welcome to the blind bet, an open 18+ fanfiction event where the odds decide your prompt. two wheels are waiting at the table: one packed with alternate universes, the other stacked with tropes. wherever they land is the hand you play.
this event is open to anyone above the age of 18, and will run from march 25th to september 25th, 2026. all works must be submitted within this period—no submission will be accepted after september 25th.
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the music from inside was faint now through the old stone walls. inside, your husband. the term felt strange and tender. he was amidst the crowd being tugged into dancing with different children, whose hands were, no doubt, sticky with wedding cake. your eyes shift over to his friends who were capturing everything before you with disposable cameras to their heart's content.
you had slipped outside quietly, for just a second.
it had been a long day and god, you could do with a cigarette, if only so you had something to do with your twitching hands. but you had quit a while back now, for the sake of your husband but mostly, your own as your husband likes to remind you.
you leaned against the railing and closed your eyes.
“you always run from parties.”
your body went still.
when you turned, gojo stood in front of you. now, you would rub your eyes comically if you could, but you didn't.
he stood against the stone railing, in a black suit, no tie, and the collar open at the throat. his white hair disordered and tangled in strong wind. the years had sharpened him strangely.
for one sickening second, you were twenty again.
“satoru.”
“wow,” he murmured, his gaze moved over you slowly, almost in reverence and wonder. “you're actually married.”
you folded your arms tightly, fingers disappearing into silk sleeves. “i didn’t invite you.”
a smile flashed in a small way on his mouth then.
“no,” he said. “i noticed.”
“well, who invites an ex to their wedding?”
“didn't know we broke up," he said, a lilt of humour to his tone.
and he would be excruciatingly, exquisitely right. you weren't exes exactly. exes had anniversaries and friends who picked sides after a break up. you two didn't have a break up. you two had none of these things.
satoru walked up the stairs a little, to take a glance through the windows. inside, your husband was laughing as one of the children clung to his arm triumphantly.
“he seems normal,” he said.
you snorted softly despite yourself. “that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about someone i dated. and he is.”
"sorry i'm late," he says. "i had to pick out a gift."
“a gift?”
“what?” he tilted his head innocently. “i can’t support your terrible life decisions?”
you narrowed your eyes. “so, where is my gift then?”
"right here," his finger pointed lazily toward himself.
you tilt your head, crossing your arm with a frown. of course.
for a brief second your mind flits through images of him, in different shades and different lightings. always young.
conjuring up an image of the boy who used to would buy and eat dessert from the same fork with you after bloodstained missions. at the boy who you shared rows on planes neither of you remembered boarding. at the man who kissed you in hotel elevators at three in the morning.
inside, the music changed, shifting into something slower.
i’ll be your dream, i’ll be your wish, i’ll be your fantasy…
the melody spilled through the open terrace as someone turned the volume up.
“will you dance with me?” he asked.
you looked at him for a long moment.
“isn’t that horribly inappropriate?" you asked, almost genuinely.
“it’s only a dance.” he was watching you carefully now. not hint of humour. just waiting.
you should say no, you think. instead, you say. “one song.”
his hand unfolded, now open toward you.
in return, you enclosed your palms in his.
he led you farther down the garden, a little closer to the music, but somehow away from the eyes inside.
gravel crunched beneath his shoes. somewhere nearby, you briefly noticed a bright jasmine blooming so richly against the green.
satoru danced beautifully, effortlessly, and infuriatingly so. as he did most things.
you let him guide you to the music. his body did all the work while you followed his movements with each spin, as your arms now encircled around his neck.
“you were always terrible at this,” he murmured.
you conjure another faint memory of your old cramped apartment after a mission that left all of you downtrodden in spirit. shoko was half asleep on the couch. suguru laughing into his drink. nanami had left right after the mission was over.
dancing that night was his idea of evading the sadness that had started to fill up the room. he had started with shoko, flailing her around the room before she grew tired, and then geto, followed by you.
you, who had scarcely danced before. satoru grabbed onto your wrist and spun you around recklessly through the quaint living room while jazz crackled from the old speaker you've now sold on ebay. you stepped on his feet over and over while he merely grinned back in response.
"must you be mean to me on my wedding night," you chided.
“no.” his mouth brushed near your temple when he spoke. “i’m just wondering how the first dance went.”
"you should've showed up on time then."
“showing up unannounced to your wedding,” he mused, “would be too much even for me.”
"you're here now."
“yes.” his hands settled at your waist, warm even through the silk. “if i’d come earlier, you might’ve left him for me.”
"ha." your laugh came too quickly. “never.”
drawing you closer to him, you rested your cheek against his chest. gojo's hands slid down over slowly to rest against the slope of your waist now.
"you cut your hair." his voice reverberating through his chest as he spoke.
“about a year ago,” you hummed.
"it suits you." he said. "it's nice."
his hand stays warm against your waist as the two of you sway slowly beneath the terrace lights. somewhere inside, someone whistles loudly enough to be heard through the open doors. laughter ensues.
“you know,” he said eventually, “when suguru told me you were getting married, i thought he was joking.”
“everyone seems deeply shocked i’m capable of commitment.”
“no.” he paused. “i just never pictured you with someone else.”
you swallowed slowly. “you told me once you’d never get married.”
you remembered the scene too vividly.
rain against enormous hotel windows.
“i remember,” he replied.
white sheets tangled around your bare limbs, he lay beside you in some expensive hotel bed.
i’m never getting married.
at twenty-three, you had felt this had little to do with you, and everything to do with the future woman that fell for him. and so, you had laughed on his warm chest and fell asleep moments later.
by twenty-seven, you realised he meant it.
“you really meant it," you said.
“i did.”
“and now?”
you were not certain what you wanted to hear. you were not certain what answer would wound you least. whether you wanted him to say yes, he would marry you now, or no, never you, never anyone.
if anything had changed. if nothing had.
but satoru only looked at you with that a sense of clarity and honesty he reserved for when things were ending and real. “i was never going to get married.”
your fingers curled slightly against the back of his neck.
the song neared its end. you could feel its death approaching in the languid sway of his body.
"hey," you said, stepping back, finally detaching from him for what you could only hope was the last time.
he hummed in response, expectantly.
“i’ll send you an invitation to the baby shower.”
"how kind of you," he said with a smile. "i'll see you then."
“and for god’s sake,” you added weakly, your throat closing in now. “you’re rich. you better show up with a better gift.”
his smile widened then, bright, something akin to the boy you used to know.
Hiiiiiii, ok well, I don't have any requests today but yea, you have been preety inactive lately so just checking up on you. Are you ok? How is everything?
Hey, thank you for checking up on me. I think I'm fine. I'm just at the point in my life where I need to put my full focus into my education so that I can secure my future, so I don't really get time to think and write new stories. Even when I try, I end up running out of words even before I finish. I think I'll try writing again from next year onwards. Thank you for being here throughout this journey 💕
I hope everything is going well in your life too :))
Summary: The Number One hero forgets his Number One's birthday and has to face the consequences.
Midoriya Izuku x fem!reader
Words: 2.5k
You woke up with an excited mood, cause it wasn’t an ordinary day. It was your birthday! You were so excited! You don’t really like big celebrations but your birthday is really special to you. You always celebrate it with your parents in your hometown in Shibuya but this time, you had a different day planned for you and Izuku. You had taken a day off work, being the number 3 hero, it wasn’t easy but they let you go since it was your birthday. You had reminded Izuku to take off work too, but it seems that he forgot. You woke up to a note on your bedside table, “Sorry hun, I know you told me to take a day off but i can’t. I promise I’ll make it up to you puppy. Have a good day! I love you <3” You mouth sets into a deep frown after reading the note, he didn’t even wish you a happy birthday.
You turn on your phone when you notice it has been flooded with messages. You smile when you see that all your friends have wished you a happy birthday. After you get off the phone with your best friends Ochako and Momo, you head over to the kitchen to make yourself some breakfast. As you start preparing your breakfast, you turn on the news. “Pro hero Deku saves Japan again! With his smashes and-“ You change the channel as your eyes well up with tears. He forgot about you, again. This had become a routine. You guys plan dates, he blows you off for work, tries to make up with another date but fails to show up at that too. But today was different, it was your birthday goddamnit!
But you made up your mind that you were not gonna let his absence ruin your day. You went to your favourite bakery and bought a customised (favourite flavour) cake, with a picture of your and izuku’s first date. Then you decided to pay Inko a visit. She was delighted to see you! She baked your favourite cookies as an apology for not getting anything for your birthday as she was not expecting your visit. You ate the delicious cookies and chatted with her. After a scrumptious lunch prepared by mama Inko, she decided to ask you about your relationship with Izuku. As you both were washing the dishes, she asked, “Has my Izu been treating you well? I’ll let you know that he loves you more than anything, even more than being a hero.” Your mouth sets into a frown as you answer her question. “Well, he is the best boyfriend but I don’t really think he loves me more than being a hero. He’s been blowing me off more and more lately I know being the new symbol of peace has made him really busy but he could at least make out a little bit of time for me. He could’ve atleast wished me a happy birthday….” You trail off as your eyes begin to well up with tears again. Inko feels heartbroken and pulls you into her chest as sobs rake your body. After an hour of consolidation from Mama Inko, you head home as the sun has started to set. You bid inko farewell as you walk out her door and towards the confines of your empty home.
Just as you are about to enter through the door of your house, your phone rings. You Press ‘Accept’ when you see ‘Izu ❤️’ on the screen. “Hello?” “Hey puppy! Im sorry for bailing on you today. I’m getting off work early today and I was wondering if you wanted to go out with me?” Your eyes lighted up and a smile made its way onto your face when you replied, “Really?! You sure you won’t bail again?” “Of course not” “Promise me please?” “I promise Puppy! Now get ready. I’ll meet you at (favourite restaurant) at 7pm.” “Okiee! I love you Izu!” He chuckles while filling out paperwork, “I love you too Puppy” You squeal in excitement, you ere sure that he hasn’t forgotten your birthday and is planning a surprise for you. You looked at the clock and saw that it read 4:30pm.
You had plenty of time. After replying to a couple of birthday wishes, you ran ourself a nice bath with baths bombs and scented candles. After getting out of the bath, you started getting dolled up. You did your makeup and wore that beautiful green dress that izuku had bought you last Sunday. It hugged your body at all the right places. By the time you were done, you looked drop dead gorgeous. (Not that you already aren’t. All you readers are beautiful no matter your body size and shape. I love y’all <3. Anyways-) By the time you were done it was already 6:30pm. You hurriedly grabbed a purse and wore your heels. You drove to the restaurant and sighed in relief when you realised you were there right on time. You made your way into the restaurant, as all eyes started following you, the receptionist was flustered when he saw you but managed to composed him as he led you to a table. You smiled politely and thanked him.
You waited happily, excited to meet him. Seconds turned into minutes and minutes turned into hours. The restaurant was kind enough to offer you a birthday cake as all the customers and employees wished you (They knew it was your birthday cause you’re the number 3 hero). Your phone ringed at 9:30pm. It was Izuku. You picked up the call and before you could say anything Izuku started pouring apologies but you already knew what was about to happen, “I’m so so sorry Puppy. I won’t be able to make it. There was a big villain in Mustafu and they said I was the only one who could-“ “It's ok. I understand. See you at home.” “Thanks a lot honey. I love you-“ Izuku was left dumbfounded when you cut off the call. He sighed and continued his paperwork, not realising what the weight of is words were.
When Izuku told you he couldn’t make it, again, you broke down into sobs then and there. You exited the restaurant after mumbling a small ‘thank you’ to the waiter who nodded and places a 2000 yen on the table even though you didn’t order anything. The paparazzi flooded the exit as they caught shots of you exiting the restaurant as a mess. You made your way home and kicked off your heels in the middle of the living room, throwing your purse on the couch as you made a beeline for the bedroom. Putting on one of Izuku’s hoodies, you fell on the bed, sobbing like you have never before. After an hour, you finally fell asleep.
