holding two drinks, his expression warm and easy. 

“Hey,” he says, offering you one. “You made it. I found seats over here, it’s a pretty good view, if I don’t say so myself. We should head over before the game starts.” 

You take the cup automatically, fingers brushing his. “Thanks!”

He smiles, guiding you through the rows of people with gentle awareness, making space and steadying you when someone brushes past too close. It's thoughtful and careful and exactly the kind of thing that made you fall for him in the first place. 

Once seated, conversation comes easily to him. It’s all polite small talk and soft jokes, quiet observations about the team and season. He fills in the silence like Gojo had predicted, never letting it become uncomfortable. He does all the right things that you could almost tick them off a list. He laughs at your comments like they’re genuinely funny and asks questions that make it clear he’s paying attention. 

It should be perfect, it should be everything you’ve ever wanted. 

And yet, your eyes drift back to the rink, to the flashes of navy and white. 

To the tall figure leaning against the boards, helmet off now, shaking his hair as he listens to a coach, nodding absentmindedly while his gaze flicks upward. 

Your pulse jumps when his eyes land on you again. Except this time he doesn’t grin. It might be your imagination but he seemingly looks to Geto beside you, then back, just watching. 

You force yourself to look back at Geto, nodding at something he just said, hoping your smile looks natural and not strained. 

BUZZWORD

The game starts fast. 

Faster than you expected, faster than anything you’ve watched on TV, faster than seems physically possible for men balancing on thin blades over frozen water. The pluck drops and suddenly the rink explodes with motion, bodies colliding, sticks clashing, skates carving violent crescents into the ice. 

You lost track of the puck almost immediately.

Geto leans closer, voice raised just enough to carry over the roar of the crowd. “Watch Satoru, he plays center so he’ll usually be in there.”

Your eyes find him easily. 

He moves differently from everyone else, you see, loose, flashier, or maybe that’s just you. No, you reject that notion as he accelerates in bursts, gliding between players with impossible precision, stick tapping the ice impatiently when he doesn’t have the puck. 

Every time he skates past your side of the rink, your chest tightens and your throat hurts a little more as you try to cheer louder. 

The first goal goes to the other team. 

Your side of the arena groans as one, a wave of disappointment that rattles through the stands. You feel it too, a sinking drop in your stomach, though you don’t fully understand the play that led to it. 

Gojo slams his stick once against the ice in frustration, then shoves off hard, jaw set. 

Geto doesn’t seem worried. “They’ll bounce back. Satoru is the best they have, after all.”

Just like he predicted, they do. Midway through the second period, one of Gojo’s teammates manages to slip the puck past the goalie, and the building detonates. People surge to their feet to cheer and you find yourself in that crowd, cheering without thinking, adrenaline crackling through your veins like you personally contributed. 

On the ice, Gojo grabs the scorer by the shoulders and shakes him, helmet bumping into helmet, grin blinding even through the cage. 

It’s a tie game until it’s not. Another goal to the opposing side which Gojo’s team equalising moments after. Again and again, a tense back and forth that even has Geto inhaling sharply at moments. 

By the third period, your nails are dug into the flimsy paper cup in your hand, ice long melted into a yucky watered down version of whatever was in the drink. You barely notice when Geto takes it from you and sets it aside so you don’t crush it completely. 

The scoreboard reads 3-3 and the clock tells you there’s two minutes left. 

The noise is deafening now, frantic and desperate, every movement on the ice met with gasps or shouts. 

Gojo has long since lost the playful edge from earlier. He circles near centre ice, knees bent, weight forward, eyes tracking the puck like it’s the only thing that exists in the world. A defender tries to box him out and he shrugs him off with a brutal shoulder check that makes the crowd howl. 

The puck slides loose along the boards, ricocheting off a tangle of skates and sticks like it has a mind of its own. Someone on Gojo’s team snatches it first and fires it forward, a risky pass that slides clean across open ice, and towards him. 

Gojo receives it in stride, blade cushioning the impact with effortless control. He doesn’t even glance down. his head is already up, scanning his way forward. A defender lunges for him and he slips past with a sharp pivot, hips twisting, edges biting deep into the ice. 

You’re on your feet before you realise you’ve moved. 

“Go—!” you scream and like a domino effect, people around you start to cheer. 

Gojo fakes a left. The goalie commits. 

He snaps right, dragging the puck across his body in one powerful motion, forcing the goalie to witness the outplay. And then he flicks his wrist and a sharp crack echoes across the rink. 

The puck lifts, a black blur slicing through air, threading the narrowest gap between glove and shoulder, and slams into the back of the net. 

For half a heartbeat, there is silence. Then the buzzer screams and the crowd erupts. 

Sound crashes over you in a tidal wave, screaming, stomping, clapping, the metallic rattle of the stands shaking under hundreds of pounding feet. You’re shouting too, throat tearing with it, hands flying to your mouth before dropping again because you need them free to clap and wave, anything to release all this energy exploding out of you. 

Down on the ice, Gojo throws his head back and roars, pure exhilaration bursting out of him. His teammates collide with him seconds later, swarming him in a pile of navy and white, shoving his helmet and grabbing his shoulders, almost knocking him over in their celebration. 

He's laughing. 

Even through the cage, from the distance, you can see it, the wild brightness in his eyes and the way his chest heaves with adrenaline. 

They won. 

They actually won. 

You’re bouncing on your toes without realising, hands clasped in front of your mouth. 

Gojo breaks free from the pile just enough to turn and look up into the stands. It's easier finding you this time around when he knows where to look. 

His whole face lights up, grin splitting wide and unrestrained, so bright it feels like it could blind you, he lifts his stick and points it straight at you then thumps it once against the ice in a triumphant salute. 

Your stomach swoops violently. 

You laugh, breathless and giddy, lifting both hands to wave back like an idiot. Your body is already leaning forward, feet shifting as instinct screams for you to move. To go down there, to be closer, to meet him at the glass while he’s still glowing with victory looking as beautiful as you’ve ever seen him, so alive that it radiates off him in waves. 

You want to throw your arms around his neck. 

You want to tell him that was incredible. 

You want—

“Y/N?”

Geto’s voice cuts gently through the chaos, close to your ear.

You blink, tearing your gaze away from the ice to find him watching you with a small, amused smile. 

“That was intense,” he says, laughter in his voice. “I forgot how crazy these games get at the end. Makes you glad you came, right?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, though it comes out shaky and raw from all the cheering. “Yeah it was. Definitely.”

Your eyes flick down despite yourself and find Gojo still looking up, smile dimmed. 

Geto gestures toward the aisle. “If we leave now, we can beat the post-game crowd. The bookstore’s only a short walk away anyway. We can find Satoru after he comes out.” 

The words land heavy in your chest. How could you forget? There was a plan in action, the reason why you came, the person you’re supposed to be focusing on. 

“Right,” you say, though your voice sounds far away even to your own ears. 

On the ice, Gojo’s teammates are tugging him toward the bench, shouting in his ear and shoving him here and there. He goes easily enough, though not without one last glance at you. He tilts his chin, a silent question in your eyes, clear despite the distance. 

Are you going?

Your fingers curl into fists at your side. 

“Ready?” Geto asks softly.

You swallow. “... yeah.”

But as you turn to follow him up the aisle, the roar of the arena swelling behind you, you can’t shake that you’ve made the wrong decision. You feel it, that strange, electric thread stretching thinner and thinner behind you as the tunnel swallows Gojo whole. 

BUZZWORD

It should be fun. 

Geto is easy to talk to, he’s polite, thoughtful and gentle, and all the right things. You trail behind him between the shelves as he talks about a book he likes, or some theory he discovered that explains so much and makes so much sense. 

You try, you really do. You nod your head and attempt to store that information away.  

But everything just doesn’t feel right. It's hard to store that information away when your head is full of that look Gojo had given you, the way his white hair had stuck out from under his helmet, damp from the effort and glory of winning, eyes sparkling under the stadium lights, the way he had lifted his stick to point at you. 

Geto is kind. But your tastes don’t match. Your jokes land in different places. He's nice, and you do enjoy his conversation. But not in the same way you had enjoyed Gojo’s company that day in the cafe. 

You don’t feel nervous. You don’t feel excited. Honestly, you just feel like pretending. 

And as if the universe is screaming at you about something just beyond your grasp, when you reach for the same book, your fingers don’t brush. And you don’t want them to. 

Geto’s phone buzzes when he’s in the middle of explaining some theories from this guy called Slavoj Zizek? He winces at whatever he reads. 

“Sorry,” he starts, sounding genuinely apologetic. “I need to head out. But hey, here–” He pulls a paperback off the shelf and hands it to you. “This is the one I was talking about. I think you’ll like it.” 

you accept it automatically. “Thanks,” you say, and then he’s waving and gone the next moment, door swinging behind him. 

For a while, you wander the bookstore in an attempt to rationalise the complex emotions warring inside you. Geto is your crush. You know this. And yet, it all feels so superficial. Gojo had been right, there was nothing personal about the things you liked about him to explain the crush. 

You stand in the quiet of the aisle, holding a book you frankly don’t care about, surrounded by a silence that feels like the wrong choice made tangible long after the last customer walks out. Heavy rain falls outside, pelting against the roof of the store, a steady white noise that backgrounds your thoughts. 

When the bookstore begins to close, you’re ushered outside. You swear as you’re suddenly caught in the harsh weather and through the heavy sheets of rain, there looks to be no other store open. Hastily, you run out in the rain to find some place where you can get cover over your head. Finally, you see a small awning from a closed shop. 

You run under the awning, hugging your arms to your chest as you wait out the storm, feeling stupidly alone and stupidly unsure why you’re this upset. This is what you wanted right? But the part of your heart that has always known the truth traitorously voices the thoughts you’ve been pushing down all this time. 

Gojo. 

Through the sheets of heavy rain, someone is running towards you. Tall, white hair, still in his jersey, his hair now damp (read: soaked) with rain water rather than sweat.

He skids under the awning, breathless, terribly drenched, an unopened umbrella in one hand. 

“What the hell,” he says immediately, voice sharp with concern and frustration. “Are you trying to get pneumonia? Why didn’t you go home? Didn’t you check the weather? It clearly said it was going to rain today!”

You blink, gaping at his sudden presence. “What are you, no, why are you here? Shouldn’t you be celebrating?”

He snorts. “Yeah, I was. Until Suguru texted. Said he left you at the bookstore and for me to pick you up. Seriously, you didn’t even bring an umbrella?”

The situation finally catches up to you and you frantically gesture to his own umbrella. “How can you lecture me when you just ran out all the way here without opening your umbrella? it’s literally in your hands, all you had to do was open it!” 

“Like i had the time to! My legs are literally burning from the game and you made me run all this way out to save you!”

“I never asked you to!”

“Well, I had to!” He steps closer, finally freeing himself from the rain completely. His presence fills up the cramped space under the awning and you catch a whiff of cedar and sweat. “I couldn’t just let you die out here in the cold!”

Speechless, you open and close your mouth like an idiot. Finally, you manage to ask, “How did you even know I was out here?”

“Weren’t you listening? I told you Suguru told me he ditched you!” 

At Geto’s name, your face falls. Ah, right. your little moral dilemma about Geto. 

Gojo also calms down a little, his chest heaving a little slower as he uses the silence to catch his breath. his eyes scan your expression, picking up on the way you bite your lip, eyes looking away. 

“Hey,” he says, voice soft though still strained. “You okay?”

Your throat tightens. “I guess? I don't know. Look, sorry. I appreciate you coming.”

“Don't give me that. Just don’t. You’ve told me every embarrassing thing about yourself when you outed that you, you know, like Suguru. Don’t hide something from me now. Are you upset that he left?” His hand comes out to wipe water off your cheek. “Don't cry.”

You scrunch up your face in mild disgust. “I’m not? That's literally just rain water.”

“Oh. So you're okay?”

You inhale and let it out slowly. Were you okay? You shouldn’t be, not if Geto was your crush and he just ditched you. And yet, under Satoru’s shadow as he stands in front of you, blocking the rain, brows furrowed and lips pressed tight as he looks you over in concern, you find yourself feeling okay. More than okay. 

“Why do you even like him?” He asks, quietly, a question that would have easily been lost to the rain if you weren’t hanging off his every word. 

“I told you,” you start, just as quiet. “He saved me that one time.” 

“Yeah?” He opens the umbrella with one hand, and holds your hand in the other, gently guiding you out from under the awning. Rain hits heavy against the fabric and he holds you close to keep you out from the storm, your chest grazing his. “He saved you that day in the rain, did he?”

You swallow. “Yeah.”

“Just like this?” 

Mutely, you nod. In his arms, you barely notice the slight chill. 

Gojo searches your eyes for something. He exhales, long and uneven, like he’s been holding this in for longer than he’s willing to admit. And yet, he doesn’t shy away, doesn’t tear his gaze away from yours, just keeps holding the umbrella over your head, tilted ever so slightly in your direction such that you’re completely covered. 

“That day,” he says, quiet but steady, “When you got caught in the rain after that stupid orientation thing? Suguru wasn’t on campus. He went back home for a month before the semester started and didn’t come back until the second week. I was the one that found you.” 

Your breath falters. “What? But he… he gave me his hoodie. His name was on the tag.” 

“Yeah,” Satoru laughs, a single disbelieving puff. “I was wearing his hoodie. He wasn’t at the dorms so I stole some of his clothes to wear. It’s whatever, he steals some of mine sometimes. The point is, I was the one that helped you.” 

For a moment, you stop breathing entirely. The rain pours around the two of you, a curtain of noise, but it’s silent under the umbrella. 

You’ve never seen Gojo so nervous. Definitely not before the big game earlier, not on any of the practice dates, never when he talks to a group of people. Between the two of you, nervousness came more naturally to you. And yet, standing before you vulnerable, wet lashes stuck together, cheeks flushed from running and is that a faint bruise forming on his jaw? He looks nervous and it’s a sight that sends warmth all over your face. 

His eyes are unbearably soft as he waits for your verdict. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Your voice sounds too small. 

“Because you thought it was Suguru. Because you liked him. And back then, I didn't realise that I wanted you to know it was me.”

Your heart thuds, something a little more daring saying the next few words for you. “And now?” 

This moment was perfect. The two of you had been slowly closing that small gap of distance, eyes seeing nothing but each other and suddenly all those rom coms and kdramas come to mind. All those scenes of first kisses (forgetting the practices because those didn’t include real romance), all those late night conversations with Shoko about what it’s like, they all come and leave your brain. 

But instead of leaning in and sealing the deal, Gojo’s entire body suddenly stiffens. His arm around you loosens, placing more distance between the two of you. 

What the hell? 

His gaze drops a little further before coming back up with a discipline that can only come from reciting the digimon opening theme over and over in his head. “Now I'm trying really, really hard not to stare at you.”

Curious, you look down to your soaked shirt where the fabric clings painfully close, embarrassingly sheer. It only serves to emphasise the lines of your bra and though you can’t really see anything, Gojo’s face is flushed pink not just from exertion, and his jaw is tight. 

“Satoru—”

“My place,” he blurts. “We should, uh, get you warmed up. Your shirt is literally see-through and if I have to keep pretending I don't notice, I'm going to walk myself right into traffic.” 

“That is so dramatic.” The beginnings of a smile cause the corner of your lips to quiver upwards at his flustered state. 

“i’m dramatic,” he insists, voice strained, still not looking. “Now come on. I still don’t want you catching pneumonia out here and Sig Kap is literally right near the gate. We can keep talking there when you don’t look like a puppy left out in the rain.”

“Says you.” You eye his white hair plastered to his forehead and smile, reaching up to move a few clinging strands from his eyes. “But okay. I’d like that a lot.”

Unfortunately, the gesture makes him look back down at you, inevitably making him catch an eyeful of your chest. He closes his eyes. “Let's just go before I give you this umbrella and walk onto the road.” 

You laugh a little. “Geez, you really are dramatic.” 

He walks you to Sig Kap, refusing to stand fully under the umbrella. When you try to grab his arm and pull him under, he only launches into a talk about being a feminist and how chivalry isn’t dead and how much he hates periods and loves matcha. You laugh and he smiles down at you before looking away. Seriously, he needs to get over that. 

At the door outside the house, Gojo stops you. 

“Here.” he hands you the umbrella, fingers brushing yours, before reaching down to take his jersey off. You instinctively blush and look away, but considering your state of undress it would only be fair if you stole a glance. So you peek at him from the corner of your eyes. 

You only manage to look just below his abs when something warm and slightly damp flops over your head. 

“Hey!”

He takes the umbrella back from you, standing in front of you and covering your back with the umbrella.. “Put that on before we head inside. Take your wet jersey off, hurry.”

Feeling warm despite the rain, you hastily pull off your soaked top, making sure he’s looking politely away, and throw his jersey on. It’s still damp but not as drenched as your own. Looking down, it falls past your skirt and just above your knees. 

“You’re going to walk in shirtless?”

“Better than you walking in looking like that.” He doesn’t give you a moment to think about his words. “Come on, you’re going to catch a cold.”

He leads you to the now familiar front door and when it opens before Gojo can even touch the doorknob, you understand the reasoning of his actions. 

“Dude!” Hikari cheers, wrapping an arm round Gojo’s shoulders and eagerly pulling him in despite his grunt of protest. “Congrats on the win, man!”

Hikari quickly notices your presence. 

“Oh. So you’re already celebrating, huh?”

Gojo brushes past him, his hand holding tours to guide a path through the sweaty frat boys. “Shut it, Hikari. Is Sukuna in?”

“Nah. The whole floor’s gone.” Hikari answers, raising his voice as Gojo quickly places distance between him and you. 

When the door of his room closes behind you both, he turns and pulls you in, his hand falling down on your hips, pulling you close. You both look like wet dogs but you couldn’t care less.

“Sorry about them,” he mumbles against your hair. 

“It’s fine,” you pause. “Who's Sukuna?”

“The guy in the room next to mine.”

“Oh.”

He hesitates, searching your eyes in the dark of his room. The storm rages on beyond his window, rain entering through a slightly ajar window, but neither of you make the responsible move to close it. Instead, you find yourself pressing up against him, hoping for more. 

“Sweets,” he says, his voice low. “Please don’t tell me this is still practice.”

“It’s not.” 

He takes a deep breath in. “You piss me off. You’re annoying, and insistent, and you always get what you want.”

You frown a little. “Hold on, I thought this was going a different way.”

He shushes you by placing a finger against your lips. “You never listen to me and you never act how I think you will. You’re definitely not normal and your thoughts are all weird and messed up. But you’re always in my head and you have the prettiest smile and the softest voice and when you tell me to shut up I want to drop to my knees and lick your feet.”

“Okay, it’s definitely getting weird now.” 

“I think I’m seriously doomed,” he whispers despite your protests. “Because I bought that coffee you gave me months ago and I still drank it even though I hated how it tasted. And I haven’t been able to get it up without thinking about you and those pretty lips.” 

“Now I see why you don’t do relationships.”

Gojo chuckles, eyes unbearingly soft. “I think I’m in love with you, Y/N. You’re all I can think about.” 

You let out a slow exhale. 

This was not how you imagined any of this. That day when you sat down with Shoko to plan a devious scheme to get with Geto, you naturally assumed it would end with him by your side, or with a crippling inability to reassimilate with society. 

Never in a million years did you think you’d be here, in Gojo’s enormous room inside a frat house, him hanging off your every word. 

But thinking on it now, there’s nothing you want to change in your plan. 

“I think I’m in love with you too,” you say just as quietly, a smile playing on your lips. 

“Really?” If he had dog ears, they would have surely perked up. “Because I was lying, I definitely don’t just think that.”

“Woah, let’s calm down a little.”

He chuckles, breath misting your face. 

His thumbs rub circles and you shiver at the faint sensation.

“Cold?”

You bite the lip and nod. Now that you’ve confessed, the forbidden desire building up in your core no longer feels like something you need to hide. Instead, you embrace it, and you let Gojo see the change in your eyes. 

He nods back, looking down at his jersey on you. 

“You should probably take this off or you’ll get sick.” 

You grab the bottom of his shirt and pull it over your head, leaving you in just your bra. You mentally fist bump your past self for overthinking your attire earlier that morning and throwing on a matching set. 

His pupils dilate as he looks at you, eyes lingering on the delicate lace. 

“Am I moving too fast?” He whispers, breath misting your ear as he leans in. 

You rapidly shake your head, heart pounding in your chest. The air between you crackles with tension, the rain pattering against the window like a distant drumbeat. 

He sighs, a low, relieved sound that vibrates through his chest. “Good. C’mere.”

He backs you up against the door, the wood cool against your bare back. His hands slide up your sides as he traps you. The guise of getting you out of wet clothes feels like a thin excuse now, but you don’t mind, your own hands already tugging at his waistband, eager to feel more of him. 

Gojo’s lips crash into yours, hungry and demanding, his tongue sweeping in to claim your mouth. You kiss back just as fiercely, fingers digging into his shoulders as you push against him, guiding him backward step by step. He stumbles slightly, surprised by your assertiveness, but a smirk tugs at his lips against yours. 

He falls onto the couch with a soft thud, pulling you down on top of him. You straddle his lap, only because it’s the only position you’ve had experience with thus far, and the friction of his hardening cock against your core sends sparks through your body. Your mouths meet again in a heated makeout, tongues tangling, breaths mingling in short, desperate gasps. 

His hands roam your back, unhooking your bra with practiced ease, letting it fall away. You arch into him, pressing your bare breasts against his chest, nipples hardening from the contact. 

“Fuck, you’re so hot like this,” he growls, nipping at your lower lip. “Where were you hiding all of this, hm?”

You shiver, fingers digging into his shirt. “You like it when I tell you what to do, don’t you? Big bad frat boy, already so hard because a girl’s got you pinned.”

He groans, hands gripping your ass to grind you against him. “Keep talking like that, and I'll show you who’s really in control.”

But you don’t stop. Instead, you push him back further into the cushions and trail your lips down his jaw, his neck, biting lightly to mark him. He lets you, for now, his breath hitching. 

His eyes look down your body, hands feeling the softness of your skin before resting at the waistband of your cute, little skirt. He smirks and before you know it, you’re torn from his neck because he flips you onto your back in one swift move, pinning your wrists above your head. 

“My turn,” he purrs, voice rough. 

You try to wriggle free. “What are you doing?”

“You've always had a thing against my tongue, haven’t you?”

“That was weeks ago, I don't—wait a minute!” Your hands find his head, trying to push him back up but he refuses, settling properly between your legs and lowering. 

“Relax.” He turns his head and kisses your palm, eyes on yours. “I'll make you feel good. I always do, don't I?”

You hesitate, your arms losing their strength as the tension eases from your body. He watches you carefully, his gaze soft yet intense, making sure you’re okay before he moves. With a gentle nod from you, he lifts the edge of your skirt and flips it up onto your stomach, groaning low at the sight of the damp spot on your panties.

“So cute,” he hums, his free hand sliding between your legs to rub at the numb poking out through the fabric. “This little clit’s begging for attention.” 

You let out a startled gasp, hips bucking up involuntarily at the sudden touch. It’s all still so new, the sparks of pleasure shooting through you like electricity. 

“You want my mouth on this pretty pussy, don’t you?” He murmurs, lowering to mouth against your panties. 

His warm breath seeps through the thin material, and the flat of his tongue presses against you, exploring with teasing pressure that’s not quite enough to satisfy the ache building inside. 

You jolt again, the sensation overwhelming, back bowing slightly as if to instinctively pull away. He doesn’t let you go far, his hand on your thigh tightening to pull you back against his mouth. 

“I know, I know,” he coos against you. “It's too much, isn’t it?”

You whimper, looking down and feeling a fresh surge of heat when you meet eyes with him. 

“That’s it, just feel it,” he encourages, his thumb stroking your thigh in slow circles. 

Finally, he draws your panties to the side and doesn’t waste another second. 

Gojo’s mouth descends on your pussy, tongue flicking out to lap at your clit. 

You gasp sharply, hips bucking up as he sucks the sensitive nub between his lips, rolling it gently. His hands hold your thighs apart, fingers digging into your skin to keep you open for him. He eats you out like he’s starved, tongue delving inside you, tasting your wetness then circling back to your clit with firm, insistent strokes. 

“Oh god,” you choke out, the words tumbling from your lips in a breathless rush. “Fuck, it’s too—fuck it’s so good!” 

With your hands free, you curl your fingers in his soft white hair, guiding him exactly where the pleasure feels strongest. It's your first time feeling anything like this, and the intensity builds fast, a coiling heat that’s overwhelming but addictive. 

He hums against you, the vibrations making you whine as his tongue thrusts in and out, mimicking what’s to come, stretching you open with wet, probing motions.

“Mmm, taste so fucking sweet,” he growls between licks, pulling back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your folds. “You’re clenching so hard already—gonna finger fuck you open so you can take my cock later.”

He adds a finger, sliding it inside your slick heat slowly, curling it to brush against that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. “That's it baby, feel how wet you are for me? so tight around my finger, imagine how you’ll squeeze my dick when I'm buried deep.”

You nod frantically, the haze of pleasure making it hard to form words. 

He senses your building release, slipping a second finger inside to stretch you further, scissoring them gently to prepare you while his mouth latches back on your clit, sucking harder. “Come on, cum for me—wanna taste you so fucking bad, sweets. I want to feel you shake.”

The orgasm hits you like a wave, crashing over your body without warning. you cry out, back arching off the surface beneath you as your pussy clenches around his fingers, pulsing with release. He doesn’t stop, lapping at you through it, drawing out every shudder until you’re boneless and gasping for air, his tongue coaxing every last tremor from your oversensitive folds. 

Gojo pulls back slowly, a string of saliva still connecting to you until he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he crawls up your body. 

“Fuck, you taste like heaven,” he murmurs, leaning in for a deep kiss and letting you taste yourself on his lips. 

You kiss back weakly making him chuckle, and he pulls back with a wet chu. 

“You okay?”

You nod weakly. One moment you’re catching your breath on the couch, the next he’s lifting you over his shoulder and laying you down on his bed. 

You yelp, feeling gravity turn on its head until you’re safely on his mattress. 

Watching as he eagerly strips, you say, “You got a bedframe.”

He grins widely, shimmying down his boxers to join his sweatpants on the floor. “Yeah, I did. Do you like it?”

You huff. “Yeah. About time, Satoru.”

Gojo’s smile is oddly bright as he gets on the bed and hovers over you. He shifts, propping himself up on his elbows, his blue eyes darkening as they fixate on your chest. Without a word, he moves down, his mouth hovering just above your skin before he presses his face into the soft valley of your tits, inhaling deeply as if savouring your scent. 

“God, I love these things.” he groans, voice muffled, his lips brushing the sensitive underside. “So goddamn perfect. Feel how hard you make me just staring at them?”

You squirm, indeed feeling his cock throb against your leg. “You’re such an animal.”

“I can't help it. Been thinking about these ever since last time.” He peeks up at you though he’s still hesitant to part with them completely. “Can i fuck them?”

Your nod is all the consent he craves. He straddles your waist carefully and guides his thick length to rest in the plush channel you’ve created by pressing your breasts together. The first slide is torturously slow, the velvety skin enveloping him as he rocks forward, the tip emerging shiny with precum near your collarbone. 

“Shit, yes,” he hisses, hips snapping in a shallow rhythm. “So soft, so fucking warm around me. Look at that, sweets. Your tits are hugging my dick like they were made for it.”

His voice drops lower, rough with building pleasure, each word punctuated by the slick glide of skin on skin. 

You watch him, mesmerised by the concentration etching his features, brow furrowed, lips parted as he pants. Sweat beads on his forehead and trickles down his temples as his abs flex with every controlled push. The friction builds between your tits, his precum smearing across your skin, making the slide even smoother and more obscene. 

He glances down to watch his cock disappear and poke out from your cleavage. “Open your mouth for me, baby.”

“Sweets,” you remind him. 

He lets out a stifled groan, hips jerking forward. “Sweets, please. Let me see your pretty tongue. Want it on my tip when i come through so fucking bad.” 

The nickname sends a thrill through you, and you part your lips obediently, flattening your tongue in invitation. He groans at the sight, hips stuttering as he angles higher, the flushed head of his cock brushing your waiting mouth on the next thrust. 

“Fuck, just like that,” he rasps. “Your tongue feels so good lapping at me like that. Swirl it around, taste how much I want you. God, sweets, you’re killing me.” 

You do, tracing the sensitive underside when he pushes forward, the salty tang of him flooding your senses. His reaction is immediate, a deep, guttural moan escapes him, his rhythm faltering as he jerks deeper, chasing the wet heat of your mouth. 

“Can't get enough,” he growls, drawing back only to thrust again, his tip kissing your tongue with deliberate precision and drawing back a sticky string of his precum and your saliva. “Gonna fuck your mouth next, stuff it full of my cock until you’re choking on it. You'd take it so well, wouldn’t you? Suck me down like the greedy little thing you are.” 

Saliva pools on your tongue and drips down to mix with the mess on your chest. He watches it all with hooded eyes, rutting faster now, the slap of his hips against your breasts echoing softly in the room. 

“Fuck, sweets—gonna cum,” he warns through gritted teeth, his forehead creasing in that pretty, desperate way. “Can’t hold back with you squeezing me like this. Shit, i’m gonna paint you, mark every inch of these pretty tits.”

He lurches forward suddenly, back bowing as he towers over you, one hand bracing beside your head while the other strokes his base to control his release. The first hot spurt lands across your neck, thick and warm, followed by another that arches toward your open mouth. He aims with a focused groan, pressing down on the head to guide it, ropes of cum landing on your tongue, filling your senses with his taste. 

“Take it, that’s a good girl,” he pants, voice breaking on a final, shuddering thrust. “Look at you, covered in me. So fucking hot, dripping with my cum on your face and tits.” 

His body quakes through the aftershocks, eyes never leaving yours, drinking in your reaction as he milks every drop onto you. 

When he’s spent, he collapses forward slightly, catching himself on his forearms to avoid crushing you and leans down. 

Your lips meet his in a deep, unhurried kiss, tongues tangling slow and sweet at first, then hungrier as you melt into it. The taste of him, salty from earlier, mixed with the faint tang of your own arousal, ignites you, and you tug him down, hands roaming his shoulders, feeling the flex of muscle under sweat damp skin. A soft moan escapes you, and he swallows it, his grip tightening just a fraction. 