When the top heroes were finishing filling out the last of their paperwork about the latest villain at about 11:45pm , Bakugo started a conversation. “Deku. Didn’t you plan out something for Teddy Bear? You’ve been here the whole day. Don’t fucking tell me you forgot!” “Forgot what Kacchan?” Asked Izuku innocently. “Teddy bear’s birthday of course” When Izuku abruptly shot out of his seat, it confirmed all of their suspicions. “Ah shit- He’s dead-” Kirishima was saying when Todoroki pointed out the news on the screen in front of them. Midoriya felt like killing himself when he saw the news. “Pro hero (H/N) spotted exiting (F/R), wait is she crying?! What?! What happened that made our beloved hero cry on her birthday. To find out more keep watching-“ They were all interrupted when Midoriya finished packing up and said, “I don’t fucking care about this stupid fucking paperwork! Im going home to my girlfriend! Fucking bitchass villains!” The heroes were surprised at the number of profanities coming out of his mouth but didn’t have time to comprehend when he was already out the door. Bakugo chuckled as he continued his paperwork, “This ought to be good. He’s royally fucked.”
By the time Izuku reached your doorstep, It was already 12:10am. He had missed your birthday. Izuku’s heart broke when he entered the house and saw the mess. Broken vases, broken frames, plates scattered all over the floor and some blood on the counter. A packed birthday cake lay on the counter, a piece of it wistfully eaten by you. The final straw was when he saw you curled up on your bed, dried blood on your knuckles, and tear streaks on your face. His sobs were what woke you up from your slumber. “Izuku? Wha-“ You were interrupted when he engulfed you in a bone crushing hug. “I’m sorry Puppy-“ “Cut it out Deku. Im tired of your bullshit.” “Baby I swear. I took a day off work tomorrow. We’ll celebrate your birthday tomorrow, I’ll take you anywhere you wanna go-“ “I have work tomorrow. Besides it’ll not be my birthday tomorrow.” “Baby I’m so sorry- Please don’t be this way- I love y-“ “No you don’t” The sharpnesss of your voice sucked all the air out of his lungs. “If you would’ve, you would’ve not blown off every plan that we made the last few months, would’ve not forgotten my fucking birthday Midoriya!” He froze as the reality of his past actions finally dawned on him. Izuku breathed a sigh of relief only when you said, “It’s fine. I’ll suck it up. Now go to sleep.” He hugged you from behind as he fell into a deep slumber. At least you weren’t mad at him anymore, or so he thought.
The next morning, Izuku woke up, with a new sense of determination in his mind. He was going to make things right today! He had taken a day off and wanted to take you out for a picnic. But his hope crumbled when he woke up to an empty bed, there was a note on his pillow, “I’ve got work. I’ll be home late. Breakfast is in the fridge.” He then realised that this was what you must’ve felt like everytime he bailed on you. He decided that he was going to make you (f/d) for lunch and would take it to your office himself. That would give him a chance to see you too. So like a good boyfriend, he cleaned up the house and prepared your lunch.
On his way to your agency, he signed a couple of autographs for his fans and clicked a few pictures with them too. His smile seemed brighter than the other days since he was going to see you today. Stepping inside your agency, Izuku approached your receptionist with a bento box in hand and said, ‘Hi! I’m here to give Y/N her lunch.” “Sorry sir but she’s not here. Dynamight had dropped by earlier and took her out for lunch.” To say he was shocked was an understatement. Since when did Bakugo become so caring? Right on cue, you appeared running inside the agency feigning fear, a massive smile evident on your face. You turned back to look at Katsuki when you bumped into your boyfriend. Your smile dropped when you saw him but you quickly put on a tight lipped smile when you greeted him. The transition of the smile on your face broke Izuku’s heart but he didn’t have time to comprehend when you were picked up bridal style by someone when he announced cockily, “I win again, Teddy Bear~”
Everyone was shocked to hear the malice in their beloved hero Deku’s voice when he said, “Get your filthy hands off my girlfriend, Kacchan.” “What’s your deal Deku? Why play Prince Charming now when you weren’t even able to remember her-“ “Thats enough ’Suki.” You get down from his arms, and peck his cheek lightly, “Thank you for the lunch ’Suki. You should head out now. Got work to do, don’t you?” Katsuki read the room and without any retaliation, left your agency. You turned around and walked past your boyfriend towards the elevator, “C’mon Midoriya. Let’s discuss whatever case you’ve brought now.”
The ride in the elevator was awkward, Izuku trying to make small talk and you with your short replies. Izuku noticed that you look unusually tired today. He finally asked, “Are you okay? You look tired. Did you get enough sleep yesterday? And why did you think that I brought a case-“ He was interrupted when cut him off, “Calm down Izuku. I’m alright, why do you suddenly care about me? And I have a headache since I fell asleep after crying for an hour straight. And I said that cause you never visit my agency, except when you have something really important cause you always go to Shoto or Ochako first.” The last parts of your sentence came out as a soft mumble as Izuku held your hands in his. Izuku’s eyes widened when you said, “Am I not good enough Izu? Do you love your hero work more than m-me? Do I just get in your w-way? Do you even remember when you last k-kissed me? When we last went on a date? I can’t do this anymore Izuku……If you want to get rid of me then just tell- mmph” Your sentence was cut short when Izuku pulled you in by your waist and kissed you more tenderly than he had ever before. So many feelings were conveyed through that kiss. Love, Affection and most prominently, Fear.
He fell on his knees before you as he wept into your abdomen. You stroked his hair tenderly as tears fell from your eyes. “Please d-don’t leave me. You’re my everything. I don’t know what I’ll do without you. Im sorry I didn’t realise earlier that you were hurting so much. You are more than enough Puppy. I’m sorry I made you feel like you weren’t. I’ll even leave hero work if you tell me to. Just please don’t leave me…..” “Izu, baby, I love you. Just this time promise me you’ll be better. And you better not break your promise this time.” He starts peppering kisses all over your face as he says, “I promise. And if I break it, then you can have my head.”
Bonus: You both were oblivious to the fact that the elevator doors were open and you had gathered quite an audience. When you both shared a last kiss, you turned your head towards the crowd when you herd a bunch of ‘Aww’s and ’They’re so cute’. You blushed and hid your head into Izuku’s chest. He chuckled fondly at your cuteness and lightly kissed your forehead, eliciting another wave of ‘Aww’s from your staff, leaving him flustered too.
you’ve been in love with your best friend gojo satoru ever since you were eighteen. spending your years watching him bloom in various relationships was not the way you imagined your life would go.
one day, you meet geto suguru, who makes you want to forget about your feelings for satoru. will you be able to do that? let go of your feelings and live your life?
contents. gojo x fem reader x geto! • my favourite trope — unrequited requited love • friends to lovers • gojo dating other people like a girl named yuki who is not canon yuki • a lot of angst and feelings like A LOT • eventual smut • change of povs • gojo and geto being down bad for reader • BUT GOJO IS ENDGAME • so more angst • hurt/comfort • fluff • ~20k words um yeah
YOU met satoru gojo at the university entrance exams, which feels, in retrospect, like the kind of meet-cute you’d roll your eyes at if it happened to anyone else. but it happened to you, so instead of rolling your eyes, you’ve spent the last four years cataloguing it like a sacred text.
you were both seventeen, freshly out of high school, standing in a crowded hallway that smelled of anxiety and floor wax. you’d found a spot against the wall, trying to make yourself small, because that was your strategy for most things back then— take up less space, don’t draw attention, survive. you were not a social butterfly. you were the opposite of that! you were, if anything, a socially anxious caterpillar who had resigned itself to a lifetime of hiding in the metaphorical dirt.
and then there was satoru.
you noticed him before he noticed you, because everyone noticed him. he was tall even then, all limbs and restless energy, with white hair that caught the fluorescent light. he was laughing at something a friend had said, head thrown back, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, and he looked so utterly at ease that you felt a small, familiar pang of something that might have been envy or might have been longing or might have just been the general ache of being a person who had never once felt that comfortable in their own skin.
you looked away since staring was rude, and also because looking at him felt a bit like looking at the sun.
you didn’t expect him to talk to you! you certainly didn’t expect him to weave through the crowd and come to a stop directly in front of you, tilting his head like you were a puzzle he was trying to solve.
“hey,” he said. “you look like you’re about to bolt.”
you blinked at him. “i’m not going to bolt.”
“good,” he said, and then he grinned, and it was the kind of grin that made you understand, instantly and completely, why people in myths were always getting into trouble because some beautiful god smiled at them. “because i don’t know anyone here and you look like you don’t either, so i’ve decided we’re friends now.”
you opened your mouth to say something— probably something articulate and witty, something that would prove you were worth befriending— but what came out was, “that’s not really how friendships work.”
“sure it is,” he said, and then he leaned against the wall next to you like he’d always been there, like you’d saved him a spot. “i’m satoru. tell me something interesting about yourself.”
“i’m not interesting,” you said, because you believed it.
he looked at you for a long moment, those ridiculous blue eyes— you’d seen them properly when he’d pushed his sunglasses up, and they were the kind of blue that made you think of shallow tropical water, bright and startling and almost too much— and then he said, very seriously, “that’s the most interesting thing anyone’s said to me all day.”
you didn’t know what to do with that. you still don’t, honestly.
but you told him your name, and he repeated it back like he was testing the weight of it on his tongue, and he nodded once, decisively, and said, “see? we’re friends.”
and that was it. that was the beginning.
the exams themselves were a blur of anxiety and cramped hands and the quiet terror of your entire future hinging on a few hours of multiple-choice questions. but between sections, satoru found you. every time. you’d emerge from the exam hall, dazed and already convinced you’d failed, and there he’d be, leaning against a railing or sitting on a bench, long legs stretched out, waving like you were old friends reuniting after years apart instead of two people who’d met that morning.
“how’d it go?” he’d ask, and when you’d mumble something noncommittal, he’d launch into a dramatic retelling of his own experience, complete with exaggerated hand gestures and sound effects, and by the end of it you’d be laughing so hard you’d forget, for a moment, that you were supposed to be terrified.
you both got in, of course you both got in. you’d worked yourself to the bone for it, spent countless nights hunched over textbooks with cold coffee growing stale at your elbow. satoru, you later learned, had barely studied. he was just like that. things came easy to him— the exam, the university, the effortless way he moved through the world like it had been designed with him in mind.
you should have resented him for it. sometimes you did, a little, in the quiet moments when you were up late finishing an assignment and you knew he’d finished his in half the time and was probably out with friends, laughing at something, existing in that bright, uncomplicated way of his.
but the resentment never lasted, because the thing about satoru was that he never made you feel lesser. he never acted like his ease was a mark of superiority. if anything, he seemed genuinely baffled when you struggled with things that came naturally to him, like it had never occurred to him that the world might be harder for other people.
and when you did struggle— when you stayed up too late and drank too much coffee and ended up crying in the library bathroom at 2 a.m. because you couldn’t make the words on the page make sense— he always showed up. you never had to ask. he’d text you at midnight with a picture of some ridiculous snack from the convenience store and a message that said “study break, meet me outside, don’t argue,” and you’d go, and you’d sit on the steps of the library eating stale onigiri while he talked about nothing and everything, and by the time you went back inside, the words would still be hard but the weight of them would feel lighter.
that was satoru. he made things lighter. that was his gift, the one he gave freely to everyone around him, and you were just lucky enough to be the one he gave it to most often.
the friendship solidified in those first few months, fast and fierce and seemingly unshakable. you shared a dorm building your first year, then an apartment your second, because it just made sense— you were already together all the time anyway, and satoru had looked at you with those too-blue eyes and said “we should live together” like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and you’d said yes before you could talk yourself out of it.
and living with satoru was… an education.