He pulls back and pants against your lips, half laughing. 

“Sorry, I should have warned you. Kind of not the most virgin friendly thing to do, huh?” He sits up and reaches for some tissue to clean you. “Should of saved this for inside you, sweets.”

You clench, squeezing your thighs together. “I’ve never…”

His eyes soften, wiping the last of his cum. “I know, sweets. We can wait if you need to, there’s no rush.”

But curiousity and want is a dangerous cocktail and you find yourself shaking your head. “I want to.” 

Gojo lets out a shuddering breath and nods, sliding off your chest, his cock glistening and heavy against his thigh. “Let me get you warmed up again.”

He doesn't find much difficulty with that because one hand against your slit and his eyebrows are rising, feeling your wetness despite the lack of attention. 

You blush, feeling caught. “What? Don’t look at me like that, it’s embarrassing.”

“What’s got you so wet, hm?”

You squirm, feeling the lingering pleasure flare up. “It’s not my fault you’re so vocal.”

“Dirty girl. You like hearing how good you make me feel?” His thumb smears your entrance, picking up and spreading the fresh arousal that gathers there and it’s as good as any verbal answer. “Feel that? So worked up with nowhere to go.”

His fingers part you gently, circling your entrance with feather-light strokes that make you gasp. 

“Let me warm you up again, sweets. You’re so swollen here, feels like you’ve been waiting for more. Gonna make sure you’re nice and ready for me.”

He plays with the mess between your legs, his own expression a mix of hunger and restraint, breaths coming in measured pulls as he fights the urge to rush. One finger dips inside you shallowly, then two, curling just right to brush that spot that sends sparks up your spine. 

The stretch is easier now, your body remembering the pleasure, and he coos softly at your soft whimper, thumb finding your clit to rub in slow, firm circles. 

“Shit, you’re so tight,” he groans quietly, voice rough around the edges. “So warm and wet, it’s killing me not to slide in right now. But we’re taking our time, yeah? Making this perfect for you.”

Your hips rock instinctively into his hand, the coil of heat tightening low in your belly, and he grins, leaning in to pepper kisses along your jaw. 

“Look at you, getting into it. My sweet girl, so responsive.”

You whine, the pleasure having reached a plateau and when you buck up for more, he withdraws his hand. The loss makes you whine but he hushes you with a gentle kiss to your forehead, reaching over to the nightstand and searching through his messy drawers for a condom. 

The foil crinkles under his fingers as he tears it open and positions himself at your entrance. You're still slick, he’s made sure of that, but the anticipation makes you clench, nerves building up. He notices your sharp inhale and lets his tip nudge your slick folds, parting them teasingly though he pauses there to let you feel the pressure without pushing in. 

“Hey, eyes on me, sweets,” he murmurs, voice steady despite the way his chest heaves, his cock twitching against you. “You still okay? Tell me if it’s too much, I’ll stop, I promise. But fuck, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to be inside you.”

“I’m okay,” you whisper breathlessly, fingers curling into the sheets below. “Just… go slow?”

He notices and slides a hand down to interlace your fingers, bringing your hand up to his lips and placing a soft kiss to your palm. “Of course. Whatever you want.” 

The stretch is immediate, a slow burn as he guides himself in, sinking bit by bit. His cock is much thicker than his fingers but the warmth of him, the way he watches every flicker of your expression with that twitch in his jaw, makes it bearable. 

“Fuck, you’re so fucking tight,” he rasps, eyes shutting briefly. “Gripping me so good already. Easy, sweets, just relax into it.”

His voice cracks a little on the end, his fingers digging into your skin as he holds himself still once he’s halfway in. 

It aches, but the fullness is intoxicating, waves of pleasure chasing the discomfort as your body yields. You gasp, squeezing his hand and he coos softly, stroking you with his thumb. 

“Can I keep going?” 

You nod and even before your next breath, he’s already sliding in and bottoming out with a shared gasp, hips flushed against yours. His forehead rests against yours, breaths mingling in the humid air. 

"How's that feel? Too much?” He asks softly. 

“Full… so full,” you whimper, rocking experimentally and he hisses through his teeth, hips bucking up just a fraction before he catches himself. 

“Fuck, want me to move, sweets?” He shifts beneath you, guiding your hips in a gentle circle to grind against you, his praises making the movement slick. 

“Please,” you gasp out as the fullness sparks pleasure deep inside and he rewards your honest words with a slow roll of his hips. 

“Good girl,” he praises, voice dropping to a gravelly whisper as he starts to move, shallow thrusts that build a steady friction. Each slide in and out drags against your inner walls, drawing out filthy whimpers and sighs as he hits that sweet spot with precision born of his experience. 

Soon, your toes are curling and your back bows off his mattress, desperate to meet his thrusts. 

“Listen to those sounds you’re making,” he coos, emphasising his words with a deep thrust. “You’re taking me so well, sweets. Makes me want to stay buried in your forever.”

The pace gradually quickens, his control fraying at the edges as your moans encourage him. He shifts the angle, one leg hooking over his shoulder to deepen the penetration, and the new position has you crying out, pleasure coiling tight in your core.

Sweat beads on his skin, dropping onto your chest and he leans down to capture a nipple between his lips, sucking gently as he thrusts harder, the wet slap of skin echoing softly. 

“That’s it, let go for me,” he urges against your tits, teeth grazing the peak before soothing it with his tongue. “I can feel you squeezing, you close for me already? Come on, sweets, chase it.”

His words weave through the haze, dirty and devoted, spurring you higher as his freehand slips between you to circle your clit in time with his hips. The dual sensations overwhelm, building to a peak that has you trembling beneath him. 

When it hits, it’s blinding, your orgasm crashing over you in waves, walls clenching rhythmically around him and pulling him deeper. He groans your name like a prayer, thrusts stuttering as rides it out with you, prolonging the bliss with expert rolls of his hips. 

Only when you slump, sweaty and panting, does he let himself follow, a filthy groan escaping his lips as he buries himself deep one last time and spills into the condom, body shuddering as he struggles to hover over you. 

He doesn’t pull away immediately, instead pressing his hips closer to ensure you’ve gotten everything before collapsing half on top of you, peppering lazy kisses along your neck. 

“You’re amazing,” he whispers. “My perfect girl, did so good for us.”

You whimper against the ticklish sensation. “You're too heavy.”

He chuckles and rolls off you, slowly pulling out to pull the condom off and discard it. you watch him with sleepy eyes, eagerly nuzzling into his arms when he settles back beside you. 

“Need anything? Water? Cuddles?” 

You hum, feeling the satisfaction morph into a drowsiness that has you melting into his arms, only feeling his warmth. 

“You?”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I’m so glad I stole you away. You’re so fucking perfect for me.” 

You lean into his side, feeling a sense of indescribable completeness that fills you with certainty. 

Geto Suguru may have been everyone’s first love but Gojo Satoru is the one you choose. 

And judging by the way his arm tightens around you, the way his grin softens when he looks down at you, he knows it too. 

Geto Suguru is everyone’s first love.

Even to this day, your friends will roll their eyes and insist that can’t possibly be true. But from experience, that was exactly who he was, someone to admire from afar like a painting behind glass. Beautiful and alluring, and just out of reach. 

You see him now up, sitting on the couches at the house party driving the murmur of conversation with ease, a red cup used to gesture. Laughter ripples outward in waves, people leaning closer, drawn in.

You smile out of solidarity, resting against the wall with content misplaced at a busy place like this. 

“Did you wait long?”

You turn your head to find your boyfriend weaving through bodies with the casual confidence of someone who assumes space will make itself around him. Two drinks in hand, hair messy under his cat, grin already forming because he’s caught you staring. 

You push off the wall, reaching automatically for whichever cup is closer but he pulls back to sniff both before handing you the opposite one.

You take it gratefully and when you take a sip, you realise it’s your favourite juice. 

“Wait time longer than the lines at Universal,” you tease. 

He grins, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Next time I'll get us the priority pass. Not that it looked like you minded the wait. Don’t think I didn't see you eyeing Suguru like that. Do I have competition again?” You shove him playfully. “Please, like I'm the one who’s been draping themselves over him for the past hour.” Across the room, Geto laughs again, someone hanging off his shoulder while he tries to keep the liquid in his cup from spilling. He catches your eye briefly and lifts his cup in greeting. You return it with a smile. Next to you, Gojo sighs dramatically. “Wow,” he says flatly. “Right in front of me too. Why can’t I see any remorse in your eyes?” “Because there isn’t any there,” you snort. “You're the one who told him to come tonight.” “Where there’s Satoru, there’s Suguru.” “I learnt that the hard way.” He hums, arm sliding around your waist to pull you flush against his side. His thumb starts tracing lazy circles just above your hip, absentminded and affectionate, a touch so familiar you barely notice as you lean into him in return. “Still,” he murmurs, quieter now, his breath warm against your cheek. “You don’t have to keep looking at him like that.” “Like what?” “Like you’re thinking about what you could have had.” You tilt your head to look up at him. His expression isn’t jealous, not completely, just searching, softer than the bravado he usually wears. “I'm not,” you promise gently. “It was always superficial. You know that better than anyone. I guess now, looking at him is like looking at a relic of a different version of me.” He hums. “He would have liked that sentence.” You roll your eyes, ever so familiar with his dramatics. “You have nothing to worry about, baby. I promise.” “Yeah?” “Yeah.” You reach up and adjust the brim of his cap slightly, smoothing down a piece of hair that refuses to stay put. “Besides, I think I traded up.” “Keep talking like that and I'm going to start thinking you actually like me,” he grins, voice lowering. You smack his chest but your other hand lingers in his hair, fingers slipping into the soft hair at his nape. "Don't get cocky.” Too late. He's already smiling wide, not the loud, flashy grin everyone else gets, but something softer and almost boyish reserved just for you. Gojo leans down and finds your lips. The kiss is slow and unhurried, deeper than something meant for a crowded room but not quite indecent, like he’s forgotten where you are or just doesn’t care. He pulls back just enough to talk. “Hey, I have an idea that’ll solve this three way jealousy.” “What?" “Why don’t we just have a threesome?”

a/n: i had to repost this because i realised i could fit everything into one post but holy hell reformating everything made me wanna die so please smash that like button hit subscribe and don't forget to turn on that notification bell ++ shoutout to flatline and happy pokemon day to those who celebrate

[naviiinanaa]

˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ | " a river of kisses around your pretty face " forgetting to give boxer!bakugo a kiss before his fight!

bakugo was a well-known boxer. he was merely undefeated. his poise, his strength, he was unmatched. whenever he stepped foot into the boxing ring, he was a completely different person. he was usually loud, brash, and confident. in the ring, he was more focused. there was a fire in his eye, each punch he threw only fueled that fire. when he kicks, you could see the dedication and discipline he had, his muscles tensing with intensity.  

in the rare case that he attended an interview, his answers were short and blunt. his face always seemed as if he was bored, god forbid an interviewer asks a stupid question. he’s walked out on couple of recorded confrences, irritation surrounding him. his fans loved his blaring personality; they loved the way he was a person that can’t be missed. 

what the people didn’t see was the softer side of him when he’s with you. they don’t see how wide his eyes get when he gazes upon your beautiful features. how he mutes his roaring aroma around you so he doesn’t scare you away. his touch was so gentle, contrasting with his vigorous moves. within your proximity, he smiled. he felt relaxed in your presence as the weight of the world has trickled off his back. so, when you denied him a kiss before one of his matches, the ones he claims are good luck, he’s visibly upset. 

“cmon baby, i just want my kiss,” bakugo pleaded, his arms were wrapped around the small of your back. he was shirtless, ready to hop into the fight. you had always intertwined your plump lips with his and every time you did he won without a doubt. the one time you didn’t kiss him due to you being called into work, he had a draw. it wasn’t a loss, but it wasn’t a win either. 

“kats, i don’t wanna get lipstick on you.” you whined. you made sure to get dolled up for these events since he regularly bought you front row seats. “you’ll be fine!” 

bakugo grumbled, leaning in to peck your lips but you quickly moved out of his direction. “y/n, stop messin’ around and kiss me.”

before you could protest once more, his manager peeked in the doorway. he called out, “bakugo, we need you, the round’s ‘bout to start!” 

“i’m gonna beat his ass anyway, he can wait,” bakugo retorts gruffly. his eyes were still on you as his hands traveled down to your butt to bring you inevitably closer. “my beautiful girl, i need my kiss from you. cover my whole face with your lipstick for all i care.” 

you tried to bite back a smile, bringing your slim hands up to his smooth face. you stared into his eyes with a passionate expression. standing onto your tippy toes, you bring your coated lips onto his, finally giving him his awaited kiss. he melts immediately, shutting his eyes softly. the two of you stayed there for a minute, basking in each other’s warmth. 

you pulled away a little breathless. suddenly, you brought his face down to your lips, planting wet, red, kisses across his face. he looked ridiculous with bright lipstick  scattered along visage. this caused him to smile, letting out a small laugh.

“goodluck my baby.” you uttered onto his mouth. 

he stole one last peck from you before rubbing his hands up and down your sides reassuringly. “thanks.” you backed out of his grasp, watching him walk away with his manager into the crowd.

“what the hell is on your face, boy?” his manager as he glared at bakugo. 

“kisses from my lady. what does it look like, huh?” bakugo scoffed, cracking his neck to prepare himself for his upcoming event. 

“you seriously ‘bouta go out there with all that makeup on your face?” 

“hell yeah. there a problem boss?” he asked cockily. 

“um, yes, there is bakugo. this is a formal event with a bunch of press and cameras and shit.” 

“well they can suck my dick for all i care,” bakugo ends the conversation, walking faster as he pushed the double doors that led into the ring with brute force. 

the commenter shouted his name into the speaker, horns blaring as the crowd cheered  loudly. the camera tracked him with each step he took towards the enclosed ring. the flashes to cameras went off; the people were shocked with his appearance. 

nonetheless, he wins the match with little to no effort, barely breaking a sweat. after walking away with the champion belt, he got stopped by a famous news reporter, shrieking out a series of questions in his ear. 

“so, bakugo, can you tell us what encouraged your look for tonight’s fight?” the woman shouted into a mic before shoving it into his face. 

bakugo carefully wiped his face to prevent smudging your kiss marks. “they’re from my beautiful girlfriend down there in the front row. she’s the reason why i keep fighting.” he then points to you, allowing the camera to pan over to your flustered face. 

later that night, you and bakugo were now trending. his fans had found your social media and blew up your phone aswell. bakugo decided to use this new attraction to his advantage, finally posting something onto his empty instagram page. it was a bunch of stories with pictures of you and only you. no pr, none of his brand collabs, no footage from his matches. just his favorite photos of his loving girlfriend. 

[thatsallitchief]

The twins! There’s nerdjo 🤭and then there’s fratjo too ig, I was really excited when i saw nerdjo trending so I grabbed the opportunity to draw him hehe

[bfbkg]

— 2.1k. bakugou katsuki x f!reader. established relationship. suggestive, tiny bit of angst, fluffy! inspired by a comment @dollyichi left me!

“d’you think you could pay attention to me now?”

bakugou katsuki shouts from his bed, propping himself up on his pillow. he’s flung the duvet to the other side as he tries to position himself in a way so that only one thing can come from it. his bicep is large and tensed as he rests on his forearm, his knee bent, drawing anyone’s gaze right to his crotch in his tight black underwear. specifically, he wants your gaze on him.

if it’s not his fat cock that will make you strip at the sight, it’s going to be his ripple of abs, each one with old powder pink scars ripping through them. he trained his legs this morning in the gym with deku and he won’t lie, his thighs are looking pretty rideable right now.

“baby, where the fuck are you?”

“coming!”

when you bounce into the room, your hair braided away under a bonnet and one of his old massive t-shirts, bakugou’s grin is electrified.

he gets the exact reaction he wants. you freezing in your step at first, so you can gaze at the length of his body. from his feet to his thighs, to his cock, to his chest, his arms, then face. bakugou’s still has it in him to lightly flush because even though he’s been demanding your attention this evening, he never knows what to do when he gets it.

“oh, this is why you’ve been calling me,” you giggle.

the colour of your irises is only a thin rim now, sucked up by the black of your pupil. you crawl on the bed and bakugou is quick to shuffle around to place his arms under your top and on your bare hips.

“i invited you over and you’ve been on your phone all fuckin’ evening,” he grunts, kissing you first along your neck as you straddle his waist.

“‘m sorry, work’s been hectic. i told you,” you mumble back before a whine tumbles out of you. “oh fuck.”

“yeah, yeah. ‘least i got you now.”

it’s always been so comfortable with bakugou, thrilling in fact. large hands grab at your waist, grinding you down on his hard cock. your breath hitches as he holds your chin to place his lips on yours.

“fuck, you feel so good,” you moan, before humping him on your own accord, sticking your tongue down his throat. 

“c’mon, then i wanna eat you from behind,” that has you lifting up off your boyfriend, his bottom lip coated in your saliva. he can read you easily, “what? you want it too? want me to fuck you after that?”

“yes, we haven’t done this since last week,” which is practically years in you and bakugou’s time. you speed up the pace of your hips, his words only making your body burn like a match that has been lit, “you’re laying here like a calendar shoot. wish i took a ph-photo.”

bakugou’s about to reply, offer if you want to record a video when your phone vibrates on his bed. it snatches your attention immediately, your eyes darting to your lock screen that features notification after notification from the same profile picture.

bakugou grabs your phone before you do, holding it down on the bed and you’re unable to pry his fingers off it.

“give it to me! someone’s trying to message me!” 

“it’s just work shit again, be here with me, baby,” bakugou’s so close to whining, to just beg you to let him take care of you. he’s missed you in your week apart and what’s a man got to do to have his face between your legs?

you frown, lifting off his crotch and bakugou groans from the lack of heat. “give it to me. now, katsuki.”

bakugou grits his teeth, plopping the phone into your hands. “for fucks sake.”

“don’t swear at me,” you breathe, reading the notifications blowing up your phone, “it’s ochako.”

your boyfriend is in a grump, adjusting himself in his boxers and wondering how you’d react if he started touching himself. jealous? mad? he sneaks his hand down his underwear, his fingers wrapping around his length.

a relieved exhale escapes him as he squeezes but still, your attention is elsewhere.

“oh shit,” you blurt, eyes widening.

bakugou stops mid stroke, scanning your face, “what?”

“did you tell deku what i told you about ochako wanting him to propose within the year?”

bakugou’s body burns for a whole other reason. fuck. fuck.

you’re angry, the grip on your phone tightening. reading through message after message.

“yes but—,”

you’re sitting on your calves, flinging your head back, “katsuki! it was a secret! why would you tell deku?!”

“you never said it was a fuckin’ secret! it just came out when we were talkin’ about you guys.”

you narrow your eyes at him, swatting away the hand that tries to rest on your thigh. 

“why would you wanna hear that your girlfriend wants you to propose or they’re leaving you from your best friend? it’s obvious it was a secret!” 

you spring up from the bed, tapping away at your phone.

“now ochako is angry at me for telling you!” you groan, hand on your forehead in exasperation, “katsuki!”

bakugou sits up slightly, his hand resting at his abdomen. his dick is still hard, blood hot for a modicum of reasons now. his hand drifts down as you pace the room texting. pouting, then frowning, then sighing.

he shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t. a groan escapes him.

“don’t touch yourself while my friendship is hanging by a thread because of you,” you seethe.

your eyes are narrowed slits, bare feet sunk in his black fluffy rug. you’re cute with your soft thighs out, you’re angry as your nose scrunches at the sight of him.

“i’m fuckin’ sorry i told him. i didn’t think it would jump to this. it’s not my fault their relationship is fucked.”

he’s not seen you in a week, he just wants to wrap you up in his arms and have you come on his tongue. why is nothing going his way tonight.

you didn’t like that answer, you hate it. “that’s a lovely thing to say about our best friends, katsuki.”

you roll your eyes and step out of his bedroom down the hallway to his kitchen.

“fuckin’ fucked it there. good job,” he murmurs to himself, hard as a rock with a pissed off girlfriend next door. 

bakugou grabs his phone, completely not surprised to see notifications from deku. paragraph after paragraph asking for advice. half his mind wants to cuss his best friend for ruining his night but the smarter and stronger part of him replies how a good best friend should.

it’s a twenty minute text back and forth with deku while you’re on the phone in the kitchen to ochako. he thinks he’s said the right things. not to worry and that he was going to propose anyway. the ring is literally in the back of his closet. 

bakugou pulls on his khaki pyjama bottoms to find you sitting on his counter top, still texting away.

“ass off my counters, doesn’t matter if you’re pretty.” he grumbles and he feels lighter once your eyes are back on him.

you dramatically huff, refusing to move, “apparently deku told ochako that he was going to propose anyway but i’m not allowed to tell you anything again.”

katsuki shrugs, circling around the counter to lean on the sink opposite you. he crosses his arms over his chest, chewing his cheek before dropping insane information. “he’s had the ring in his wardrobe for months now. he wants to propose abroad but hasn’t found time for them both to go away.”

your jaw drops, “what!? really? why didn’t you tell me he was going to propose?”

“‘cause you can’t keep a fuckin’ secret to save your life.” bakugou chuckles, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“neither can you!”

“i'm tellin' my friend if his girl is about to break up with him. deku needs to learn to keep my name out his mouth.” but a smile is rising on his face at the sight of yours.

“i can’t believe he’s planning on proposing abroad—,” you’re about to start typing on your phone again but bakugou successfully whips it out your hand and steps in close to you.

“this is what i mean, baby.” he says tenderly, “you can’t keep a secret to save your life.”

you huff, placing your hands on his shoulders and slotting his body between your legs. “i wasn’t gonna tell her.”

“who were you about to text then?”

he’s shorter than you in this position, allowing you to look down at your lover’s beautiful face. sharp lines and edges. a wonky nose from breaking it years ago and flat hair from adding nothing to it after his shower. 

“hm?” he presses, slipping your phone into his pocket and laying kisses along your jaw. you sigh into him, upper body becoming jelly as your thighs tighten at his waist.

“nobody. nobody at all.”

“good. i’m sure they’re fine now. dealin’ with their relationship when we should be dealin' with ours.”

with that, bakugou lifts you off his counter with his hands under your thighs. you hug him, pressing your face to every part of him you can reach. your nose in his ear, your cheek against his, your lips along his shoulder.

“are you thinking of proposing to me?”

you don't know what possesses the question to leave your mouth, especially considering any negative response to it would destroy you slowly then all at once. but the conversations with your friends about proposals and the timings of it all has made you wonder. as much as you and bakugou are only in the first few years of your relationship, as adults, shouldn’t you be on the same page?

you feel him tense as he walks to his bedroom, bouncing you in his arms to get a proper grip on you. he pauses and you pull away to look at him directly. you jut your bottom lip out in adoration, coos a second away from leaving your lips.

he looks scared, a little insecure but firm in his ideas. hardened eyes, a quiver of his lip that he’s not sure how he’s going to phrase what he says. it makes your playful question, that he could easily worm his way out of with a joke, a momentous moment in your relationship.

“i will be proposing to you. i’m not havin’ you annoy the hell out of me everyday without thinkin’ of the long game.” 

he blurts it all in one breath, leaning against a wall in the hallway like this conversation is exhausting but he’s still willing to have it. you note how it would be easier for him to put you down at this point, or even lean you against the wall to give his arms a rest.

“so romantic, ‘suki.” you roll your eyes, palms resting on his collarbones. though he charms you effortlessly, the beautiful bakugou katsuki, your katsuki, saying he will marry you.

“but i’m serious though. i think about it more than i wanna admit,” his rubies bore into you with the intensity of a thousand suns. voice rough and honest, “when you least expect it, with your nosy ass, but it will be the perfect moment.”

that warms you right up, preps you for whatever he’s about to do to you in a few minutes.

“now, that’s romantic,” you beam, kissing his lips and he eagerly pecks you back. “i’m looking forward to it.” 

“yeah, yeah. it’s gonna be better than whatever deku does for round cheeks.” then he pauses, frowning in thought, “better than the fuckin’ maldives.”

“wait, he’s taking her to the maldives? oh wow!” you gleam, patting your pockets for your phone till you realise bakugou’s still got it and he’s eying you like he knows you cannot keep a secret. you make a hmpf sound, “anyway, it’s not a competition!”

“but if it was, we’d win.” a smirk slides onto his face.

you sigh, undoubtedly amused. tapping his arm like he’s a winning race horse, “come on, have your way with me then.”

he chuckles, a pep in his step as he starts again to his room, “now i feel like i’ve got to go slow with you, make sweet love after that.”

“no!” you whine, “you don’t, you definitely don’t.”

likes don’t do anything on tumblr! but reblogs, comments and asks mean the world! i delete comments asking for another part. thanks xox

wanna read something else?

[shiggyhatesme]

okay so would making another katsuki series be absurd or would we fugg with it?? there may or may not already be several chapters drafted with a current word count of 12k….

[shiggyhatesme]

Controlled Burn

pairings&cw: prohero!katsuki x therapist!femreader, following after timeskip, kat is mid 20s, reader mid 20s, language, attempted angst, slow burn

in which you are katsukis anger management therapist…

{wc 2.3k }

ch.1

ch.2

ch.3

final <-

week 10

bakugou doesn’t show up.

you know the moment it becomes real—not dramatic, not sudden. just the slow ticking of the clock pushing past the point where he should have walked through the door.

five minutes late.
ten.

the room fills anyway. chairs scrape. voices murmur. you start the session on time because that’s what you do.

because professionalism doesn’t pause for disappointment.

you tell yourself there are a hundred reasonable explanations. a mission ran long. traffic. paperwork. a bad night.

still, your eyes flick to the door more than once.

it doesn’t open.

the absence changes the shape of the room. you hadn’t realized how much space he occupied until it was empty—how the air feels thinner without his quiet attention anchoring it.

you move through the session like muscle memory, voice steady, questions measured. people talk. people nod. you respond appropriately.

inside, something frays.

afterward, you sit alone longer than usual, staring at the chair he always takes. the one you never assigned, but he chose anyway.

you don’t reach out.

you shouldn’t.

that night, you find yourself restless in a way that has nothing to do with work. you replay moments you’d carefully filed away as manageable—the rain under the awning, the almost-touch, the way he’d looked at you when you said potentiallike it meant something sacred.

you think, not for the first time:
i’m tired of being the careful one.

the next session, he comes.

on time. controlled. closed off.

relief flashes through you before you can stop it—and then resentment follows close behind.

he doesn’t meet your eyes when he enters. takes a seat farther back than usual. his posture is rigid, hands folded like he’s bracing himself.

you keep your tone neutral.

you do not ask where he was.

that hurts too.

he speaks once. only once. polite. distant. as if he’s already halfway gone.

you feel something inside you tighten—not anger, not fear. resolve.

after the group disperses, you don’t busy yourself this time.

“bakugou,” you say.

he stops.

turns.

“yes?” professional. guarded. like a brick wall frantically being built, trying to close you out before you could knock it down.

“you missed last week.”

a statement. not an accusation.

his jaw tightens. “yeah.”

“are you okay?” you ask.

a pause.

“i’m fine.”

the words are clipped. practiced.

you study him—really study him—and suddenly you see it clearly: this isn’t avoidance because he doesn’t care.

it’s avoidance because he does.

something in you shifts. hardens.

“i need to be clear with you,” you say quietly. “if you’re pulling back because you think that’s safer for me—don’t make that choice for me.”

his eyes snap to yours, heart practically beating out of his chest.

“that’s not what this is.”

“then tell me what it is,” you say, voice steady despite the ache pressing behind your ribs.

he opens his mouth.

closes it.

runs a hand through his hair, frustration etched deep across his face. “i’m trying not to fuck this up.”

the honesty hits you square in the chest.

“you’re not,” you say. “you’re just… disappearing.”

silence stretches between you, raw and exposed.

“you think this is easy for me?” he mutters. “being around you like this? knowing it ends? knowing i can’t—”

he stops himself.

you step closer before you can overthink it. not touching. just enough to make the space undeniable.

“i’m aware of the risks,” you say softly. “i live in them.”

his breath catches.

“you don’t get to decide alone what hurts less,” you add. “distance isn’t neutral. it means something, i can feel all of it katsuki.”

he looks wrecked now. torn between instinct and desire, control and longing.

“this is exactly why I’m trying to stay away,” he says hoarsely.

you meet his gaze, unflinching, flicking between both of his vermillion irises.

“then stop pretending it’s nothing.”

for a long moment, neither of you moves.

the line is still there—but now it feels like it’s cutting into both of you.

“i don’t want to be your mistake,” you say finally.

“you’re not,” he replies instantly. too fast. too sure.

the words hang there, charged and unignorable.

you step back first this time.

“i’ll see you next week,” you say. “our last session.”

he nods once, jaw tight.

“yeah,” he murmurs. “i know.”

as he leaves, you sit down slowly, pulse racing with a realization that settles deep and irreversible:

this isn’t professional concern anymore.

this is grief for something that hasn’t even ended yet.

and bakugou—walking away with his shoulders squared like armor—knows something just as terrifying:

avoiding you isn’t protecting either of you.

it’s just making the wanting louder.

week 11

you arrive early.

earlier than necessary, earlier than professional instinct alone would justify. the room is quiet, chairs still empty, sunlight slanting through the blinds in soft, unguarded lines.

you set your bag down and breathe, adjusting the collar of your shirt like it was holding you back.

this is the last time.

the thought doesn’t sting the way you expected. it settles—heavy, real, undeniable.

footsteps sound in the hallway, your heart echoing off the walls.

you don’t turn right away. you know who it is.

“hey,” bakugou says.

you face him.

he looks… steadier. not calm—intent. like he’s made a decision he’s still afraid of but refuses to back away from.

“hi,” you reply, a trying smile. he clutches at that warm feeling in his chest.

the door clicks shut behind him, the room cocooned in quiet.

“we shouldn’t,” he says immediately.

you nod. “i know.”

he exhales sharply. “then why are you here early?”

the honesty in the question catches you off guard.

“because this mattered,” you say. “and I didn’t want to pretend it didn’t.”

his gaze drops to the floor. “you always say shit like that.”

“only when it’s true.”

silence stretches, not awkward—full.

he steps closer. stops himself. you feel it like a held breath.