you learned that he was messy in a chaotic, endearing way— clothes draped over chairs, empty snack wrappers that he swore he’d throw away “in a minute,” a general refusal to do dishes until the pile in the sink reached a height that could reasonably be called architectural. you learned that he sang in the shower, intentionally badly and loudly, usually whatever pop song was currently stuck in his head, and that he would inevitably emerge with his hair dripping water everywhere and demand that you tell him if he sounded good (he didn’t, but you always said he did).
you learned that he had nightmares sometimes, that he would wake up in the dark and knock on your door with a sheepish expression, and you’d let him in without a word and he’d curl up on the end of your bed like an overgrown cat and fall back asleep to the sound of your breathing.
you learned that he was softer than he let on. that the arrogance, the brash confidence, the way he flirted with everyone and everything— it was all a layer, a performance, a suit of armor he’d put on so long ago he’d forgotten how to take it off. but with you, sometimes, the armor slipped. with you, he was just satoru, the boy who couldn’t cook to save his life and cried at sad movies and had a laugh that made your chest ache in a way you refused to examine too closely.
and you learned, too, that you were falling in love with him.
there was no lightning strike, no moment of cinematic clarity. it was slow, insidious, the way water wears down stone. it was the way he’d throw an arm around your shoulders when you walked to class, his hand warm and heavy and casual. it was the way he’d save you the last piece of whatever he was eating, even when you’d said you didn’t want any. it was the way he said your name, the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention and you’d catch him and he’d call you a dumbass.
it was the night you turned eighteen, two months into your first semester, when he’d bought a cheap cake from the grocery store and you’d eaten it on the roof of your dorm building, and he’d looked at you with frosting on his lip and said “i’m glad it’s you” like it was the simplest truth in the world, and your heart had made a decision without consulting you.
oh, you thought. oh, no.
and then you’d laughed and shoved him and said “glad it’s me what?” and he’d grinned and said “glad it’s you i’m eating cake with on a roof, obviously, what else would i mean,” and the moment passed, and you let it pass, because what else were you supposed to do?
however, another the thing about falling in love with satoru gojo was that it was also, inevitably, watching him fall in and out of love with other people.
he bloomed in relationships the way he bloomed in everything— effortlessly, brilliantly, with a kind of careless abundance that made you wonder if he even realized how much light he was giving off.
his first serious girlfriend came at the end of freshman year, a girl from the art department with dark hair and a laugh like wind chimes, and you watched him transform from your chaotic, messy best friend into someone who remembered to do the dishes and set alarms and text back within a reasonable timeframe.
you watched him hold her hand in the quad, watched him buy her coffee and carry her books and look at her like she’d hung the moon, and you told yourself that the ache in your chest was just jealousy of the relationship itself, not of her specifically. you told yourself that anyone would be jealous, watching someone they cared about pour all their attention into someone else. you told yourself it was normal to feel this way.
you believed it, mostly.
the breakup came three months later, sudden and inexplicable, at least from the outside. satoru showed up at your apartment at midnight with red-rimmed eyes and a bottle of something cheap and strong, and you let him in and sat on the bathroom floor with him while he cried and you held his hand and didn’t ask what happened.
“i don’t know why i do it,” he said, eventually, voice hoarse. “i don’t know why i can’t just— stay.”
you didn’t have an answer for him. you weren’t sure he wanted one. so you just sat there, the cold tile seeping through your jeans, and let him lean his weight against your shoulder, and thought about how unfair it was that he could break someone’s heart and still be the one you wanted to hold.
the pattern repeated. sophomore year, there was a boy from the literature department, sharp-witted and sarcastic, who made satoru laugh in a way you’d never heard before. junior year, a girl from the business school, ambitious and polished, who matched him stride for stride. there were others, shorter ones, ones that barely lasted a month before satoru got restless, got distracted, got that faraway look in his eyes that you’d learned to recognize as the beginning of the end.
through all of it, you were there, you were always there. you were the constant, the steady ground beneath the pendulum of his affections, and you’d trained yourself to be grateful for that. you were his best friend. you were the one he came home to, the one he called at 2 a.m., the one who knew about the nightmares and the bad days and the moments when the armor felt too heavy to wear. it was enough. you made it enough.
by the time senior year rolled around, you’d gotten very good at being enough. you’d gotten very good at swallowing down the parts of yourself that wanted more, at folding your feelings into neat, manageable shapes and tucking them away where they couldn’t cause trouble. you’d gotten very good at watching satoru fall into something that looked like love and climb back out of it, dusting himself off, leaving behind a trail of bewildered, heartbroken people who had all made the same mistake: thinking they could be the one who finally made him stay.
you envied them as much as you pitied them. you envied them because they’d had something you couldn’t even let yourself want, something real and tangible and reciprocated, even if only for a little while. you pitied them because you knew what it felt like to love satoru and not be loved back in the way you needed, and you wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
you were twenty-one now, in the last year of university, and you’d been in love with your best friend for three years, two months, and fourteen days. you knew the exact number because you’d stopped counting somewhere around the two-year mark and then, in a moment of weakness, counted backwards from there. you were a little pathetic about it. you’d made peace with that.
so when you walked into your advanced sociology seminar on a gray tuesday afternoon and saw a boy you’d never seen before sitting in the seat you usually took, you didn’t think much of it. you just said “oh, sorry, that’s my usual spot,” and he looked up, and you stopped.
he was pretty. that was your first thought, immediate and involuntary. not pretty in the way satoru was pretty— all sharp angles and blinding light and the kind of beauty that demanded attention. this was a different kind of pretty, more gentle. dark hair pulled back from his face, dark eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled, a calm, steady presence that felt, somehow, like being in the shade after a long time in the sun.
“my apologies,” he said. his voice was low and warm. “i didn’t realize the seats were claimed.”
“you’re not in trouble,” you said, because you realized you’d been staring and that was probably weird. “i can sit somewhere else.”
“don’t,” he said, and then he moved, sliding his bag off the chair next to him. “sit here. keep me company. i don’t know anyone in this class.”
you hesitated for half a second— just long enough for the memory of another boy in another hallway to flicker through your mind— and then you sat.
“i’m suguru,” he said, extending a hand. “geto suguru.”
you gave him your name, and his smile widened just slightly, like he was pleased with it. “nice to meet you,” he said. “tell me something interesting about yourself.”
you laughed, because it was almost word-for-word what satoru had said to you four years ago, and because it was such a ridiculous coincidence that it felt like the universe was playing a joke on you.
“what’s funny?” suguru asked, and there was no offense in his voice, just curiosity.
“nothing,” you said. “just— someone else asked me that once. the first time we met.”
“ah,” he said, with something in his expression that you couldn’t quite read. “and what did you tell them?”
“that i wasn’t interesting,” you said, and then, because you’d been doing a lot of work on being less self-deprecating in your final year, you added, “which isn’t true. i just didn’t know it yet.”
suguru looked at you for a moment, those dark eyes steady and thoughtful, and said, “i suspect you’re more interesting than you give yourself credit for.”
you didn’t know what to do with that. it was such a simple thing to say, such a small kindness, but it landed somewhere soft and unprotected in your chest, and you felt something shift.
you weren’t sure what it was, you weren’t sure you wanted to know, so you just smiled, and pulled out your notebook, and tried very hard to ignore the glances he kept throwing you, thinking he was discreet.
that night, you came home to find satoru sprawled across the couch, scrolling through his phone, one foot hanging off the edge. he looked up when you walked in, and his face did that thing it always did when he saw you— brightened, softened.
“you’re late,” he said. “i was getting lonely. i almost had to entertain myself.”
“the horror,” you said, dropping your bag by the door. “how did you survive?”
he grinned that easy grin of his, and sat up to make room for you. “barely. tell me about your day. anything interesting happen?”
you thought about suguru. the warmth of his voice, the way he’d said your name, the small, unexpected sweetness of him telling you that you were interesting. about his gorgeous hair and his gorgeous eyes and his open smile. about whispered answers to his curious questions about the class ans quiet snickers.
“no,” you said, because it was easier than explaining something you didn’t fully understand yourself. “same old.”
satoru hummed, accepting this without question, and you sat down next to him and let him pull you into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world, and you tried to ignore the way your heart was beating against your ribs, the way it always did when he was this close.
you were his best friend. you were the one he came home to.
it was enough. it had to be enough.
but something had shifted today, something small and maybe insignificant, and you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that you were standing at the edge of something. something that might change everything.
you didn’t know it yet, but satoru was about to feel the shift too. he just didn’t know it yet, either.
.
.
.
the thing about advanced sociology was that you’d signed up for it because you needed the credit, not because you had any particular passion for sociological theory. you’d expected to spend your tuesdays and thursdays sitting in the back of the lecture hall, taking notes you’d never look at again, counting down the minutes until you could leave. just like always. that was the plan.
and then suguru sat down next to you, and the plan went quietly out the window.
a murmured observation about the professor’s lecture style, a shared eyeroll when someone in the front row asked a question that had already been answered twice. little things, the kind of things you’d do with any classmate you happened to sit next to. but then he started saving you a seat, and you started arriving a few minutes early so you could talk before the lecture started, and somewhere along the way, without you quite noticing it, advanced sociology became the class you looked forward to all week.
suguru was easy to talk to. that was the first thing you noticed, the thing that kept surprising you every time it happened. conversation with him wasn’t work. you didn’t have to perform, didn’t have to be clever or super interesting or anything other than yourself. he asked questions and actually listened to the answers. he remembered things you’d told him— small things, things you’d even forgotten you’d said— and brought them up later, casually, like it was normal to pay that much attention to another person.
“how did your presentation go?” he asked one thursday, sliding into the seat next to you. “the one you were stressed about.”
you blinked at him. you’d mentioned that presentation exactly once, in passing, a week and a half ago. “it went fine. how did you remember that?”
he shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “you seemed nervous about it. i was curious.” and that was it, just a quiet, consistent attention that made you feel, for the first time in a long time, like someone was actually seeing you.
you found yourself telling him things; not the things you’d tucked away in the deepest parts of yourself, but the small, everyday things that made up the shape of your life. your favorite coffee order. the way you organized your notes by color. the fact that you’d once cried over a commercial about a dog and hadn’t lived it down since. he listened to all of it with the same patient, attentive expression, like each detail was something precious you’d chosen to share with him.
“you’re very easy to talk to,” you told him one afternoon, the words slipping out before you could stop them. you’d been walking out of class together, the late autumn sunlight slanting through the windows, and something about the way it caught in his hair had made you lose your filter.
he looked at you, and his expression did something soft and complicated. “so are you,” he said. “easier than most people.”
you were not, historically, easy to talk to. you were the person who stood at the edge of parties, who let satoru do all the social heavy lifting, who had spent most of her teenage years convinced that conversation was a skill she’d simply never been taught. but with suguru, it was different. with suguru, the words came easily, naturally, like they’d been there all along, waiting for someone to draw them out.
he was a mystery to you, that was the other thing. for all his openness, for all the way he seemed to lay himself bare in conversation, there was something about suguru that you couldn’t quite pin down. he talked about his childhood in vague terms, his family a blur of affectionate distance. he mentioned friends from high school but never named them. he was present, fully and completely, in every conversation you had, but there was a stillness to him, a sense that there were depths you hadn’t yet touched.
you wanted to touch them. that was the realization that crept up on you slowly, over weeks of shared lectures and coffee afterwards and once, memorably, a two-hour conversation in the library that had started with a question about marxist theory and somehow ended with both of you laughing so hard a librarian had shushed you.
you wanted to know him, all of him. the parts he kept tucked away, the parts he didn’t show to people he’d only known for a few weeks. you wanted to be someone he showed those parts to.
and the way he looked at you— god, the way he looked at you, like you were something fascinating and like he was cataloguing you, memorizing you, storing away every detail for later. it was the kind of attention that should have been overwhelming, that would have been overwhelming from anyone else, but from suguru it just felt… warm and steady, like being wrapped in a blanket on a cold day.