“i kept thinking,” he says slowly, “if i could just get through this last part… if i didn’t do anything stupid… then maybe i wouldn’t regret it.”

“and?” you ask.

“and i already do,” he admits.

the words are quiet. devastating.

“you didn’t do anything wrong,” you say.

“that’s the problem,” he replies. “i didn’t do anything.”

your chest tightens.

“this line,” you say softly, “it was never meant to erase feeling. just to contain it.”

he looks at you then, eyes searching.

“and after today?”

you don’t answer right away, chewing at your lip trying to choose the right words.

“after today,” you say carefully, “i won’t be your therapist.”

the statement hangs between you—simple, factual, seismic.

his breath stutters. “and before?”

“before,” you say, “i am.”

he nods once. respects it. that matters more than he knows.

the first participants arrive then, voices filtering in, reality asserting itself. bakugou steps back, throwing you a knowing glance, before his armor slides back into place.

you take your seat.

the final session begins.

you don’t make it grand.

you talk about reflection. about endings. about carrying forward what was learned without clinging to the container that held it.

people speak—some grateful, some reluctant, some scared. you listen. you guide. you do your job with care and intention.

bakugou listens.

when it’s his turn, he hesitates.

then he speaks.

“i used to think anger was all i had,” he says, voice low, steady. “turns out it was just… the loudest thing. not the only thing.”

your pen stills.

“i don’t know what comes next,” he continues. “but i know i don’t want to be the guy who runs from it anymore.”

the room is silent.

you meet his eyes—just for a moment, small smiles shared in a quick glance.

pride swells in your chest. not romantic. not possessive.

human.

the session ends without applause, without ceremony. people leave slowly, like they’re reluctant to step out of something that held them.

eventually, it’s just the two of you again.

“this is it,” he says quietly.

“yes.”

he looks at you like he’s memorizing the moment, like it’s the last time he’ll see the face he’s grown the most fond of. you let him.

“thank you,” he says. “for not letting me be worse.”

you smile softly. “you did the work.”

he hesitates. then: “can I—”

you raise a hand gently. not refusal. boundary.

“not yet,” you say. “but someday, if you want to talk… without this context.”

his eyes brighten with something like hope.

“i’d like that,” he says.

you walk him to the door.

he pauses with his hand on the handle.

“you were never my mistake,” he says.

the words land where they belong this time.

“and you,” you reply, “were never a problem to solve.”

he nods, then leaves.

the door closes softly.

you sit back down in the empty room, heart full and aching and—somehow—at peace.

this wasn’t the ending.

it was the line.

and for the first time, you don’t feel afraid of what waits on the other side.

epilogue

it’s been a month.

long enough for habits to loosen, for the echo of routine to fade. long enough that you’ve stopped expecting to see him everywhere—and long enough that you still do, sometimes, anyway.

you’re at a small café you like but don’t frequent. neutral ground. the kind of place you go when you don’t want memory attached to the walls.

you’re halfway through a book you’re not really reading when the door opens and the bell rings.

you look up without thinking.

it takes a second for your brain to catch up with your heart.

katsuki stands just inside the doorway, scanning the room like he’s searching for something he didn’t plan on finding. he looks different. not dramatically—just… settled, stubble covering the bottom half of his face. less tension in his shoulders. more intention in the way he moves.

then his eyes meet yours.

the world narrows.

he freezes. you do too. neither of you smiles right away. it feels too big for that.

“hey,” he says finally, voice lower than you remember.

“hey,” you reply.

he hesitates, then gestures vaguely. “mind if i—?”

“yes,” you say, standing. “i mean—no, i mean—please.”

it almost makes him smile. but it does indeed warm his heart.

you sit across from each other, the table suddenly very small, his big hands taking up space holding the coffee he’d ordered. there’s no clipboard now. no chairs arranged in a circle. no topic guiding the moment.

just him. just you.

“how’ve you been?” he asks.

you consider the question honestly, pushing a strand of hair back behind your ear. “different,” you say. “you?”

“same,” he replies. then, after a beat, “in a good way.”

silence settles—not heavy, not strained. just careful. respectful of everything that came before.

“i wasn’t sure i’d see you again,” he admits.

“neither was I.”

“i thought about reaching out,” he continues, eyes fixed on the rim of his coffee cup. “didn’t know if that was… okay.”

you nod. “i thought about it too.”

the air between you hums with all the unsent messages, the restraint that had nowhere to go.

“so,” he says, glancing up, “we’re not—”

“no,” you interrupt gently. “we’re not.”

that matters. you both know it.

he exhales. “good.”

you raise an eyebrow. “good?”

“means i get to figure this out without fucking it up because of rules,” he says. “just… me.”

your chest tightens—not fear. something softer.

“i’m still me too,” you say quietly. “still cautious. still responsible.”

“i know,” he replies. “that’s kind of why i—” he stops himself, shakes his head. “never mind.”

you lean forward slightly. “why you what?”

he meets your gaze. holds it.

“why i wanted to be here,” he finishes.

the honesty doesn’t scare you anymore.

you talk for a long time.

about nothing important. about things that are. he tells you about the way his anger feels now—less like a weapon, more like a signal. you tell him about the quiet left behind after the program ended, and how strange it felt to not carry everyone else’s weight for a while.

at one point, his hand shifts on the table. close. not touching.

you notice. so does he.

neither of you moves away.

“i don’t know what this is yet,” he says eventually.

you smile softly. “neither do I.”

“but i do know,” he adds, voice steady, “that i don’t want to disappear anymore.”

you swallow. “neither do i.”

when you stand to leave, it’s unspoken that this isn’t the end of the conversation.

outside, the air is cool, evening settling in gentle and unassuming.

he walks you to your car.

“can i—” he starts.

you wait, looking up at his eyes. being able to truly look at them, feelings and all, seeping out of you. no rigid professionalism.

“can i see you again?” he asks. no bravado. no edge. just honest want.

you meet his eyes, searching for any trace of the line that once stood between you.

it’s gone.

but the respect remains. the mutual admiration larger than that line ever was.

“i’d like that,” you say “i’d like that a lot, katsuki.”

he nods, relief flickering across his face.

when he leans in, it’s slow. questioning. you close the distance the rest of the way.

the kiss is quiet. your arms wrapped around his neck, a palm finding its way to the base of his hair. it wasn’t consuming. not desperate. just right.

when you pull back, his forehead rests briefly against yours.

“this feels… real,” he murmurs.

you smile. “it is.”

he laughs softly at that—low and unguarded. he cups your face and tilts it upward. “i want so much of you already, y/n. but i’ll be patient for you, for us. i’m not fucking this up now, not after i finally have you.”

rawness. his layers all peeled back. heart open for you.

and you take it, with all of your gentleness.

as you drive home, heart steady and full, you realize something important:

this was never about crossing a line.

it was about learning how to stand on the same side of it.

together.

the final part yayyyy i told you id finish it :))) hopefully you enjoyed this, it was a bit different from my usual writing. this is actually probably my favorite piece. gonna try to work on my other series, smiley, now since a lot of you liked it. seeing all of your likes, reblogs, and comments makes me so happy, so thank you <3

[shiggyhatesme]

Controlled Burn

pairings&cw: prohero!katsuki x therapist!femreader, following after timeskip, kat is mid 20s, reader mid 20s, language, attempted angst, slow burn

in which you are katsuki’s anger management therapist…

{wc 2k }

ch. 1

ch. 2

ch. 3 <-

final

week 7

the topic is written at the top of your notes in careful ink:

fear of becoming someone you hate.

you almost change it. almost.

but avoidance has never helped anyone—not your clients, and not you.

bakugou arrives late. he looks worse than last week.

not angry—exhausted. his eyes are shadowed, posture tense in a way that feels brittle rather than coiled. he sits without his usual edge, hands resting limp against his thighs.

you feel a flicker of concern you immediately tamp down. you shouldn’t. the line y/n.

you start the session gently.

“this fear,” you say to the group, “often hides underneath anger. not fear of consequences—but fear of identity.”

a few people nod. someone exhales shakily.

bakugou stares at the floor.

“what happens,” you continue, “when the thing that’s always defined you… starts to feel wrong?”

his jaw tightens.

a participant speaks. then another.

then bakugou’s breath stutters. it’s subtle. almost nothing.

but you hear it.

he stands abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. an uncomfortable sound, members of the group cringing.

“sorry,” he mutters, already moving toward the door. “i can’t.”

the door closes behind him. like he just shut you out. shut the world out again.

your instincts scream stay—your conscience whispers follow.

you hesitate, only a second.

then you step out after him.

he’s in the stairwell, sitting on the concrete steps with his elbows braced on his knees, head bowed. his shoulders are shaking—not violently, not loudly. just… breaking down under their own weight.

you sit beside him.

not too close. close enough. the line was evident, even though it was fading. minutes pass in silence.

finally, he speaks.

“if i stop being angry,” he says hoarsely, “there’s nothing underneath.”

your heart clenches. you don’t contradict him, you don’t rush to reassure or reframe. you let the truth sit where he put it.

a pregnant pause.

“i don’t know who i am without it,” he continues. “everyone keeps telling me to control it, fix it—like it’s just a switch. but if i lose that part of me…” he shakes his head. “what’s left?”

you stare at the opposite wall, grounding yourself in the cool concrete beneath your palms. the air was much cooler than in the room, every deep inhale sent shivering signals.

“i don’t know,” you say honestly.

he lets out a broken laugh. “figures.”

“but i do know this,” you add quietly. “you showed up today even when you didn’t want to. you left instead of exploding. that’s not nothing.”

he says nothing. he doesn’t argue. he doesn’t pull away.

for the first time, he lets himself be seen—not as a hero, not as a problem—but as a man afraid of his own emptiness.

you sit with him until his breathing evens out. when he finally stands, he doesn’t look at you.

“don’t follow me again,” he says, not unkindly. “you shouldn’t.”

you nod. “i know.”

he pauses at the door, shoulders tense.

“…thanks,” he mutters. then he’s gone. you noticed that his absence took everything with him. left heavy rooms feeling cold and empty.

you remain on the stairs long after, heart aching with something that has crossed from professional concern into something quieter and far more dangerous.

you didn’t fix him.

you didn’t save him, you just stayed.

and somehow, that feels like the most intimate thing you’ve done in years.

week 8

something has shifted.

it’s subtle enough that you could pretend it hasn’t—blame it on fatigue, on the weather, on the way long weeks blur together. but you’ve been doing this too long to lie to yourself that convincingly.

bakugou talks more now.

not loudly. not dramatically. just… more. short answers turn into full sentences. silences become intentional instead of defensive. he sits forward in his chair instead of bracing back like he’s ready to bolt.

and he looks at you.

not confrontationally. not like he’s daring you to flinch.

like he’s checking whether you’re still there.

you feel it every time his gaze lingers a second too long—when you’re listening to someone else speak, when you’re writing notes, when you glance up and catch him already watching you.

you tell yourself it’s awareness. transference. a response to vulnerability.

you tell yourself a lot of things.

the session runs late.

not because anything goes wrong—because no one wants to be the first to leave. the room feels quieter lately. heavier. as if everyone senses they’re standing near something delicate.

bakugou stays behind again. you know he will before he does.

you stack your papers slowly, deliberately, giving him space to choose. he paces once, stops, then exhales like he’s bracing himself.

“hey,” he says.

the word is plain. it still sends a flicker through you.

“yes?”

he hesitates. scratches at the back of his neck. “that thing you said. last week.”

you still, an upturned brow. “which thing?”

he scoffs softly. “you always do that.”

“do what?”

“make me say it.”

your lips curve despite yourself—quick, fleeting. gone just as fast. he noticed though.

“you said,” he continues, more serious now, “that leaving instead of exploding mattered.”

“it did.”

“still does?”

“yes.”

he nods once, absorbing that. then, quieter, “okay.”

that’s it. no follow-up. no grand statement.

but it feels like something fragile has been handed to you anyway.

you gather your things. he waits. that thick air, the line screaming at you.

“you heading out?” he asks.

“yes.”

“same.”

the word hangs there. you walk together without discussing it.

outside, the night is cool and still. streetlights glow soft and amber, casting long shadows across the pavement. your footsteps fall into an easy rhythm beside his—unconscious, matched.

he walks close enough that you’re acutely aware of the heat of him. not touching, not quite. just there.

“so,” he says after a moment, “you ever get tired of this?”

“this?” you ask, head turned in his direction where he was already watching you.

“watching people almost lose it,” he replies. “holding the line so they don’t.”

you consider the question. answer honestly.

“yes.”

he glances at you. “why keep doing it?”

you slow to a stop. “because sometimes,” you say, “someone notices the line exists. and that matters.”

he stops too.

the space between you feels suddenly charged—narrowed to something electric and dangerous. he looks down at you, eyes dark, unreadable.

“you ever think about what happens when the line disappears?” he asks.

your breath catches before you can stop it.

“yes,” you admit.

the word lands heavy. honest. too honest.

for a moment, neither of you moves.

“this is a bad idea,” he says hoarsely.

you don’t argue. you don’t reassure him.

you just nod.

“i know.”

something breaks in his expression at that—not anger. relief, maybe. or grief.

“say something,” he mutters, like it costs him to ask.

you swallow. choose restraint like it’s a discipline.

“if we cross that line,” you say softly, “we don’t get to pretend we didn’t see it coming.”

his jaw tightens. he drops his hand like it’s burned him.

“yeah,” he breathes. “that’s what i thought.”

he steps back first. it hurts more than you expect.

“goodnight,” you say.

“night.”

you walk away without looking back.

behind you, bakugou stands alone under the streetlight, chest tight, heart pounding with a truth he can’t outrun anymore:

he wants you.

not recklessly.

not temporarily.

not in a way he can explode and recover from.

he wants you in a way that demands choice.

and you—lying awake later, staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment his hand stopped midair—know the worst part isn’t that nothing happened.

it’s that something almost did.

and now you both know exactly what you’re denying yourselves.

week 9

you don’t announce it.

you don’t need to.

everyone in the room can feel it—the subtle shift in tone, the way people sit a little straighter, speak a little faster, like they’re trying to get everything out before time runs out.

you mention it halfway through the session, almost offhand.

“we have two weeks left after this one.”

a murmur ripples through the circle. someone exhales. someone nods, resigned.

bakugou doesn’t react.

but you see it anyway—the way his shoulders lock, the way his gaze drops to the floor like he’s counting something he doesn’t want to finish.

you keep going. you always do.

the session itself is… quieter. not withdrawn—just careful. everyone seems more aware of what they say, what they don’t. of the shape of the ending.

bakugou speaks once.

just once.

it’s short. controlled. thoughtful.

and when he finishes, he doesn’t look at you for approval.

that hurts more than it should.

afterward, you busy yourself deliberately—stacking papers, checking your notes twice, creating a buffer of motion and professionalism. you can feel him lingering without looking.

you don’t invite him to stay.

he doesn’t ask.

that’s new too.

the distance doesn’t feel angry. it feels intentional.

protective.

you run into him three days later by accident.

a crosswalk. late afternoon. the city caught between rush hours, all noise and impatience. you spot him first—out of uniform, hands shoved into his pockets, jaw set like he’s bracing against the world.

you almost pretend you didn’t see him.

almost.

“bakugou,” you say.

he stops. turns.

for a split second, something soft crosses his face—recognition, maybe relief—before it shutters closed.

“hey,” he replies.

it’s neutral. too neutral. and suddenly that line was screaming at you again.

you stand there awkwardly as the light changes, people flowing around you like water around stones.

“how have you been?” you ask.

a therapist’s question. a human one, too.

“fine,” he says immediately. then, after a beat, “you?”

“fine,” you echo.

it’s a lie. you both know it.

the silence stretches. heavy. unfinished.

“two weeks,” he says suddenly, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder.

“yes.”

“that’s… soon.”

“yes.”

you wait—patient, stupidly hopeful. what was going on with you?

he nods once, sharp. “good.”

the word lands wrong.

“good?” you repeat quietly, a dry laugh.

“means it worked,” he says. “means i don’t have to—” he cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “means it ends.”

there it is.

you choose your words carefully, like stepping across thin ice.

“endings don’t erase what happened,” you say. “they just change the shape of it.”

he looks at you then. really looks at you. and you shouldn’t be fixated on how meaningful that face really was to you.

“and what shape is this supposed to be?” he asks.

you don’t answer.

because the truth presses too close to the line you’ve been guarding with both hands. though, the grip becoming looser.

he exhales sharply, shakes his head. “right. sorry. not your problem.”

you feel the loss of the words you didn’t say like a physical ache.

“that’s not true,” you reply. “but it is my boundary.”

something flickers in his eyes—approval, maybe. or resignation.

“figures,” he mutters. then, more quietly, “you’re good at those.”

“so are you,” you say before you can stop yourself. it was supposed to be professional.

it wasn’t.

he stiffens. “no, i’m not.”

“you’re learning,” you correct.

that almost gets a smile.

almost.

the light changes again. this time, he steps back. red eyes scanning the entirety of your face. analyzing. holding back.

“i’ll see you next session y/n,” he says.

you tried to ignore the way him saying your name again made you feel.

“yes,” you reply. “you will.”

he walks away without looking back.

you stand there longer than you should, heart tight with the knowledge settling deeper now:

this isn’t stalling.

this is bracing.

both of you know the clock is running out—and instead of reaching for each other, you’re tightening your grip on everything you’re afraid to lose.

the line is still there.

but it’s never felt thinner.

i make my return bearing this gift, and i’ll finish the last chapter tomorrow i swearrrrr. this baby is NOT abandoned. it just requires brainpower i don’t usually have. also uh ohhhh he’s pulling awayyyy…

[doinggreat]

Bad Bunny - Super Bowl LX Halftime Show (February 8th, 2026)

[shiggyhatesme]

Controlled Burn

pairings&cw: prohero!katsuki x therapist!femreader, following after timeskip, kat is mid 20s, reader mid 20s, language, attempted angst, slow burn

in which you are katsuki’s anger management therapist…

{wc 2.3k }

ch. 1

ch. 2 <-

ch. 3

final

week 4

you choose the topic carefully.

you always do—but today, you’re more aware of the weight your words carry. of the way certain people in the room respond not just to what you say, but how you say it.

“today,” you begin, “we’re going to talk about boundaries.”

a few people shift in their seats. someone exhales like they’ve already decided the don’t like where this is going.

bakugou doesn’t react at all. thats how you know he’s listening.

“not rules,” you clarify. “not restrictions. boundaries are choices. they’re the lines we draw to protect ourselves—and other people—when emotions run high.”

you let your gaze drift around the circle. you do not look at him yet.

“anger often shows up when boundaries feel threatened,” you continue. “or when we don’t know where they are.”

that does it.

bakugous jaw tightens, sharp and immediate, like you’ve struck something metal.

you invite the group to speak. a man talks about saying too much when he’s upset. a woman admits she shuts down instead. the room fills slowly with small, fragile truths.

you listen. you reflect. you guide.

all the while, you’re aware of bakugou the way you’re aware of a storm on the horizon—quiet, contained, but undeniably present.

eventually, the silence circles back to him.

you don’t prompt him. he speaks anyway.

“boundaries are bullshit,” he says flatly.

a few people stiffen.

you meet his eyes this time.

“tell me more,” you say.

“they’re just excuses,” he goes on, voice controlled but tight. “ways to avoid dealing with things head-on.”

“that’s one way to see it,” you say, brows raised. “is that how you experience them?”

his gaze sharpens. “i experience people hiding behind them.”

the room holds its breath.

you feel the pull—professional instinct urging you to defuse, to redirect. you also feel something else, quieter and more dangerous: the awareness that this isn’t abstract for him.

you take a breath.

“for some people,” you say slowly, “boundaries are the only way to stay in the room without hurting someone.”

bakugou’s eyes flicker.

“sounds like weakness.”

you nod. “it can feel that way.”

the admission seem to throw him more than disagreement would have. you let the discussion move on after that, but the atmosphere has shifted. thicker. more attentive. as if everyone can sense that something important has been placed carefully on the table.

when the session ends, no one rushes out.

bakugou stays seated, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it might give him answers.

you wait until the room empties before approaching him—careful, measured.

“can i check in with you.” you ask.

he looks up, eyes wary. “that official?”

“yes.”

a beat.

“then yeah,” he says. “i guess.”

you sit in the chair across from him—not beside him. the space between you matters.

“you sounded frustrated,” you say. “when you talked about boundaries.”

he scoffs quietly. “you think?”

“i think you feel shut out,” you reply. “and that makes you angry.”

silence.

then, grudgingly, “people start drawing lines when they don’t want you anymore.”

the words land heavier than you expect.

you keep your voice steady. “that’s not always true.”

“feels like it is.”

there it is. not anger. fear.

you choose honesty—not intimacy, not comfort. just truth.

“bakugou,” you say, “there are lines that exist in this room because they have to. not because you’re unwanted.”

he laughs, sharp and disbelieving. “you saying you want me here?”

you don’t answer right away. you should say something neutral. something safe.

instead you say, “i believe you’re capable of more than what people reduce you to.”

his breath catches, barely, but you see it.

that’s the moment you realize you’ve stepped closer to the edge than you meant to. he stands abruptly, pacing once before stopping in front of you.

“this—“ he gestures vaguely between you, the room “—isn’t how this is supposed to work.”

your heart is steady but your chest feels tight.

“no,” you agree. “it isn’t.”

“so why does it feel like you’re—“ he cuts himself off, jaw clenched. “like you’re looking through me.”

you rise as well, careful to keep distance.

“i’m doing my job,” you say. “and i’m doing it ethically.”

he stares at you, conflicted, frustrated, something dangerously close to vulnerable flickering behind his eyes.

“yeah?” he challenges. “because it doesn’t feel neutral.”

you swallow.

“neutral doesn’t mean empty,” you say quietly, your eyes flickering between his own. “it means controlled.”

that word hits him like a blow.

controlled.

his fists curl at his sides—not in anger, but in restraint.

“you don’t get it,” he mutters.

“help me understand,” you say

he shakes his head, steps back. “that’s the problem. i don’t think i should.”

the distance between you stretches, taut and humming. you take a step back as well—not because you want to, but because you must.

“this space matters,” you say softly. “if we cross lines here, it stops being safe. for both of us.”

his voice drops, his eyes staring at this empty space between the both of you. “and if we don’t?”

you hold his gaze.

“then whatever this is,” you say, choosing each word with care, “has to stay potential.”

the word hands between you—potential—heavy, unfinished. for a long moment, neither of you moves.

then bakugou turns away, shoulders tight, like he’s bracing against something internal and violent.

“figures,” he mutters. “always out of reach.”

before you can respond, he leaves. the door closes with a soft, devastating finality. you sit back down, pulse steady but loud in your ears. you don’t regret what you said, you couldn’t afford to either. but you do acknowledge, for the first time, that you’re not untouched by this.

that there is something here—real, unspoken, dangerous in its restraint.

and that if either of you slips,

it won’t be anger that does the damage.

week 5

you don’t expect to see him.

that the problem, you’ve stopped expecting him, which means your guard is down when it happens.

it’s raining. not dramatic, cinematic rain—just enough to soak the hems of your pants and slick the pavement into mirrors. you’ve ducked under the awning of a closed café, digging in your bag for your keys, already panning the walk home in your head.

“great,” a familiar voice mutters behind you.

your spine goes still before you turn.

bakugou stands a few feet away, ash blonde hair damp and curling slightly at the ends, jacket half zipped like he didn’t bother fixing it after coming outside. there’s a faint scorch mark along the sleeve—old, not dangerous, but it tugs your attention anyway.

this time, neither of you looks away.

“hi,” you say, slicking the top of your hair back into your ponytail.

it feels inadequate. it feels like everything.

“tch,” he replies. “you following me now?”

you huff softly despite yourself. “you already tried that one.”

“yeah. didn’t land.”

the rain intensifies, drumming against the awning. neither of you moves to leave. you’re actually aware of the space between you, too close to be a coincidence. too far to be intimate. a careful distance that feels newley intentional.

“you okay?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

it’s a professional question. you cling to that.

bakugou hesitates. you see the exact moment he considers lying— and the moment he discards the effort.

“no,” he says. “but i’m not losing it either, if that’s why you’re checking.”

“i wasn’t,” you reply. “i just—“

you stop. just what?

you straighten, grounding yourself. “i wanted to make sure you got home safe.”

he studies your face like that answer complicates something.

“you always say stuff like that,” he says slowly.

“like what?”

“like you care,” he snaps—then winces, like he didn’t mean to say it that sharply. “i mean—professionally.”

there it is. you swallow. the rain feels louder, like you could drown in it.

“i do care,” you say carefully. “professionally and responsibly.”

his jaw tightens. “feels like more.”

the words settle heavy between you. you could deny it. you should deny it.

instead, you say, “it feels like something because we’re both paying attention.

bakugou steps closer without realizing it. stops himself at the last second, boots scuffing against wet concrete. you had never noticed that scar on his face the way you do right now.

“you think i don’t know what this is?” he says quietly. “you think i haven’t noticed?”

your pulse ticks up, traitorous.

“noticed what?” you ask, though you already know.

“that i want to stay when i should leave,” he says. “that i want to talk when i should shut up. that every time you look at me like im not a problem to solve—“

his voice cuts off as it breaks.

he exhales through his nose, rain darkening his lashes.

“this is why it’s a bad idea.”

you nod, slow and steady, even as your chest tightens. “yes,” you agree. “it is.”

he laughs bitterly. “you don’t even argue.”

“i don’t need to,” you speak, “you’re right.”

silent stretches. intimate. dangerous. the rain seeps closer to the heels of your boots. you don’t step back.

neither does he.

“you ever think about it?” he asks suddenly. “what happens after this ends?”

the question is reckless. honest. bare. you answer anyway.

“every time i tell myself not to.”

his scarlet eyes snap to yours. “yeah?” he says, voice low. “and?”

“and i remind myself why the boundary exists,” you say. “not because i don’t want what’s on the other side.”

his breath stutters. for one terrifying second, you think he might reach for you. not aggressively. not impulsively. just…deliberately. you feel the pull in your own body—the urge to close the gap, to let the question answer itself.

instead, you step back. just one step.

“i won’t cross that line,” you say softly. “not here. not like this.”

bakugou’s hands curl into fists, yet another action of restraint, not anger. so sharp it hurts to witness.

“god,” he mutters. “you’re killing me.”

“i know,” you whisper. “i’m doing the same to myself.”

the rain finally pushed you apart, reality intruding where neither of you will. you pull your coat tighter, he shoves his hands into his pockets.

“i’ll see you next session,” you say.

“yeah,” he replies. “you will.”

you walk away before either of you can change your mind, the clicking of your heels almost taunting the force of separation.

bakugou stays under the awning long after you’re gone, rain soaking into his boots, heart pounding with a realization he can’t shake:

this isn’t just tension anymore. it’s want. and for the first time, he doesn’t know whether controlling himself feels like strength—or cowardice.

week 6

the news breaks an hour before the session.

you don’t watch the footage this time. you don’t need to, the headline alone is enough—another incident, another hero, another shaky cell phone clip slowed down and dissected frame by frame until intention turns into accusation.

you skim just long enough to see bakugou’s name.

you close the article and sit back in your chair, pulse steady but heavy. by the time you arrive at the center, the tension is already waiting for you.

bakugou gets there early.

that’s new.

he’s pacing near the far wall when you walk in, movements sharp and restless like he’s wound too tight. his jaw is clenched, hands flexing at his sides, shoulders set like he’s bracing for impact.

you register all of it. you don’t comment.

“good afternoon,” you say calm and even, setting your bag down.

he turns on you like you’ve flipped a switch.

“don’t,” he snaps.

you pause, slowly straighten. “don’t what?”

“don’t do that voice,” he says. “like everything’s fine.”

your chest tightens—not fear, but something closer to disappointment.

“i’m not saying everything’s fine,” you reply. “i’m saying hello.”

he laughs, sharp and ugly. “yeah? funny how that works for you.”

the room is still empty. no witnesses. no buffer.

“bakugou,” you say softly, “if you’re not in a place to—“

“oh im in a place,” he cuts in. “just sick of fucking pretending like this is helping.”

that lands harder than he probably intends.

you take a breath. “if you’re feeling overwhelmed—“

“don’t psychoanalyze me,” he snaps, pointing an accusatory finger. “you think you know what today’s about? you think this—“ he gestured between you “—means you get to look at me like that?”

“like what?” you ask, voice steady despite the flare in your chest.

“like i’m some kind of problem you almost care about, y/n.”

silence. it stretches long and unforgiving. he never said your name, never even tried to utter it. part of you wished he just kept it that way.

you don’t raise your voice. you don’t defend yourself.

instead you say, very clearly:

“you don’t get to hurt me just because you’re hurting.”

the words land between you—firm, unyielding, undeniable.

bakugou freezes. it’s like all the air leaves his body at once. his expression shifts—not anger, not defiance—but something sick and hollow. regret flashes sharp and immediate, like he’s realized too late where the blade landed.

“tch,” he mutters, looking away. “that’s not what i meant.”

“but it is what you did.” you say gently.

he swallows. hard.

the rest of the group starts filling in then, voices and footsteps filling the space, shattering the moment. bakugou doesn’t look at you again. he takes his seat farther away than usual, posture closed, eyes fixed on the floor.

the session passes in fragments. he doesn’t speak. he doesn’t meet your gaze. when it ends, he leaves immediately.

no apology. just distance—raw and deliberate.

you sit alone afterward, hands folded in your lap. heart heavier than it has any right to be. for the first time, you wonder if caring professionally might still cost you something personal.

ugh y/n is so fake nonchalant (me asf). im either gonna cram everything into one more chapter or there will be two more…not sure just don’t wanna keep dragging out chapters unless people like that more!! im also dying trying to write this and actively fighting with my anatomy & phys work pls save me.

[shiggyhatesme]

Controlled Burn

pairings&cw: prohero!katsuki x therapist!femreader, following after timeskip, kat is mid 20s, reader mid 20s, language, attempted angst, slow burn

in which you are katsuki’s anger management therapist…

{wc 2.7k}

ch. 1 <-

ch. 2

ch. 3

final

week 1

you see the footage before you see him.

it’s queued up on your tablet, paused on a frame someone has already screenshotted and shared too many times to count. katsuki bakugou—pro hero dynamight—caught mid-motion, jaw tight, eyes feral, smoke blooming from his palms as he shouts something the caption has helpfully translated into outrage.