you found yourself preening under it. you couldn’t help it; you’d catch yourself sitting up a little straighter when he walked into the room, speaking a little more carefully, trying to be the version of yourself that seemed to make him smile. and then you’d notice what you were doing and feel a flush of embarrassment, because you were not the kind of person who needed validation, who bloomed under attention, who—
who was currently trying very hard not to admit that she was developing a crush on a boy she’d known for less than a month.
it felt pathetic, honestly. you were twenty-one years old. you’d spent the last three years quietly, steadfastly in love with your best friend, and now here you were, getting butterflies over a guy who’d said you were easy to talk to. it wasn’t even anything big, it was the bare minimum. it was nothing. it was… well.
it wasn’t nothing. you knew it wasn’t nothing. because suguru wasn’t just a guy. he was thoughtful in a way that felt intentional, present in a way that felt rare. he didn’t look at you like you were something to be conquered or figured out or fit neatly into a box. he looked at you like he was genuinely, simply, glad to be in your presence.
so when you caught yourself thinking, on the walk home from class one evening, that you might actually like suguru— like like him, the way you’d liked satoru in the beginning, before it had calcified into something deeper and more painful— you didn’t immediately shut it down. you let it sit there, in the quiet space of your mind, and you examined it.
you liked suguru. you liked the way he laughed, low and warm, like he was letting you in on a secret. you liked the way he tilted his head when he was thinking, the way his hair fell across his face. you liked the way he remembered things you’d told him, the way he asked questions that made you feel like your answers mattered. you liked the way he looked at you, like you were interesting, like you were worth paying attention to.
you liked him. it was a small, tentative thing, still fragile, still new. nothing like the consuming, years-long ache you carried for satoru. but it was there, and it was real, and for the first time in a very long time, you let yourself have it.
you told satoru about him on a friday night, the two of you sprawled across your apartment’s worn couch with takeout containers balanced on your knees. it was your usual routine— friday nights were yours, had been since freshman year, a sacred block of time that neither of you scheduled over with other plans. you watched bad movies and ate food that was bad for you and talked about nothing until the early hours of the morning.
it was the perfect time to mention suguru. casual, offhand, nothing that would make it into a bigger deal than it was.
“there’s this guy in my sociology class,” you said, poking at your noodles with your chopsticks. “geto suguru. he’s… nice.”
satoru’s attention sharpened. you saw it happen in real time— the way his posture shifted, the way his gaze flicked to your face and stayed there.
“nice,” he repeated, like he was testing the word. “what kind of nice?”
“just nice,” you said, shrugging. “he’s easy to talk to. we’ve been sitting together in class.”
“sitting together,” satoru said. he’d put his food down. his phone was face-down on the couch cushion next to him. his entire focus was on you in that particular way he had, the one that made you feel like you were the only person in the room. “like, as friends? or…”
“as friends,” you said, and then, because you weren’t sure if that was entirely true anymore, you added, “i don’t know. i’m not sure yet.”
there was a beat of silence. it was a strange silence, not the comfortable kind you were used to, but something taut and humming underneath.
“huh,” satoru said. his voice was light, but there was something in his expression you couldn’t quite read. “suguru. that’s a weird name.”
“it’s not weird,” you said, a little defensive. “it’s just not common.”
“sure,” he said, and then he grinned, and the strange tension in the room seemed to break. “so you’re telling me you’ve got a secret boyfriend you’ve been hiding from me? i’m wounded. truly. i thought we told each other everything.”
“he’s not my boyfriend,” you said, laughing despite yourself. “i just met him. we’ve only talked in class.”
“uh huh,” satoru said. he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, chin in his hands, like you were about to tell him the most interesting story he’d ever heard. “tell me everything. what does he look like? is he tall? is he funny? is he smarter than me? he’s not smarter than me, right? that’s not allowed.”
you rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. “he’s… tall. about your height, i guess? dark hair, purplish eyes. he’s very— calm.”
“calm,” satoru repeated. “so he’s boring.”
“he’s not boring,” you said. and you must have said it with more force than you intended, because satoru’s eyebrows rose. “he’s just… different.”
“different how?”
“i don’t know,” you said, frustrated now. “he listens. he remembers things. he makes me feel like—” you stopped, because you’d been about to say like i matter, and that felt too honest, too raw, too much to say out loud to the person you’d been quietly in love with for years.
satoru was looking at you. his expression was strange— something flickering behind his eyes that you’d never seen before. if you didn’t know better, you’d almost call it jealousy.
“makes you feel like what?” he asked, his voice quieter, less teasing.
“like i’m interesting,” you finished. it was the truth, just not the whole truth. “like what i say matters.”
satoru was quiet for a long moment. he leaned back against the couch, a movement that seemed deliberate, careful, like he was putting distance between you without actually moving.
“well,” he said, his voice was back to its usual brightness, but there was something forced about it now. “good for you. about time someone else recognized how great you are.”
you laughed. that was what you did when things felt strange— you laughed, you deflected, you let the moment pass. “someone else? you barely recognize how great i am.”
“i recognize it constantly!” he said. he was grinning again, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “i’m your biggest fan. i’ve got the t-shirt and everything.”
“you do not have a t-shirt.”
“i’ll make one,” he said. “‘world’s best best friend’s biggest fan.’ it’ll be a hit.”
you threw a napkin at him and he caught it out of the air with that stupid reflexes he had, and the moment broke. you talked about other things after that— a movie satoru wanted to see, a professor who’d been giving him a hard time, the usual rhythm of your lives— but there was something underneath it all that lingered in the spaces between your words.
you told yourself you were imagining it. you told yourself that satoru was just surprised, that he’d get used to the idea, that it didn’t mean anything. but you couldn’t quite shake the way he’d looked at you. the way his voice had gone quiet. the way, for just a moment, he’d seemed almost… unsettled.
the double date suggestion came a week later, and it caught you so completely off guard that you nearly dropped your coffee.
you’d been telling satoru about your day when he’d interrupted you with the casual air of someone suggesting they order pizza.
“oh, by the way,” he said, scrolling through his phone, “you should bring your sociology guy to that new ramen place with me and yuki this weekend.”
you stared at him. “what?”
“a double date,” he said, like it was obvious. “you and suguru, me and yuki. it’ll be fun.”
yuki. right. you’d almost forgotten about yuki. she was the latest in a line of girls satoru had been seeing— you’d met her briefly, once, at a party. tall, confident, the kind of girl who looked like she’d never been unsure of herself in her entire life. she’d been with satoru for about three weeks now, which meant they were probably in the sweet spot where everything was still easy and fun, before the restlessness started to creep in.
“i don’t—” you started, but you didn’t know what you wanted to say. you didn’t know why satoru was suggesting this, why he was being so cheerful about it, why he’d gone from asking pointed questions about suguru to enthusiastically planning group outings.
“come on,” satoru said, he was grinning now, that big, blinding grin that usually meant he was about to get his way. “you’ve been talking about this guy for weeks. i want to meet him. see if he’s good enough for my best friend.”
“i haven’t been talking about him for weeks,” you said, because you hadn’t. you’d mentioned him exactly once. satoru had been the one to bring him up since then, dropping his name into conversations with a kind of forced casualness that you’d been trying not to analyze.
“details,” satoru said, waving a hand. “so? saturday? i’ll text you the time.”
you opened your mouth to say no. you had a hundred reasons to say no— you weren’t even sure if he was interested in you like that, the whole thing felt like it was moving too fast. but then you thought about suguru’s smile, the way he looked at you and the word that came out of your mouth was not no.
“okay,” you said. “i’ll ask him.”
satoru’s grin didn’t waver, but in his eyes was a flicker of something that made your stomach tighten. and then it was gone, and he was talking about the ramen place, about the best thing on the menu, about how yuki had been wanting to try it for weeks, and you let the conversation wash over you, your mind already turning to how you were going to ask suguru without making it weird.
you sent him a text that night, after you’d spent an embarrassingly long time typing and deleting and retyping the message.
you: hey, this is random, but my friend and his girlfriend are going to this ramen place on saturday and he suggested we make it a double date? no pressure if you’re not interested, just thought i’d ask
his reply came less than a minute later.
i’d love to. what time?
you stared at your phone for a long moment, a smile spreading across your face before you could stop it.
you told yourself it was just a casual outing, two friends bringing their respective people, no different from any other social engagement.
but your heart was beating a little faster, and your hands were a little warmer, and when you texted satoru back to confirm, you couldn’t quite ignore the small, hopeful part of you that wondered what it might feel like to have someone look at you the way satoru looked at the girls he dated.
and if you’d been paying closer attention, you might have noticed that satoru took a little too long to reply. you might have noticed that his “great! see you saturday :)” came after a delay that wasn’t like him, that he usually texted back instantly, that he was almost always on his phone.
but you didn’t notice. you were too busy thinking about suguru, about saturday, about the strange, unfamiliar feeling of being looked at and liking it.
so you missed it. you missed the way satoru sat in the dark of your shared apartment for a long time after you’d gone to bed, phone in his hand, face unreadable.
.
.
.
the days leading up to saturday passed in a strange, suspended kind of anticipation. you found yourself thinking about the double date more than you wanted to admit, turning it over in your mind like a smooth stone, examining it from different angles. and somewhere in the process of that examination, you made a quiet, almost subconscious realization: suguru had become a distraction. a welcome one, a needed one, but a distraction nonetheless.
it wasn’t that you’d stopped loving satoru. you didn’t think that was something you could turn off, not after three years of letting it settle into your bones like marrow. but for the first time in a very long time, you weren’t thinking about him constantly. the ache was still there, a low, familiar thrum beneath your ribs, but it had been joined by something else— something lighter, something that didn’t hurt when you held it.
when you were with suguru, you weren’t waiting. that was the thing. with satoru, you were always waiting— waiting for him to notice, waiting for him to want you the way you wanted him, waiting for the moment when the restlessness that drove him from relationship to relationship would finally land on you and stay. you’d been waiting for three years, and you’d gotten very good at it, but you hadn’t realized how exhausting it was until you stopped.
with suguru, there was no waiting. he was just… there. he was present and attentive and when you talked, he listened. when you laughed, he smiled like he’d been waiting to hear it. there was no performance, no guessing games, no wondering if the thing you felt was being reciprocated or if you were just reading too much into casual kindness.
it was so simple and you hadn’t realized how much you needed simple.
so by the time saturday rolled around, you found yourself almost wishing it was just a date with suguru. just the two of you, no audience, no performance. you wanted to see what that would be like— to sit across from him in a quiet restaurant, to talk without the pressure of other people watching, to let yourself lean into the warmth that bloomed in your chest every time he looked at you.
but then you rounded the corner and saw satoru waiting outside the ramen place, and your thoughts scattered like startled birds.
he looked good. he always looked good, but tonight there was something deliberate about it—the way his hair fell, the cut of his jacket, the casual confidence in the way he leaned against the wall. yuki was tucked under his arm, her hand in his, and they made a striking picture, the two of them. tall and beautiful and effortless, the kind of couple that made strangers glance twice as they walked by.
you felt it before you could stop it— the familiar twist of jealousy, sharp and unwelcome, settling in your stomach. it wasn’t the deep, aching kind you’d gotten used to over the years. it was smaller, meaner, a flash of something that felt almost like resentment. because there he was, with another girl, looking at her like she was something special, and you were standing here with your own maybe-something, trying not to let him see that it still stung.
you hated that it still stung. you hated that you’d spent all week thinking about suguru, that you’d almost convinced yourself you were moving on, and one look at satoru with his hand wrapped around someone else’s was enough to undo it.
and then suguru’s hand was at the small of your back, warm and steady, and the jealousy flickered and died.
“you okay?” he asked quietly, close enough that only you could hear.
you nodded, forcing a smile. “yeah. just a bit nervous.”
his hand lingered for a moment longer than necessary, a quiet reassurance. when he let it drop, the warmth of it stayed.
“hey!” satoru called out, spotting you. his face split into that familiar grin, bright and disarming, and he disentangled himself from yuki to walk toward you. “there you are. we were starting to think you’d stood us up.”
“we’re five minutes early,” you said, grateful that your voice came out steady.
“still,” satoru said, and then his gaze slid to suguru, and something shifted in his expression. it was subtle— a tightening around his eyes, a slight curve to his smile that wasn’t quite as warm as it had been a moment before. “so this is the famous geto suguru.”
“gojo satoru,” suguru said, his voice calm, pleasant, with a slight edge. a note of assessment that just appeared. “i’ve heard a lot about you.”
“all good things, i hope,” satoru said, not hiding the challenge in the way he said it, a testing of waters.
“all interesting things,” suguru replied. his smile didn’t waver.
the air between them crackled. you felt it, a sudden tension that hadn’t been there before, and you realized with a small jolt that you were watching two people size each other up. it was subtle, almost imperceptible if you didn’t know what to look for, but you knew satoru. you knew the way he stood when he was establishing dominance, the way his shoulders squared, the way his gaze went just a fraction sharper. and suguru— suguru was meeting him beat for beat, not backing down, not rising to the bait, just standing there with that quiet, unshakeable calm that made you feel like you were in the presence of something immovable.
yuki cleared her throat. “should we go in? i’m starving.”
the tension broke. satoru laughed, easy and bright, and threw an arm around yuki’s shoulders. “right, right. food first. let’s go.”
he led the way inside, yuki at his side, and you fell into step beside suguru. his hand found your back again, just briefly, a quick touch that said i’m here, and you felt something unclench in your chest.
the ramen place was small and warm, the kind of hole-in-the-wall that served the best food and didn’t care about aesthetics. you were seated at a table by the window, a booth that forced you and suguru to sit on one side and satoru and yuki on the other. the proximity was good, you told yourself. it meant you could focus on suguru, on the menu, on anything other than the way satoru’s knee was pressed against yuki’s under the table.
the first few minutes were easy. everyone ordered, made small talk about the menu, debated the merits of tonkotsu versus shoyu. yuki asked suguru about his major— he was studying literature, which, when you found out, surprised you and also didn’t. he had the vibes of someone who spent a lot of time with books, the kind of person who read slowly and remembered everything.
“literature,” satoru said, and there was something in his voice that made you look up. “so you’re one of those people who thinks they can see into the human condition by reading about it.”
suguru’s eyebrows rose slightly. “i think literature is one way of understanding people, yes. do you disagree?”
“i think understanding people is about being with them,” satoru said. “not reading about them. you can’t learn how to be in a relationship from a book.”
“that’s not really what literature is for,” suguru said, his voice still calm, but you could hear the undercurrent now. “it’s not a manual. it’s a mirror.”
“a mirror,” satoru repeated. he smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “that’s very poetic.”
“is that a bad thing?”
you glanced at yuki. she was watching the exchange with an expression that looked a lot like the one you were trying to hide— a kind of bemused discomfort, the look of someone who’d stumbled into a conversation they hadn’t signed up for.
“so,” you said, too brightly, “yuki, how did you and satoru meet?”
it was a clumsy deflection, but it worked. you actually knew the story yuki launched into— a party, a mutual friend, the usual— but at least the tension at the table eased. satoru played along, adding details, making her laugh, being the charming, easy version of himself that everyone loved. but you caught him glancing at suguru when he thought no one was looking, and you caught suguru doing the same, and the tension was just there, simmering.
the ramen came, and for a while, conversation was suspended in favor of food. yours was good— rich, savory, exactly what you needed— but you found yourself eating without tasting it, too aware of the dynamics at the table. satoru was being more attentive to yuki than you’d ever seen him be with anyone, draping his arm over the back of her seat, leaning in to murmur things in her ear, touching her wrist, her hand, her shoulder. it was performative, you realized. not the affection itself, maybe, but the display of it. like he was putting on a show.
and suguru, for his part, was doing something similar. not as overtly, not with the same flashy charm, but you could feel it in the way he angled his body toward you, the way he made sure your water glass was full, the way he asked you questions and listened to your answers with a focus that felt pointed, like he was demonstrating something, as if he was saying, without words, this is how you treat someone.
you didn’t know how to feel about it. flattered, maybe. or confused. or like you were caught in the middle of something you didn’t fully understand.
“so, suguru,” satoru said, setting down his chopsticks. “what do you do for fun? besides reading, i mean.”
suguru considered the question. “i cook. i hike. i spend time with people i care about.”
“cooking,” satoru said. “impressive. i can barely make toast without setting off the fire alarm.”
“you set off the fire alarm making toast?” yuki asked, chuckling.
“it was a very aggressive toaster,” satoru said, and everyone laughed, including you, because you’d been there for that incident and it was funny. but satoru’s gaze flicked to you when you laughed, his expression turning more pleased. then it moved to suguru, watching to see how he reacted.
suguru was smiling, however it was a little dismissive. “aggressive toasters are the worst,” he said mildly.
the conversation continued like that, a strange dance of words and silences. every time satoru made a joke, suguru responded with quiet, understated humor. every time suguru said something thoughtful or humorous, satoru found a way to make it sound pretentious. they were circling each other, testing weaknesses, looking for openings. and you and yuki were caught in the middle, exchanging glances across the table that said, more clearly than words, what is happening right now?
you almost laughed. you didn’t, because that would have been weird, but you almost did.
by the time the meal was over, you were exhausted. the food had been good, but the undercurrent of competition had drained you in a way you hadn’t expected. you found yourself craving quiet, craving the simple ease of being alone with suguru, without the strange, charged presence of satoru watching every interaction.
outside the restaurant, the evening air was cool and sharp. satoru had his arm around yuki again, pulling her close against the chill. “that was fun,” he said. he sounded like he meant it. “we should do it again.”
“maybe,” you said, noncommittal. you weren’t doing it again.
satoru’s gaze moved between you and suguru, and something flickered in his expression— a quick, unreadable thing that was gone before you could identify it. “you two heading home?”
“we might walk around a bit,” suguru said, and his hand found yours. you felt your face heat up, eyes immediately jumping up to see satoru’s reaction. “it’s a nice night.”
satoru looked at your joined hands just for a second, long enough for you to see something tighten in his jaw before he smiled. “sure. have fun. don’t stay out too late.”
“we won’t,” you said sheepishly. then, because you didn’t know what else to do, you said goodbye to yuki, who gave you a small, knowing smile that made you feel seen in a way you weren’t sure you liked.
soon they were gone, walking down the street together, satoru’s arm still around her, his head bent toward hers like they were sharing secrets. you watched them for a moment. the jealousy was there again, but it was distant now. muted, like hearing music from another room.
suguru’s thumb brushed across your knuckles. “you okay?”
you turned to look at him. in the soft glow of the streetlights, he looked softer somehow, the sharp edges of the dinner conversation smoothed away. he was looking at you with that expression you’d come to recognize— patient, attentive.
“yeah,” you meant it. “let’s walk.”
you found a quiet street a few blocks away, lined with old trees and closed shops, the kind of place that felt removed from the rest of the city. you walked in silence for a while, your hand still in suguru’s, and it was nice. easy. the tension of the evening slowly draining away with each step.
“so,” suguru said eventually. the careful quality to his voice made you tense a little, like he was choosing his words with precision. “satoru.”
you braced yourself. “what about him?”
“he’s…” suguru paused. you could see him searching for the right word. “intense.”
you laughed. that was one way to put it. “yeah. he can be.”
“you’ve been friends for a while?”
“since the entrance exams,” you said. “we’ve lived together for most of it.”
suguru nodded slowly. “he’s very… protective of you.”
you frowned. “what do you mean?”
“the way he looked at me tonight,” suguru said. “like he was evaluating me. deciding if i was good enough.” he glanced at you, a small smile playing at his lips. “it was a little intimidating, honestly.”
“you didn’t seem intimidated.”
“i’m good at hiding it.”
you didn’t believe that for a second, but you appreciated the attempt at humility. “satoru’s just like that. he’s always been protective. it doesn’t mean anything.”
suguru was quiet for a moment, before he nudged you, voicing gently, “doesn’t it?”
you stopped walking. “uh. what’s that supposed to mean?”
he stopped too, turning to face you. in the dim light, his expression was hard to read, but his voice was soft when he spoke. “i’m not trying to pry. i just… i notice things. the way you looked at him tonight. the way he looked at you.”
your heart was beating faster now, a nervous flutter in your chest. “i don’t know what you mean.”
suguru’s gaze was steady, kind, but the perceptiveness of it made you feel like you couldn’t hide.
“you don’t have to tell me anything,” he said. “i just want you to know that i see you. all of you. and i’m not going anywhere.”
you stood there, in the middle of a quiet street, with his hand warm in yours, and you felt something crack open in your chest. something you’d been holding closed for a very long time.
“it’s complicated,” you said finally. your voice came out smaller than you intended.
“it usually is,” suguru said, not pushing. he just waited, patient as always, giving you the space to decide what you wanted to share.
you took a breath. “i’ve known him for four years. he’s my best friend. and for three of those years, i’ve been…” you stopped, the words sticking in your throat. you’d never said it out loud. not to anyone. not even to yourself, really, not in a way that felt real.
suguru’s hand tightened around yours. “you’ve been in love with him.”
“yeah,” you said. “yeah, i have.”
suguru was looking at you with something that might have been understanding, or maybe sadness, or maybe something else entirely.
“and now?” he asked.
you thought about it. about the years of waiting, of watching, of wanting. about the way satoru’s hand had looked wrapped around yuki’s. about the strange, competitive energy that had filled the restaurant tonight. about the way suguru had been there, steady and warm, through all of it.
“i don’t know,” you said honestly. “i’m trying to figure it out.”
suguru nodded slowly. then he lifted your joined hands, pressed a kiss to your knuckles and let them fall back to your side.
“that’s okay,” he said. “take your time. i’m not going anywhere.”
you looked at him, at the quiet sincerity in his face, and you saw a door that had been cracked open, letting in a little light.
“thank you,” you meant it more than you’d meant anything in a long time.
he smiled.
“come on,” he said, tugging you gently back into motion. “let’s finish our walk. there’s a good spot for watching the city lights a few blocks up. i’ll show you.”
you let him pull you forward, your hand in his, the night air cool on your face. briefly, you let yourself imagine a future that didn’t revolve around waiting for satoru gojo to love you back.
.
.