EXCESSIVE FORCE?

HERO OR LIABILITY?

you mute the video.

you don’t need the sound to understand the shape of it. you’ve watched enough of these over the years, men and women pushed past endurance, then punished for snapping where the public can see it. the incident summary is clinical. property damage, civilian distress, mission technically successful.

recommended corrective action: court-mandated anger management.

you exhale slowly and close the file.

by the time you arrive at the center, the air already feels wrong—too tight, too expectant. fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in pale honesty. the waiting room smells like disinfectant and old coffee. the chairs are arranged in a loose circle, intentionally non-confrontational. nothing sharp. nothing heavy.

you’ve done this dozens of times and still, your shoulders tense.

he’s already there. blonde spiky hair sat atop indecent posture, legs spread wide, elbows braced on his knees; like he’s ready to spring up and walk out at the first excuse. his hero jacket is gone, replaced by a black t-shirt stretched tight across his shoulders. bandages wrap one forearm, hastily concealed beneath the sleeve.

he looks…smaller than on screen. not weaker. just contained.

his gaze snaps up the moment you enter. sharp. assessing. he takes you in quickly—your posture, expression, the ID badge clipped neatly to your jacket.

therapist

his mouth twists. great.

you don’t react. you offer the same neutral smile you give everyone, the one that says i see you, but im not here to judge you. you move to the center or the room and set your notebook down, giving the others time to settle in as more participants trickle through the door.

you felt the intensity of his stare burning holes into the entirety of yourself.

you don’t meet his eyes.

when everyone is seated, you begin—voice calm, even, practiced.

“good afternoon. i’m glad you all made it today.”

a scoff cuts through the room, bakugou doesn’t even try to hide it. you let the sound exist without comment.

“this is a court-mandated anger management group,” you continue. “that means not one of you is here because you wanted to be here. that’s fine. resistance is allowed.”

that earns his attention. you glance up then, not at him specifically, but around the circle of blank faces.

“what isn’t allowed is disrespect. to me, or to each other. you don’t have to talk. you don’t have to share. you do have to stay.”

bakugou leans back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest.

“sounds more like a cage,” he mutters.

you nod once. “it can feel that way.”

he blinks, not expecting your answer.

you explain the structure of the sessions. confidentiality. expectations. the difference between anger as an emotion and aggression as behavior. you speak plainly, without buzzwords or forced warmth.

and when it’s time for introductions, you go last.

you watch attentively as the others stumble through their names, their reasons for being there. someone’s cries, someone’s apologizes too much. someone stares at the floor like it might open up and swallow them whole.

all the usual behaviors you’ve seen countless times before.

bakugou says nothing. when it’s his turn, the silence stretches. you don’t try to fill it.

finally, he says, “you already know who i am.”

“i do,” you agree.

“so what’s the point?”

the question is sharp, but underneath it is something brittle. you choose your words carefully.

“the point,” you say, “isn’t who you are. it’s what happens before moments like the one that brought you here.”

he laughs, humorless. “i did my job.”

“i’m not here to argue that.”

the chair creaks under him, “sure sounds like you are.”

you meet his eyes then. not challengingly, not defensively. just directly.

“i’m here because something about that moment concerned people with power over your career,” you say. “what we do with that information is up to you.”

the room is still. quiet. thick.

bakugou looks away first.

the session moves on. ground rules, breathing techniques no one takes seriously. a short exercise you know most of them will hate.

bakugou doesn’t participate, he doesn’t interrupt either.

you notice the way his leg bounces relentlessly, heel tapping against the floor like it’s counting down to something. you notice how his shoulders tense whenever someone raises their voice. you notice how, when another participant starts crying, his jaw tightens—not in anger, but discomfort.

he isn’t unfeeling, he’s overloaded.

when the session ends, the group disperses quickly. relief is palpable. chairs scrape. someone mutters a goodbye.

bakugou stands last, and for a moment, you think he’s going to leave without a word.

then he stops in front of you. up close, he smells faintly of smoke and antiseptic. his presence fills the space without effort.

“this a setup?” he asks.

you tilt your head slightly. “what do you mean?”

“don’t play dumb.” his eyes narrow. “you gonna write reports? decide if im ‘improving’?”

you breathe. “i submit attendance confirmation and general compliance notes,” you say evenly. “i don’t evaluate your worth as a hero.”

he studies your face, searching for something—pity, maybe. condemnation. you offer neither.

“hmph.” he scoffs again, quieter this time. “figures.”

he turns to go.

“bakugou,” you say—not sharply, just enough to stop him. he pauses, back still to you.

“you don’t have to trust me,” you add. “but i’m not your enemy.”

for a second, you think he’s light say something. something angry. something cruel.

instead, he says, “we’ll see.”

and then he’s gone, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft, final click. you remain where you are, heart steady, pen unmoving in your hand.

this one will be difficult.

and if you’re honest with yourself—

this one will matter.

week 2

bakugou decides he hates you before the second session even starts.

not in the explosive, headline-worthy way. no—this is quieter. meaner. the kind of hatred that settles low in his chest and stays there, simmering.

because you didn’t fucking flinch.

most people do. the look at him like he’s a live wire—dangerous, unpredictable, waiting to go off. even the ones who pretend not to are always braced for it. he’s used to that, damn extras. it gives him something to push against.

and you didn’t give him anything.

he notices it the moment he walks into the room again. same neutral setup. same circle of chairs. same faint hum of lights that make his teeth itch.

same you.

everything about you was infuriatingly effortless. the way your hair sat, the clothes that fit your body perfectly, the professionalism. made his damn eye twitch.

you’re already there, flipping through your notes, posture relaxed but attentive. you look up when he enters—not startled, not wary. just aware.

that pisses him off more than it should.

he takes the same seat as last time, legs spread, arms crossed. claims the space like he’s daring someone to challenge him. no one does.

you start on time.

“before we begin,” you say, “i want to remind everyone that participation is voluntary. silence is still data.”

his jaw tightens.

data. like he’s a specimen.

you introduce the topic—triggers. what sets anger off. not the expression itself, but the pressure beforehand.

bakugou listens despite himself. you don’t ask anyone to confess. you ask them to notice.

“when does your body react before you do?” you ask the group. “what happens right before you lose control?”

a few people speak. hesitant answers coming out of shaky voices. bakugou stays quiet.

he doesn’t need help noticing. his body is a loaded weapon; he knows every click and tension before it fires. the heat in his palms. the tightening behind his eyes. the way the world narrows until there’s only the threat in front of him. he was a hero for god’s sake, the best if anything.

you don’t look at him while others talk. but when you speak again, your voice is measured—careful in a way that feels deliberate.

“anger doesn’t come from nowhere,” you say. “it shows up to protect something.”

protect.

the word lands wrong.

bakugou shifts in his seat, his foot starts bouncing fast and restless. he catches it, forces it still.

protect what? pride? control? the version of himself that doesn’t hesitate?

you glance his way—not long enough to be a stare, just long enough to acknowledge his presence in the room.

he feels it anyway. he hates that he feels it.

you move into a brief exercise—grounding, awareness, stupidly simple. he doesn’t close his eyes when you ask, doesn’t breathe when you count. you notice. you don’t call him out.

that’s worse.

when the exercise ends, you ask if anyone wants to share what the noticed. silence.

bakugou snorts under his breath. “this is pointless.”

a few heads turn. you turn fully this time.

“why?” you ask. not defensive. just curious.

bakugou straightens, irritation flaring. “because nothings wrong with me.”

you nod slowly, like you’re considering it.

“okay,” you say. “then what do you think is wrong with the situation that brought you here?”

the question hangs there—sharp and precise. he opens his mouth to bite back. to snap. to shut it down. nothing comes out. but the answer isn’t clean. because the truth is messy and doesn’t fit into a soundbite or a defense statement.

you wait. not long enough to humiliate him, just long enough to make it clear you’re not afraid of his silence.

“drop it,” he mutters finally. and you do.

no punishment. no lecture. you move on like it didn’t matter.

it matters.

the rest of the session crawls. bakugou tracks you without meaning to—how you shift your weight when someone speaks, how you phrase questions to avoid cornering anyone, how you never raise your voice even when the room gets tense.

you treat him like he’s volatile, not dangerous. there’s a difference, and he hates that he can tell.

when the session ends, he lingers again. pretends it’s coincidence. you’re packing up notes when he speaks.

“you gonna write that down?” he asks.

you glance up. “write that down?”

“that i didn’t play along.”

“i don’t keep score,” you reply.

he scoffs. “sure.”

“you showed up,” you add. “that counts.”

something in his expression flickers—gone before you can name it.

“don’t patronize me,” he snaps.

“i’m not,” you say simply.

you hold his gaze, steady and unyielding in a way that isn’t aggressive. he realizes, with a jolt, that you’re not trying to win anything from him. you’re just…there.

he steps closer without meaning to. stops himself just as quickly. the proximity feels charged, wrong.

“just so you know,” he says, voice low, controlled, “this doesn’t fix anything.”

you don’t argue.

“it’s not meant to,” you say. “it’s meant to make things visible.”

he exhales sharply through his nose.

“tch. you talk like you already know me.”

“i don’t,” you say. “not yet.”

the yet lodges somewhere under his ribs. he turns away abruptly, shoulders tight, jaw clenched.

as he leaves, one thought keeps looping in his head, unwanted and relentless:

you’re dangerous.

not because you don’t push.

but because you don’t.

and because, for the first time in a long while, he can’t tell whether he wants to explode—

—or stay.

week 3

you tell yourself you don’t think about him between sessions. it’s not entirely a lie.

you don’t replay his expressions or analyze his tone the way you used to with other clients who lingered to heavy in your mind. you don’t speculate about his childhood or draft neat explanations for his anger. you’ve learned, over the years, how dangerous that kind of curiosity can be.

still.

you find yourself noticing the empty chair beside his when you arrive early.

you find yourself bracing—not with dread, but with awareness—when the door opens.

bakugou arrives on time this week.

not early. not late. exactly on time, like it’s deliberate.

he doesn’t look at you when he comes in. he takes his usual seat, posture coiled, hands flexing once at his sides before he stills them. you catch the faint scent of smoke again—less sharp than before, tempered by something clean.

soap. laundry detergent.

domestic details you don’t want to clock, and do anyway.

you start the session with a check-in. low pressure. optional.

“how did you notice anger showing up this week?” you ask. “not what you did with it. just when it appeared.”

a woman across the circle speaks haltingly. someone else follows. the room warms slowly, like a body adjusting to cold water.

bakugou stays silent.

but he listens. you can tell because his attention sharpens when certain words surface—cornered, helpless, watched. his jaw tightens when someone mentions fear. his shoulders ease, just a fraction, when you validate without minimizing.

you’re careful not to look at him too often. you’re careful because you’ve been doing this long enough to know when something is starting to matter.

midway through, you introduce a short discussion on misinterpretation—how anger often arrives after we assume intent where there might be none.

“not every perceived threat is an actual one,” you say. “but the body doesn’t always know the difference.”

bakugou lets out a quiet, derisive huff.

you turn to him—not immediately. you let the sound settle.

“do you disagree?” you ask.

he shrugs, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder. “worlds full of idiots. hard not to assume.”

a few people tense.

you nod. “that makes sense, given your job.”

he flicks his gaze to you then. sharp. searching.

“you don’t know shit about my job,” he says.

“i know enough,” you reply evenly, “to know that constant vigilance can start to feel like constant threat.”

the room goes quiet.

bakugou doesn’t snap back. instead, he looks away again, jaw working like he’s grinding something down.

“tch.” he mutters. “whatever.”

you let it go. again. that restraint—yours this time—costs more than you let on.

the session ends without incident. people file out, subdued but lighter. you jot down a few neutral notes, methodical, grounding yourself in routine.

you’re locking up when you hear footsteps pause behind you.

“you always do that,” bakugou says.

you glance over your shoulder. “do what?”

“let things drop.” his tone is accusatory, but there’s an edge of confusion beneath it. “most people don’t.”

you face him fully now, keys cool in your palm. “most people aren’t trained to.”

he studies you, eyes narrowed—not hostile, just…focused.

“why this?” he asks abruptly. “this job.”

you hesitate. not because it’s inappropriate. because it’s personal.

“i used to think anger was the problem,” you say finally. “turns out it’s usually just the messenger.”

he snorts. “sounds like a cop-out.”

“maybe,” you allow. “but it keeps me from turning people into villains in my head.”

something about that stills him. he steps back, like he hasn’t realized how close he’d gotten.

“see you next week,” you add, professional, gentle.

he doesn’t respond. but he doesn’t leave right away either.

you run into him three nights later.

it’s late—too late for errands, too early for sleep. the convenience store down the street hums with fluorescent fatigue. you’re debating between tea brands when you feel it: that prickle between your shoulders.

you don’t need to turn around to know.

“you stalking me now?” bakugou says from the aisle behind you.

you glance over, surprised despite yourself. he’s out of uniform, hair damp like he’s just showered, expression unreadable.

“hardly,” you reply. “i live nearby.”

“huh.” a pause. “figures.”

you grab the tea you came for. he lingers, pretending to browse. you pretend not to notice. at the counter, he speaks again, quieter.

“you’re different outside that room,” he says.

“so are you.”

he scoffs, “don’t get used to it.”

“i wasn’t planning to.”

that earns you a look—brief, startled, almost amused.

outside, the night air is cool. you part ways without ceremony. still, as you walk home, you’re aware of something shifting. not dramatically, not dangerously.

not yet.

just enough to notice the negative space where distance used to be.

and somewhere across town, bakugou finds himself thinking—not for the first time—that you’re harder to read than any enemy he’s ever faced.

which shouldn’t matter.

except it does.

this is my attempt at redemption for my last fic because i hated it so much. i’ve had this sitting in limbo for a year, most of my bakugou stuff just collects dust. we’ll try this one out and see how it goes. geeked vs locked in fr. also this was not proofread im exhausted.

[shiggyhatesme]

everything and nothing at all

pairings & cw: touya x terminally ill fem!reader, as angsty as i could, probably ooc touya (he’s kinda hard to write), death, language, supposed to be set after the war but he looks like he did before it, uh did i mention angst?

it was 7am when your eyes opened to the sound of an expo marker squealing against the white board in front of you. you watched as the familiar woman wrote her name out, groggily following along with the letters.

A N G E L A

your favorite nurse. she made your endless stay within these white walls more bearable. a chipper face turned toward your exhausted one, and you couldn’t help but smile.

you didn’t do that much these days.

“i strive to be as energetic as you are at such ungodly hours.” you croaked, your voice growing weaker as the days stretched on.

angela threw you a small laugh as she prepped her machine to take your vitals and give you your medicine for the morning. it was all second nature at this point, you knew what she needed done before she even had to say it, holding your hand out to take the meds even before she had it ready.

this was your life.

“i know it’s early, but i just wanted to ask. have you thought anymore about chemo?”

the question made you shift in your bed, immediately turning toward the window to your right. you were lucky enough to be placed in a room with such a great view of the skyline. it was a huge hospital, the biggest in the city.

and god you were just so fucking small.