.
the thing about dating suguru was that it was good. it was so, so good, and that was what made it hard.
you kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. for the moment when the easy warmth of his attention would cool, when the quiet steadiness of his presence would reveal itself as something else— boredom, maybe, or impatience, or the same restless hunger for novelty that you’d grown used to from the other people in your life.
but the shoe never dropped. suguru was exactly who he seemed to be: attentive, thoughtful, present. when he said he wanted to spend time with you, he meant it. when he looked at you like you were the only person in the room, he kept looking, even when you weren’t saying anything interesting, even when you were just sitting together in comfortable silence, even when you were so deep in your own head that you’d forgotten he was there.
it was good. it was so, so good. and yet.
the thought lingered in the back of your mind, a low hum you couldn’t quite tune out. suguru knows. suguru knows you’re in love with your best friend. you’d told him that night, standing on a quiet street with his hand wrapped around yours, and he’d taken it with that same unshakeable calm he brought to everything. no judgment, no jealousy— at least, none that he showed. just a quiet understanding that had made you feel seen in a way that was both a relief and a terror.
because if suguru had noticed, if he’d looked at you for a few weeks and seen the shape of the thing you’d been carrying for three years, then who else had noticed? had it been that obvious all along? had you been walking around with your heart written on your sleeve, broadcasting your feelings to anyone who cared to look?
and the worst thought, the one that crept in at night when you were trying to fall asleep, the one that made your stomach clench and your breath catch: does satoru know?
you didn’t think so. you couldn’t think so. because if satoru knew, surely he would have said something. surely he would have looked at you differently, treated you differently, put distance between you or, worse, pulled you closer in that careless, thoughtless way he had, the way that made everything harder. he would have done something. the fact that he hadn’t— that he still threw his arm around your shoulders, still sprawled across the couch with his feet in your lap, still looked at you with that easy, uncomplicated affection that had been the same since you were seventeen— meant he didn’t know. he couldn’t know.
you held onto that. you had to.
however, another thing about dating suguru was that it changed the shape of your life in ways you hadn’t anticipated. the change that happened in the margins, in the spaces between things, so gradual that you almost didn’t notice it happening until one day you looked up and realized the landscape had shifted.
you spent less time at the apartment, that was the biggest thing. not because you were avoiding satoru— you told yourself you weren’t avoiding him, that you were just busy, that it was natural to spend more time with the person you were dating— but the math was simple.
there were only so many hours in a day and more and more of them were filling up with suguru. coffee in the mornings, walks between classes, long evenings that started with dinner and somehow stretched into midnight without either of you noticing.
he’d introduced you to his favorite used bookstore and you’d lost an entire saturday there, sitting on the floor between the stacks, reading passages aloud to each other until your voices went hoarse. you’d cooked together— or rather, he’d cooked and you’d sat on the counter and watched, stealing vegetables from the cutting board while he pretended to be annoyed. you’d hiked the trails behind the university, the ones you’d always meant to explore but never had, and he’d pointed out birds and plants and told you their names like he was introducing you to old friends.
it was good. it was so, so good.
and when you came home, satoru was usually there. on the couch, in the kitchen, sprawled across his bed with his laptop open, always with some excuse for why he hadn’t gone out. nothing good on, he’d say, or yuki was busy, or too tired, or just felt like staying in. and you’d drop your bag by the door and kick off your shoes and fall into the familiar rhythm of your shared space— the easy banter, the way he’d complain about his day and you’d pretend not to listen and he’d know you were really listening so he’d keep talking anyway because that was just what you did.
but the rhythm was different now. the way satoru would glance at the clock when you came in, like he was calculating how long you’d been gone. the way he’d ask about suguru with a smile that was maybe a little too bright, a little too quick. the way the silences between you had shifted, grown heavier, filled with things neither of you was saying.
the movie nights were the first to go. you didn’t plan it that way— it just happened. friday would roll around and suguru would text you about a new place he wanted to try, or a book he’d found that he thought you’d like, or just what are you doing? and you’d say nothing and then you were with him, and the night was over before you remembered that fridays were supposed to be yours.
it happened once, and then twice, and then enough times that you stopped thinking of fridays as sacred. and satoru never said anything. he never called you out, never made you feel guilty, never even mentioned it. when you’d come home on saturday morning, he’d be there, making coffee or scrolling through his phone, and he’d look up and say “hey” like it was any other day and nothing had changed.
but things have changed. you felt it in the way you’d catch yourself checking your phone during class, wondering if satoru had texted. in the way you’d pause outside the apartment door sometimes, taking a breath before going in, trying to remember who you were supposed to be on the other side. in the way you’d lie in bed at night, in the room that was yours alone now because satoru had stopped knocking on your door when the nightmares came, and you didn’t know if that was because the nightmares had stopped or because he’d learned not to bother you.
you missed him. that was the truth of it, the thing you didn’t want to admit to yourself because it felt like a betrayal. you missed suguru when you weren’t with him, too— that was the confusing part, the part that made everything feel tangled and messy. you liked suguru. you liked him so much it scared you sometimes, the way your heart would lift when his name lit up your phone, the way you’d catch yourself smiling for no reason, the way his hand in yours felt like coming home to somewhere you’d never been before.
but you missed satoru. you missed the way he’d sprawl across the couch with his head in your lap, complaining about nothing, while you pretended to watch the movie. you missed the late-night conversations that started about nothing and somehow ended with you both laughing so hard you couldn’t breathe. you missed the way he’d look at you sometimes, like you were the only person in the world who really saw him, and you’d feel, for a moment, like maybe that was true.
you missed what you had and you didn’t know if what you had was gone, or just... smaller. the shape of it had changed, and you couldn’t tell if that was natural— the way friendships shifted when new people came into your life— or if it was something else. something you’d done, some choice you’d made without realizing it, some line you’d crossed that you couldn’t uncross.
because it was only appropriate, wasn’t it? to give more of your time and attention to the person you were dating. to prioritize him, to let him in, to build something new. that was what you were supposed to do. that was how it worked.
you couldn’t keep spending every friday night on the couch with satoru, couldn’t keep treating him like the center of your universe when you were trying to build a life that included someone else. it wasn’t fair to suguru. it wasn’t fair to you, either, not really— not when every moment with satoru was a reminder of what you couldn’t have, a thread pulling you back toward something you were trying to let go of.
this was good. this was what you needed. distance, space, the chance to let the feelings you’d been carrying for three years finally, finally fade.
right?
.
.
.
you were lying in bed one night, staring at the ceiling, when you heard it. satoru’s door opening, soft footsteps in the hallway. the sound of the refrigerator opening, closing. the creak of the couch as he sat down.
you waited for the knock on your door. the familiar pattern— three soft raps, a pause, two more. the sheepish expression when you opened it, the way he’d rub the back of his neck and say something like sorry, couldn’t sleep or bad dream or just can i…? and you’d move over and he’d crawl into your bed and curl up at the end like an overgrown cat, and the weight of him there, the sound of his breathing, would be enough to quiet the world.
but the knock didn’t come.
you lay there, listening to the silence from the living room, and you didn’t know if you were relieved or devastated.
maybe both. maybe that was the problem— that you were always both, always caught between two things, always wanting what you couldn’t have and not knowing what to do with what you did.
you thought about suguru. the way he’d kissed you goodnight earlier, a slow, sweet thing that had left you warm and wanting. the way he’d said text me when you get home because it mattered to him that you were safe. the way he looked at you, always, like you were something precious, something worth protecting.
you liked him. you really, really liked him.
but you also, in the quiet dark of your room, with satoru sitting alone in the living room and not knocking on your door, you let yourself admit that you missed him very much. that you missed the way things were before. that some part of you, some stubborn, stupid part that you couldn’t seem to kill no matter how hard you tried, was still waiting.
you closed your eyes and told yourself it would fade. that eventually, you’ll wake up one morning and not feel the ache of him in your chest like a bruise you kept pressing on.
this was good. this was what you needed.
it was good.
in the living room, satoru sat on the couch in the dark, his phone dark in his hand, your closed door at the end of the hallway. he’d been sitting there for an hour, maybe longer. long enough that the takeout he’d ordered— your usual, the one from the place you both liked, the one he’d bought without thinking— had gone cold on the coffee table.
he’d meant to knock. he’d walked to your door twice, hand raised, ready. but each time, he’d stopped himself. because what was he supposed to say? i miss you? why aren’t you here anymore? who is this guy and why does he get to have you when i—
he didn’t finish the thought. he never finished the thought. it was easier, safer, to let it trail off into nothing, to push it down into the place where all the things he didn’t want to look at lived.
he picked up his phone again. scrolled through his messages. yuki had texted him earlier— something about a party next weekend, something about we should go, it’ll be fun— and he’d read it and put the phone down and not responded. he didn’t know why. yuki was nice. yuki was easy. yuki didn’t make him feel like he was standing on the edge of something he couldn’t name.
he looked at your door again, thought about the way you’d smiled lately, when he’d asked how your day was. the way you’d said good in that voice that meant you were somewhere else, thinking about someone else.
he thought about suguru. the quiet confidence, the steady gaze, the way he’d looked at you like you were the only person in the room. the way you’d looked back.
satoru set his phone down. picked up the cold takeout container. stared at it for a long moment, then put it back down. he sat on the couch, in the dark, and waited for morning.
satoru gojo is not a person who spends a lot of time thinking about his own feelings. this is not an accident. it is a deliberate, carefully cultivated skill, honed over years of practice, and he is very good at it. feelings are messy. feelings are complicated. feelings are the kind of thing that make you do stupid things, like stay up too late and say things you can’t take back and wake up in the middle of the night with your chest caved in and no idea why.
so he doesn’t think about them. he doesn’t think about the way his stomach tightens when you laugh or the way his day feels incomplete if he hasn’t heard your voice or the way he’s been measuring every person he’s ever dated against a standard he didn’t realize he was setting until it was too late to lower it.
he doesn’t think about it. he’s very good at not thinking about it.
but lately, not thinking about it has become harder and he knows exactly when it started, even if he won’t say it out loud. it started with a name. suguru. it started with the way you said it and the way something in his chest went tight and cold at the sound of it. it started with the way you started coming home later, and the way you’d smile at your phone when you thought he wasn’t looking, and the way you’d say suguru and i like it was the most natural thing in the world, like your world had always included someone else’s name next to yours.
he doesn’t think about it. he doesn’t.
he met you at the entrance exams. he remembers it clearly— remembers the way you were standing against the wall, trying to take up as little space as possible, like you were apologizing for existing. he remembers thinking, why is that person trying to disappear? and then, immediately after, i should talk to them. he was seventeen and he was already the kind of person who talked to everyone, who collected friends the way other people collected coins, easily and without much thought.
he just knew that you looked like you needed someone to tell you that you were allowed to take up space, and he was very good at telling people things. so he walked over, and he said something— he doesn’t remember what, something stupid probably, something designed to make you laugh— and you looked at him with those eyes, and he felt something shift in his chest. something he didn’t have a name for.
he still doesn’t have a name for it. he’s been calling it friendship for four years, and that’s worked well enough.
you were his first best friend. that’s something he doesn’t talk about, not to anyone. he’d had friends before— lots of them, always, because he was the kind of person people gravitated toward, the kind of person who made everything brighter just by being there, but he’d never had a best friend. he’d never had someone he wanted to come home to, someone he wanted to tell everything, someone whose presence made the noise in his head quiet down.
you were the first person who made him want to be better. not for any reason or because you asked or expected or even seemed to notice, but because when he was around you, he wanted to be the kind of person who deserved to be around you. he wanted to remember things. he wanted to show up on time. he wanted to be someone you could count on, someone you could trust, someone who wouldn’t leave you standing against a wall trying to disappear.
you raised the standard. that’s a thing he doesn’t let himself think about, not really. you raised the standard so quietly, so gently, that he didn’t even notice it happening until one day he looked at the girl he was dating— some girl, any girl, they all blurred together after a while— and realized she didn’t make him want to be better. she didn’t make him want anything, really. she was just… there and he was just… going through the motions.
he’s been going through the motions for a long time, he knows that. he knows there’s something wrong with him, something that makes him get bored, get restless, get that itch under his skin that tells him to move on, move forward, don’t look back. he’s broken up with more people than he can count, and every time, he tells himself it’s because they weren’t right, because there’s someone out there who will make it stick, who will make him want to stay.
but he knows, somewhere deep down, that he’s been looking for you in every person he’s ever dated. and no one has ever come close.
he doesn’t think about it. he doesn’t.
but then you said suguru, and suddenly he couldn’t stop thinking about it.
he hates suguru. he tells himself it’s not jealousy— he’s not jealous, why would he be jealous, you’re his best friend, he wants you to be happy, of course he wants you to be happy— but he hates suguru with a clarity that scares him. he hates the way suguru looks at you, like he’s reading you, like he’s seeing something that’s supposed to be private. he hates the way suguru is calm, always calm, like nothing can touch him, like he’s above all the messy, complicated feelings that keep satoru up at night.
he hates that suguru is perceptive. he hates that suguru seems to see through him, past the jokes and the grins and the easy charm, to something he’s been hiding for so long he’s almost forgotten it’s there. he hates the way suguru’s hand found yours that night, casual and confident, like he had a right to it. like he’d earned it.
and the worst part is that he can’t even hate suguru for how he treats you, because suguru treats you right. satoru has been watching, has been cataloguing every interaction, every small gesture, every glance, looking for something he can use, something he can point to and say see? he’s not good enough. but there’s nothing.
and that’s the thing that keeps satoru up at night, because suguru treats you right and suguru looks at you the way satoru has been looking at you for four years without letting himself name it and suguru is doing what satoru has been too scared to do, and he’s doing it right.
satoru doesn’t know what to do with that. he doesn’t know what to do with the fact that someone else has figured out what took him years to even admit to himself. he doesn’t know what to do with the fact that you’re happy— you are happy, he can see it, he can see the way you smile now, the way you carry yourself, the way you’ve stopped trying to disappear— and that happiness is coming from someone who isn’t him anymore
he should be happy for you. he is happy for you. he wants you to be happy, he’s always wanted that, and if suguru is the one who can give you that, then…
then what? then he just… steps aside? then he watches you fall in love with someone else, watches someone else get to hold your hand and make you laugh and be the person you come home to, and he just… accepts it?
he thinks about telling you. sometimes, in the dark, when he’s lying in bed and the walls feel too close and the silence is too loud, he thinks about walking to your door and knocking and saying i’ve been in love with you since we were seventeen and letting whatever happens happen. but then he thinks about your face— the way you’d look at him, the confusion, the pity, the careful way you’d let him down because you’re too kind to hurt him even when he’s hurting you— and he can’t. he can’t do it. because if he tells you and you don’t feel the same way, he loses you. and losing you is the only thing he’s ever been truly afraid of.
so he doesn’t tell you. he doesn’t think about it. he buries it down deep, where it’s always been, and he keeps being your best friend. he keeps being the person you come home to, the person who saves you the last piece of whatever he’s eating, the person who makes you laugh when you’re stressed. he keeps being enough.
except now there’s suguru. and suddenly enough doesn’t feel like enough anymore.
yuki is nice. yuki is pretty. yuki is everything he should want— smart, confident, the kind of girl who doesn’t need him to be anything other than what he is. when he’s with her, he doesn’t have to try. he doesn’t have to think. he can just be satoru, the easy one, the charming one, the one who makes everything fun.
but he’s getting bored. he’s always getting bored, that’s the problem, that’s the thing he hates about himself. three weeks in and already the conversations feel rote, the touches feel automatic, the whole thing feels like a script he’s read before. he catches himself thinking about you when he’s with her. your laugh, your voice, the way you’d react to something he said. he catches himself comparing— not out loud, never out loud, but in his head, where he can’t help it. yuki wouldn’t get that joke. yuki wouldn’t have stayed up with me when i couldn’t sleep. yuki doesn’t look at me the way you look at me.
he should break up with her. he knows he should break up with her. it’s not fair to keep her around when he’s already checked out, when his mind is always somewhere else, with someone else. but every time he thinks about ending it, he thinks about suguru. about the double date, about the way suguru’s hand was on your back, about the way you looked at him. and he thinks about what it would mean to show up alone, to be the one without a date, to have to watch you and suguru together while he has nothing.
it’s stupid, it’s so stupid. he’s never had trouble finding someone to date, has never been without options, has never been the kind of person who needs to cling to a relationship that’s already over. but this isn’t about yuki. it never was about yuki.
it’s about proving something, he’s not even sure what. maybe that he can be stable or can be in a relationship or he can be the kind of person who doesn’t get bored and move on. maybe that he doesn’t need you, that he’s fine, that his life is full and happy and doesn’t revolve around waiting for you to see him. maybe that he’s not jealous, that he doesn’t care about suguru, that he can have his own thing and be perfectly content while you build something with someone else.
maybe it’s just that letting go of yuki would mean admitting that none of it matters. that she was never going to make him feel the way you do, no one is, and he’s been chasing something for four years and he’s never going to catch it.
so he stays with yuki. he texts her back, makes plans, shows up. he lets her wrap her arms around him and talk about her day and laugh at his jokes. and he thinks about you the whole time.
why does he even care? the question circles in his head at 3 a.m., when he’s staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out why his chest feels like it’s caving in. why does it matter if you’re dating someone? why does it matter if that someone is perceptive and calm and looks at you like you’re the only person in the world? why does it matter that you’re happy, that you’re smiling more, for other reasons than him?
you deserve everything suguru seems to be giving you, and more.
so why does it feel like he’s losing something? why does it feel like every day you spend with suguru is a day you’re slipping further away from him, and he’s just standing here, watching it happen, too scared to reach out and grab you?
because he’s in love with you. he’s been in love with you since you told him you weren’t interesting and he knew, instantly, that you were the most interesting person he’d ever met. he’s been in love with you through every relationship, every breakup, every late night and early morning and moment in between. he’s been in love with you so long that he doesn’t remember what it felt like before.
and he’s never said a word because saying it would change everything, and he’s not brave enough to find out what that change would look like.
he is a coward.
so he sits on the couch in the dark. he lets the takeout go cold. he doesn’t knock on your door. and he tells himself that this is what it means to love someone— to let them go, to let them be happy, to stand in the background and watch them bloom under someone else’s attention.
he tells himself that and he almost believes it.
when he closes his eyes, he sees your face. he sees the way you looked at him that first day, he sees the way you laugh, the way you say his name, the way you exist in his life like you were always meant to be there. and he thinks about suguru’s hand on you, and he thinks about your smile when you say his name, and he thinks about how he’s never going to be the one to make you look like that.
he’s satoru gojo. he’s the one who has everything. he’s the one people envy, the one who moves through life like it was designed for him, the one who never has to try.
but right now, sitting in the dark, listening to the silence of your apartment, he’s never felt more like he’s lost something he never had the courage to reach for. he doesn’t know what to do with any of it.
so he doesn’t think about it. he doesn’t think about you, or suguru, or the way his chest feels like it’s splitting open. he doesn’t think about the words he’ll never say, the confession he’ll never make, the life he could have had if he’d been just a little bit braver.
he doesn’t think about any of it.
he sits on the couch. he waits for morning. and he tells himself that this is enough.
.
.
.
it started, as most of satoru’s better ideas did, with him staring at his phone in the middle of a lecture he wasn’t listening to.
he’d been doing that a lot lately. staring at his phone. scrolling through your messages— the ones from before, the ones when you still texted him throughout the day, stupid things and funny things and things that didn’t matter except that they were from you. the messages had become less frequent lately. not gone, but different; shorter, more gaps between them. he’d catch himself typing something, then deleting it, because he didn’t want to bother you or interrupt whatever you were doing with suguru, didn’t want to be the needy best friend who couldn’t let go.
but today, sitting in the back of a lecture hall while some professor droned on about something he was supposed to care about, he had a thought, one that felt, suddenly, like the most obvious thing in the world.
you were still his best friend, weren’t you?
that couldn’t change. four years of inside jokes and late-night conversations and knowing each other in ways no one else did— that wasn’t something that disappeared just because someone new had entered the picture. he was allowed to want to spend time with you. he was allowed to miss you. he was allowed to want to do things with you, just the two of you, without it meaning anything more than what it was: two best friends hanging out, the way they always had.
there was nothing weird about that. nothing that anyone could point to and say look, he’s in love with her, look how pathetic he is.
it was just… friendship. the same friendship you’d had since you were seventeen. the same friendship that had been the most important thing in his life for four years.
so why shouldn’t he act on it?
he was out of his seat before he’d fully formed the thought, shoving his laptop into his bag, ignoring the confused look from the person next to him. he slipped out the side door of the lecture hall, his heart beating faster than it had any right to, and pulled out his phone.
his fingers moved before he could talk himself out of it.
hey. cancel your plans for saturday. i’m taking you somewhere.
he stared at the message for a moment, the cursor blinking, and then he added:
don’t argue. just be ready at 12.
he hit send before he could second-guess himself. he stood in the hallway, phone clutched in his hand, waiting.
the reply came a minute later, maybe less, yet it felt like forever.
silly goose🪿: what?? where are we going
he grinned. he couldn’t help it.
it’s a surprise. wear comfortable shoes. and no, i’m not telling you anything else.
he could picture you reading the message, could picture the way you’d tilt your head, the way you’d chew on your bottom lip while you decided whether to push for more information.
silly goose🪿: you’re being very mysterious
that’s the point
silly goose🪿: fine but if it’s one of your surprise where we end up in the police station again and your father has to bail us out i’m not going
he laughed out loud, the sound echoing in the empty hallway.
it’s not that. i promise. just trust me.
silly goose🪿: okay. i trust you.
he stared at those three words for longer than was probably normal.
he pocketed his phone and walked out of the building into the afternoon sun, and for the first time in weeks, he felt like he could breathe.
.
.
.
saturday noon arrived the way satoru had been willing it to arrive— slow enough to build anticipation, fast enough that he didn’t lose his nerve. he’d been up since six, which was ridiculous. he just couldn’t sleep. he kept running through the plan in his head, checking and rechecking details that didn’t need checking, making sure everything was perfect.
it wasn’t a date. he told himself that again, firmly, as he stood in front of his closet for the third time, trying to decide what to wear. it wasn’t a date. it was two friends spending the day together. that was all. so why did it matter what he wore? why did he care if his hair was doing the thing it did sometimes, the thing that made it fall just right? why had he gone to the convenience store yesterday and bought your favorite snacks without even thinking about it, like it was instinct, like his body knew what you wanted before his brain caught up?
it wasn’t a date. it was just… him being your friend, being the person who knew you, who remembered the things you liked, who wanted to make you smile.
that was allowed. that was normal. that was fine.
he settled on something simple— jeans, a soft sweater, his favorite sunglasses— and tried not to look at himself in the mirror too long. when he heard your door open at 11:58, he was already in the living room, pretending to be absorbed in his phone, trying to look like he hadn’t been waiting for this moment all week.
you came out of your room and he looked up and there it was, that thing that happened every time he saw you, the thing he’d never been able to explain or control or make go away. the way his heart did a small, stupid flip in his chest. the way the rest of the world seemed to blur at the edges, like someone had turned down the focus on everything that wasn’t you.
you were wearing something simple— jeans, a top, a jacket— and your hair looked like you hadn’t put too much effort in, and you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. you always were, that’s how he distinguished you in a room full of people.
“okay,” you said, pulling your keys out of your pocket. “i’m ready. are you going to tell me where we’re going yet, or are you committed to the mystery?”
he grinned, pushing off from the couch, sliding his sunglasses into place. “committed to the mystery. get in the car.”
you rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. “if this is another one of your schemes—”
“it’s not a scheme! it’s a surprise. there’s a difference.”
“is there?”
“a huge difference. schemes are nefarious. surprises are delightful. like me.”
the drive took about forty minutes. you spent most of it trying to guess where he was taking you— guessing every amusement park, every tourist attraction, every vaguely interesting thing within a two-hour radius— and he spent most of it deflecting, making up ridiculous answers, watching you laugh out of the corner of his eye. the radio was playing something forgettable, the windows were down just enough to let the autumn air in, and for a while, it was easy. it was the way things used to be, before everything got complicated, before suguru, before he started measuring every moment in terms of what he was losing.
“okay, final guess,” you said, as he turned onto the access road. “if it’s not the boardwalk and it’s not the botanical gardens and it’s not that weird museum with the taxidermy—”
“that was one time.”
“—then it has to be—” you stopped as the entrance came into view, and your mouth dropped open. “wait. is this—”
“the new amusement park,” he said, trying to sound casual, like he hadn’t been waiting for the perfect moment to bring you here. “i heard they opened last month. thought we should check it out.”
you turned to look at him, your face— he wanted to bottle that expression and keep it somewhere safe. the surprise, the delight, the way your eyes went wide and bright. “satoru—”
“you said you wanted to come when it opened. remember? you saw the article about it, back when they first broke ground, and you said—”
“i said we should come when it’s finished,” you finished, your voice turning softer. “you remembered that?”
he shrugged, keeping his eyes on the road, pretending he didn’t notice the way you were looking at him. “i remember things. i’m a good friend.”
you didn’t say anything for a moment. when he glanced over, you were still looking at him with an unreadable expression that made his heart beat a little faster.