“i don’t want it. tell the doctors the same.”

you immediately felt bad for your tone, you could practically feel the tinge of hurt oozing out of your nurse. she’s been through hell with you.

you sighed and looked back at her, an apologetic look. “i’m sorry. i’m just so tired. can i walk around today? just for a little.”

you could sense her contemplation knowing how she’s seen you in these last few weeks. your health on a rapid decline, everything inside of you growing weaker. but the look you were giving her must’ve been convincing enough, as she granted you permission to wander.

after she helped you out of bed, brushed your hair and eased you into a new change of clothes, you set out of your room, a reminder of your illness following you as you drug your monitor alongside you.

the stupid fucking thing and it’s annoyingly loud damned wheels.

all of the employees were used to you wandering about the floors, you’d been here for a little over 4 months now and made it a mission to get your steps in. rotting was killing you faster than the cancer was, the thought of being chained to a bed every minute of your life pushed you to ensure you walked.

you made it out to the patient courtyard where only a few others accompanied you. in your breathless state you made a mental note to hit a treadmill if, by some miracle, you ever made it out of this hospital.

snow white hair caught your attention, your eyes fixed on the unfamiliar tall figure in front of you. your eyes traced the purple scars that were held to skin by nothing but staples and some hope.

your fixation must’ve been painfully obvious as you noticed the males eyebrow quirk up, a scoff following suit. “fuck, am i really that ugly? or are you like weird and blind?”

you were a bit taken aback as you couldn’t even remember the last time someone had spoken to you so casually, or for lack of a better word, so bluntly. you didn’t know whether to be offended or laugh.

so instead you bit back. “no, i was honestly just wondering how your jaw wasn’t sliding off of your face. you a burn victim or somethin?”

a very bold statement to make towards a stranger, and you were hoping he’d be the type to take it lightly. so when you saw the corner of his mouth quirk up, you mentally sighed in relief.

he smirked as he edged closer to you from where he stood, his insanely gorgeous blue eyes not going unnoticed. he was so unique looking but so well put together. well, kinda.

he stopped a few feet in front of where you sat and squinted his eyes, “somethin’ like that. and what are you? 4 breaths away from dying? you look miserable.”

a small laugh escaped your lips as you looked at your monitor clung to you by cords and IV drips. “something like that.”

you reached a weak hand out toward him, giving a gentle smile, “i’m y/n.”

he looked hesitant, his eyes flickering between your outstretched hand and your sad eyes, but you eventually felt the warmth of his scarred palm meet yours. unspoken words being said within a firm grasp.

“touya. how long have you been here?”

your hand fell to play with the white wristband that clung around your arm, remembering just months ago when it was first put on.

“just over 4 months. trapped here in solitary confinement for the long run, touya. what about yourself?”

he chuckled as he took a seat next to you, leaning back as he looked to the sky. “ah, it’s only been a couple weeks. i’m being banished to the psych unit after i’m ‘healed enough’ though. apparently i’m unstable or some bullshit.”

you ended up talking to touya for hours. you truly didn’t mean to, and you usually don’t get close to anyone nowadays for a reason. but with him it came so naturally, it was addicting. there was this pounding urge in your heart that wanted to open up to someone so bad, someone new, before it was too late.

and he slipped past all of your walls so easily.

the only thing that tore you away from your conversation with the beautiful white haired man was your extremely concerned nurse, shouting for you by the doors. you let out a sigh before shakily standing up and looking down at the confused expression on his face.

“goodbye touya.” you spoke as you turned to walk towards the doors.

he gently grabbed the small of your arm, standing up after you.

“i’ll see you tomorrow?” he asked, a small smile playing on his features.

your eyes switched back and forth between his own before taking your arm back and looking away, “i wouldn’t bank on that.”

a couple days had passed since then, and your mind had never been busier. a new feeling actually, as for the passing months your head had been empty. that simple but deep nothingness.

there was nothing empty about it now.

something, or someone, was occupying your brain.

it was 2am and sleep would not bless you, so you decided it best to not. angela had hesitantly granted you permission to wander about, and you wasted no time in getting the hell out of bed. you begrudgingly dragged your monitor alongside you and made, what felt like an escape, to the courtyard.

unexpectedly though, you weren’t alone.

your heart fluttered seeing the familiar strands of white hair facing away from you under the light the moon shone.

slow steps were made in his direction, but there was nothing discrete about the noise your monitor made, practically announcing your presence. you watched as he turned towards you, god the unique beauty of him still leaving you breathless.

more than you usually were.

and then he smiled. “didn’t think i’d see you again y/n. still rocking the same wheels i see.”

you smiled and took a seat next to him, looking back at the annoying machine you were attached to. “oh yeah, i’ll never be able to shake this one.”

he chuckled as he scanned your features, a comfortable silence falling between the two of you, your eyes scanning him back.

“so, if you don’t mind me asking, what are you here for? or more so, why?” you asked softly, watching as his features shifted slightly, his gaze turning towards the sky.

a heavy sigh fell from his lips before he spoke, “assuming this is a judge-free zone, i’ll tell you. that war going on out there? i fought in it. but not on the side you’d probably expect me to fight for. i was part of the PLF, all of it. the twisted son of endeavor, brother to the todoroki’s. i fought against my own blood, and i lost, bad. the only way they agreed to keep me breathing was by having me locked up, being observed by psychiatrists for the rest of my life. and that’s that. obviously a bit of patchwork here and there, you were right, i was falling apart. but here i am.”

the air outside turned thick, you released a breath you didn’t know you were even holding. being locked away in the hospital meant you didn’t quite know everything that went on outside, but you knew enough.

you had seen the news reports, heard nurses talking about the todoroki’s, touya specifically. you didn’t know how you didn’t recognize him from the news reports, i mean, he was sporting a slightly altered new appearance.

you just never thought you’d be talking to the man himself, connecting with him, having your heart beat out of your chest at the thought of him.

he turned to look at you, an inquisitive look inhabiting his face, and you realized it had been minutes since he finished.

“sorry, i was just taking it all in. i had seen a couple news reports, and overheard stories but i never knew everything that was going on out there, so im a bit starstruck.” you voiced, giving a reassuring smile.

he let out a quiet laugh, his attention fixed on the IV line in your arm, “yeah it’s heavy. what about you though, what’s got you stuck here?”

you truly didn’t want to sour the already heavy mood, and you were about to with whatever words you’d say next.

so you lied.

“i um, it’s a lot less traumatic than you experienced, probably a bit laughable actually. i’m just getting over a pretty bad illness. had my immune system shot, and i’ve been admitted ever since. i’m recovering pretty well though, should be able to get out soon.” lies. they were all lies and it was so unbelievably fucked.

the glint in his eyes almost made it seem like he didn’t buy it, like he could see right through you, your cards all scattered on the table. but he didn’t question you. he didn’t bite.

“damn, so you won’t be stuck in here forever with me, huh?” he chuckled.

you gave a soft smile, your head leaning ever so slightly in his direction, “i’m afraid not, touya.”

and that was the god-honest truth.

more days had passed, but this time the days were spent with touya, that was of course when you weren’t shoving medicine down your throat, having to be helped to get up out of bed as your legs grew weaker, or talking to one more fucking person about what happens after the inevitable catches up to you.

you’d be with him laughing, following him around floors you had never been to (this was of course without your nurses knowledge), telling stories of your lives outside of the hospital.

and of course, falling harder for him everyday.

all while keeping the lies up, which became harder as your health began to rapidly decline. you knew these days would come, and you were so angry at yourself for letting him get so close to you.

but in a selfish way, you wanted to continue. you loved the sense of normalcy he gave you.

so fucking selfish.

he had taken you to his room on the unit just above yours, your eyes taking in how vastly different it was in comparison to your own. cards from family members in different locations around the room, some flowers, so light. it was just so light.

he scoffed, “my family is batshit. they come in and try to talk to me, bringing me all this shit. i don’t know why they even bother. i tried to fucking kill em ya know?”

you laughed as you held one of the cards, warmth in your heart growing.

“forgiveness is a beautiful thing, touya.” you spoke, shooting a smile in his direction, eliciting an eye roll from the man.

he walked towards you, looking down at the card you had been holding. “forgiveness my ass, they’ve got me locked up in here until the end of time. feels more like taunting.”

you shook your head and looked up at him, those cerulean eyes meeting your own, practically drowning in them. he reached a scarred hand up to cup one side of your face, your heart on the verge of exploding. you were convinced your monitor would sound at any moment.

“touya..”

he brushed a thumb over your lips and leaned in, “please. just let me.”

after a moment of hesitance, his lips met your own, and god did it feel like fireworks went off. you completely forgot what this kind of contact felt like, and you grew nervous that you had also forgotten how to even kiss.

but with him everything came naturally. it was all too easy.

your hand found its way in his hair, grabbing it gently. so much, so many emotions running through you. just a month ago you saw him for the first time, and here you were now kissing him.

it was too much. you didn’t deserve it. you were a liar.

you broke the kiss, practically having to tear yourself away from him.

“i-i’m sorry. i can’t. i’m so fucking sorry touya.”

his brows were furrowed as he gently reached for your arm, only for you to quickly yank it back.

“no, i can’t. we can’t. im sorry. i have to go.”

and that look on his face was one you’d never be able to forget. hurt, betrayal, confusion. it was all dripping from him, his heart completely at your disposal, shot right back at him.

“the fuck do you mean we can’t? the hell happened?” he questioned, his voice raising ever so slightly.

you grew frustrated as tears started to escape from your eyes, hands running through your hair. “we just fucking can’t touya, i should’ve never let this happen. please do not come looking for me. you don’t deserve this.”

you turning your back towards him hit him 10x harder than your words ever did. the way you ignored his calls as you walked out of his room, the nurses on his floor perking up. like he was nothing, like it all meant nothing.

he watched you turn the corner and disappear and he almost ran after you, until the charge nurse pulled him back in his room, reprimanding him, threatening him with another psychiatric evaluation.

by day four of not seeing you, touya was convinced you had done this on purpose. was convinced it was a way to taunt him. toy with him knowing that you’d be able to leave, and he’d be stuck here forever.

but as angry with you as he was, the need to find you and be with you burdened him more.

of course this would be mission impossible because of that godforsaken hipaa rule. but he was a persuasive man, he knew he’d get it out of someone.

and by some miracle, as he made his usual rounds, he saw a familiar face.

your nurse.

he trailed behind her, watching her step into the elevator and waiting to see what number she stopped at, hoping it’d be the right one as he rode down it after.

it was late at night, the nightshift nurses on his floor were lazy as hell, and were used to him up and leaving. they knew who he was and his background. to get him to behave would be too much effort this late.

he was just worried about the ones on your floor, if this was even the right floor.

he peered down the hallway, only seeing two nurses at the station, one of them being your own. it had to be the right floor.

touya waited until the nurses walked away to make his move, quickly making his way down the hall. most of the doors being shut didn’t help, some signs marking “highly contagious” helping him narrow down which rooms weren’t yours.

his heartbeat was fast as he began to feel like it was a lost cause, a failed mission. that was until he heard a familiar voice.

your voice, and what sounded like crying.

the last door, of course it’d be the last damn door on the complete opposite end of the hall.

a wave of emotions crashed through his head, anger, hurt, confusion. but none were stronger than the feeling his own heart was emitting. so he opened the door.

and instantly all of his walls came crashing down.

there you were, a disheveled mess, all wired up. more weak than he last saw you, and it was just a couple days ago.

you looked up at the sound coming from the door, not expecting anyone to be coming in at this time.

and certainly not expecting that beautiful white hair and dangerously addictive blue eyes to be staring back at you.

you watched in complete shock as he closed the door behind him, not making any move toward you. you were both stuck. like two positive poles of magnets, wanting to be close so bad, but repelling each other more.

“god touya i told you not to look for me. why can’t you just listen.” you sneered, wiping the tears from your eyes, trying to look anywhere but him.

he scoffed, “what is with you? what even is that? why are you making it your life’s mission to keep us apart? the fuck did i do?”

your lips trembled as you let out an exhausted sigh, hearing his footsteps inch closer to you. you swear you could feel the heat of his body, even from a distance. you missed that heat so much.

“god it’s just not that simple touya.” you expressed, meeting his gaze again.

“i hate that excuse. then explain it to me goddamnit!” his arms flailing at his sides.

you sat up straighter, your hands dragging down your face. “fine. you want to know so bad? im a damn liar touya. i lied to you. you wanna know the real reason im in here? im sick. im so so sick, this stupid cancer just eating away at me slowly, teasing me every chance it gets. ripping me away from everything good,” you started, raising your voice slightly

“so i lied to you. i was so selfish because i wanted to feel normal again. god it’s been months since ive felt this way, and you were the only thing keeping me grounded. i didn’t want you to look at me different, to see me as some weak girl who’d give out at any moment. i wanted you to see me. it was never supposed to get this far, i should’ve never spoke to you.” you sobbed, the longer you looked into his eyes, the hurt in his eyes, the worse you felt.

you bit back the tremble in your lips before continuing, “all of this, i did all of this, just to end up dead any day now. i’m more weak than i’ve ever been. touya, they say i have a week left. i prayed and prayed you wouldn’t find me. you’d forget all about me. and you should. you don’t deserve this.”

you were nothing but a pool of your own disappointment. there it all was, all of your cards, the real ones, laid out on the table. all for him to pick apart and dissect.

you wanted to throw up, his face was blank, you truly couldn’t read him. the sobs you were holding back reaching his ears, his eyes meeting yours.

nothingness. it felt so eerie. you were so used to feeling everything, seeing everything in him.

there was nothing there.

you did it. you took all of it away.

but when he took more steps toward you, when he sat down right in front of you, his hand finding its place on your cheek, you felt it all again.

everything.

“you’re a goddamn idiot y/n. so fucking stupid.” he whispered.

you felt the warmth of his lips meet yours again, oh how you missed that feeling. the walls you tried to force up came and went. it was all him now.

he pulled away and looked at you, eyes switching between your own.

“i could sit here all night and tell you how angry i am, how selfish it was of you to try to keep me away, not even about the lies. how damn stupid i feel after telling you everything about myself, letting you in. but that does us no good, so i won’t.”

you felt your eyes well up again, the miserable feeling all coming back, but he continued.

“but instead i’m going to tell you that i fucking love you, that i’ll be here until the inevitable happens, until the doctors rip me away. i will be here, with you.”

and he stayed true to his word. even when the nurses yelled at him, tried to force him out. even when security was called, and he screamed at every one of them.

you begged them to let him stay, that it was your one wish. the only thing you wanted.

night after night, story after story, shared ‘i love yous’.

he was there. until your final breath, when he was resting at your side as the monitor erupted. the never ending drone of noise, the panic trying to wake you up. nurses running in, rapid response, doctors, all flooding your room as he watched behind them all.

it was a mess, it was all a fucking mess, he could barely see through his blurred wet vision. but the silence that enveloped the room was deafening.

nothingness.

you took everything with you. it had been quite some time since he had felt nothing himself.

but everything in him died with you.

this feels so shit after it’s all been written out but hopefully it works. tried my best boyyyyy have i been in a rut. might’ve felt fast but shawty was on a time crunch okay she got down to business hope you enjoy and if u don’t…don’t tell me im fragile.

[shiggyhatesme]

wow i was actively finishing chapter 2 of smiley and my phone closes tumblr and completely erased everything. beginning to feel as though it’s a sign. holyfuckingshititsbeenayear