“yeah,” you said finally, quietly. “you are.”
he parked the car and you both got out. the sun was warm on his face. you were standing next to him, close enough that his arm brushed yours, and he let himself have this. he let himself pretend that nothing had changed, that you were still his in the way you’d always been his, that the world hadn’t shifted underneath his feet.
the park was crowded, but not unbearably so. everything felt alive without being overwhelming. satoru had done his research, had looked at all the ride maps and food stalls and show times, had planned out a route that would hit everything you might want to see without spending the whole day in lines. he didn’t tell you that, of course. he played it cool, like he was just making it up as he went along and he hadn’t spent hours thinking about this exact day.
“okay,” you said, looking around at the chaos of colors and sounds. “where do we start?”
he considered the options. “food first. i’m starving.”
“already?”
“and? you don’t get hungry at 13?”
“i had breakfast.”
“that was hours ago.”
“it was literally an hour ago.”
“an hour is a long time. metabolically speaking.”
you laughed, and he grabbed your hand before he could think about it— to pull you toward the food stalls, he told himself, because it was crowded and he didn’t want to lose you— and your fingers were warm in his. you didn’t pull away.
the first food stall they hit was one selling taiyaki, the fish-shaped pastries filled with red bean paste, and he bought four without asking if you wanted any, just handed you two and watched you take the first bite.
“good?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
you nodded, mouth full. he felt a ridiculous surge of satisfaction.
from there, it became a kind of mission. the park had all the classic amusement food, but elevated somehow— fancier, more elaborate, the kind of stuff that was made to be photographed and posted.
“okay, try this,” he said, shoving a piece of honeycomb-topped ice cream toward you. “it’s supposed to be their signature thing.”
you leaned in and took a bite. he watched your expression shift from curiosity to surprise to delight. “oh my god. that’s actually incredible.”
“right? i knew you’d like it.”
“how did you know?”
he shrugged, taking a bite himself, the honey sweet and sticky on his tongue. “you like honey. you put it in your tea, even when i tell you it’s too much. and you like cold things, even in winter. remember that time you made me get ice cream with you when it was snowing?”
you stared at him. “that was three years ago.”
“so?”
“so you remember that? what i ordered?”
“mint chocolate chip,” he said, without missing a beat. “you said it was basic but you didn’t care. and then you dropped half of it on the sidewalk and looked so sad i went back and bought you another one.”
you went quiet. he realized, belatedly, that maybe he was saying too much and showing his hand. but then you smiled, small and soft, and said, “you’re ridiculous.”
“i’m dedicated,” he corrected. “you know that”
“do i?”
“a huge difference. dedication is admirable. ridiculousness is—”
“also admirable?”
he laughed. “i was going to say ‘charming,’ but sure. we’ll go with admirable.”
you rolled your eyes, but you were still smiling. when you reached out to steal another piece of his ice cream, he let you.
he took you on rides after that. the park had a good mix— some classic, some new, some that made you scream and some that made you laugh. satoru had always been a fan of the big ones, the ones that went high and fast and made your stomach drop out from under you.
today, he found himself gravitating toward the smaller things. the spinning teacups, where you both got dizzy and stumbled out laughing, holding onto each other to stay upright. the bumper cars, where you spent an embarrassingly long time chasing each other around the rink, both of you laughing so hard you could barely steer. the old-fashioned carousel, where you picked a horse with chipped paint and a golden mane and he stood next to you, one hand on the pole, watching the way the afternoon light caught in your hair.
“you’re not going to ride?” you asked, as the carousel started its slow, stately rotation.
“i’m riding. i’m right here.”
“standing doesn’t count.”
“sure it does. i’m experiencing the carousel. i’m very engaged.”
you gave him a look. “you’re standing next to a stationary horse while i do all the work.”
“it’s a very nice stationary horse.” he nodded assuredly and then squinted at you, “also, what work are you talking about, you are sitting on a horse that moves by itself.”
you laughed, and the sound of it was better than any music, better than any ride, better than anything else in the park. he wanted to bottle it. he wanted to carry it with him everywhere. he wanted to hear it every day for the rest of his life.
“you’re so weird,” you said.
“that’s why we work. you like me.”
“i didn’t say that.”
“you didn’t have to.”
the carousel turned, the world spun slowly around you, and he caught himself thinking, if i could freeze this moment, if i could stay here forever, i would. i would in a heartbeat.
.
.
.
it was always natural for him and you to talk about everything and nothing. that was the thing about the two of you— conversation had always been easy, had always flowed like water, finding its way into every corner and crevice. you talked about classes, about professors who were terrible and professors who were surprisingly good. you talked about movies you’d seen, books you’d read, music you’d been listening to. you talked about the park itself—the way the light hit the rides, the best place to watch the crowd, the ridiculous prices of everything.
“five dollars for a bottle of water,” you said, holding up your latest purchase. “that’s criminal.”
“capitalism,” he said sagely. “the real villain of our time.”
“you say that while wearing designer sunglasses.”
“these are vintage.”
“they’re from last season.”
“vintage is a state of mind.”
you laughed quietly, shoving him in the shoulder. he watched you take a sip of your overpriced water and he thought about how easy this was. why did it feel like an ending?
you talked about memories, too. old ones, the kind that came up when you spent enough time together, the shared history that no one else could touch. the time you’d both gotten locked out of the apartment and had to climb through the window. the time he’d tried to cook dinner and set off the fire alarm and you’d both eaten burnt pasta on the floor of the kitchen, laughing hysterically. the time you’d stayed up all night studying for an exam you both ended up failing because the professor was an asshole, and the way you’d looked at each other the next morning, bleary-eyed and defeated, and somehow started laughing.
“we were such disasters,” you said, leaning against a railing, looking out at the park.
“we are disasters,” he corrected. “we just have better lighting now.”
you smiled. he smiles back.
“do you ever think about that?” you asked, your voice was softer now, more thoughtful. “how we met?”
“all the time,” he said.
you glanced at him, surprised. “really?”
“really.” he leaned against the railing next to you, close enough that your shoulders almost touched. “you were standing against the wall, trying to disappear. and i thought—” he stopped, remembering. “i need to save her from dying of anxiety.”
you were quiet for a moment. “is that why you talked to me?”
“maybe. or maybe i just thought you were interesting.” he bumped your shoulder with his. “still do, by the way. just so you know.”
you looked at him, your eyes full of emotion that made his chest tight. “satoru—”
“don’t get emotional, sweetheart,” he said quickly, because he couldn’t handle whatever was coming next, “i have a reputation to maintain.”
you laughed wetly. the moment passed. he told himself that was for the best.
the afternoon bled into evening, the light shifting from gold to amber to the soft, hazy blue of late afternoon. satoru and you been at the park for hours, had ridden most of the rides, eaten more than was reasonable, accumulated a small collection of prizes from games you’d played— a stuffed bear that was slightly lopsided, a keychain that glowed in the dark, a cheap plastic ring that you’d put on your finger and hadn’t taken off.
satoru had been watching the sky for the last hour, tracking the sun’s descent, waiting for the moment. he’d planned this part carefully, had checked the sunset time, had figured out the best place in the park to watch it. the ferris wheel. it was obvious, maybe, but that was the point. it was the kind of thing that felt like a movie, that would be romantic if it were anyone else, but it had to be just two friends watching the sunset. nothing more than that.
“come on,” he said, tugging on your hand. “one more ride.”
you were looking at the ferris wheel, your expression shifting as you registered what he was suggesting. “the ferris wheel?”
“the ferris wheel.” he was already pulling you toward the line, not giving you time to argue. “it’s the best view in the park. you can see the whole city from the top.”
“it’s going to be a long line—”
“it’s fine. we have time.”
you looked at him exasperatedly, he could see you trying to figure out what he was doing, why he was so insistent, but you didn’t argue. you let him pull you into line, and you stood close together as the queue slowly moved forward, and he tried not to think about the way your arm pressed against his.
the line moved faster than he expected. before he was ready, they were at the front, and the attendant was gesturing them into a car, and he was climbing in after you, the door closing behind them with a soft click.
the car swayed slightly as it began to move, and you let out a small gasp, grabbing onto the rail. he laughed. “scared of heights? you never told me you were scared of heights.”
“i’m not scared,” you said, but your grip on the rail said otherwise. “i just don’t like the swaying.”
“it’s supposed to sway. it’s part of the experience.”
“a terrible part of the experience.”
he grinned, settling back against the seat, watching you. the inside of the cabin was small, it forced closeness. your knees were almost touching. if he reached out, he could touch your face, your hair, your hand. he kept his hands firmly in his lap and he looked out at the park shrinking beneath them. satoru told himself to breathe.
the car rose slowly, steadily, each rotation bringing them higher. the park spread out below them like a map, the lights beginning to flicker on, the crowd reduced to tiny figures moving between the attractions. and beyond the park, the city, sprawling toward the horizon, buildings catching the last of the sun’s light.
“oh,” you said softly, causing him to he look at you. you were watching the view, your face soft, your lips slightly parted. “it’s so pretty.”
he looked out at the sunset. it was, objectively, beautiful. the sky was a gradient of colors— pink and orange and purple, bleeding into each other, the sun a perfect disc of gold balanced on the edge of the world. the sunset that made people stop and stare, the kind that felt like it was put there just for you.
but now he wasn’t looking at the sunset. he was looking at you.
the light caught your face, painted you in gold and rose, turned you into something that made his breath catch. your eyes were bright, reflecting the colors of the sky, and there was a small smile on your lips, and you were so beautiful that it hurt. it physically hurt, a tightness in his chest, a pressure behind his ribs, something that felt like joy and terror and longing all tangled together.
you were the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.
not just now, in this light, on this ferris wheel. always. every day, in every moment, in every version of you that existed.
you were the prettiest thing he’d ever seen and he couldn’t tell you. he couldn’t say it, couldn’t let the words out, couldn’t let you see what was written all over his face. so he didn’t. he sat there, in the swaying car, and he watched the sunset paint you gold, and he held the words in his chest like a secret.
“it’s beautiful,” you said again as you turned to look at him. he was caught, and he knew you could see it, could see everything he’d been trying to hide.
“yeah,” he said. his voice came out rough, scraped raw. “beautiful.”
you were looking at him too. for a moment he let himself believe that the expression on your face was something more than friendship, something more than the easy affection you’d always had.
but then the car reached the top, paused, and started its slow descent, and you looked away, back at the sunset, and the moment was gone.
he let it go again. he had to.
the ride down was quiet. not uncomfortable, but charged, the air between them heavy with something neither of them was saying. he watched you out of the corner of his eye, watched the way you traced patterns on the railing, the way your fingers touched the cheap plastic ring you’d won, the way your breath fogged the glass when you leaned close.
when the car reached the bottom, the attendant opened the door, you climbed out first, and he followed. the spell was broken.
you stood for a moment at the base of the ferris wheel, the lights of the park bright around you, the last traces of sunset fading to deep blue. you were looking up at the wheel, your expression unreadable.
“thank you,” you said, your voice soft. “for today. i… i needed this.”
he wanted to say something. he wanted to say me too. he wanted to say i need you, i’ve always needed you, i don’t know how to be without you. he wanted to say please don’t go back to him, please stay here with me, please see me the way i see you.
but he didn’t. he smiled, which was easier than it should have been, this mask he’d been wearing for years. “anytime. you know that.”
you looked at him for a long moment and then you smiled. it was the same smile you’d always had, that made him feel like maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be okay.
“come on,” he said, bumping your shoulder with his. “let’s get out of here. i’m freezing.”
you laughed, the sound of it wrapping around him, warm and familiar. “you’re always freezing.”
“i run cold. it’s a medical condition.”
“it’s not a medical condition, you just don’t wear enough layers.”
“tomato, tomato.”
you shook your head, but you were still smiling, when he fell into step beside you, you didn’t move away. you walked close enough that your shoulders brushed, close enough that he could feel the warmth of you through his jacket.
he didn’t look back at the ferris wheel. the image was already burned into his memory— you, painted in gold, the sunset behind you, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
he’d carry that with him, he’d carry it for as long as he could, and when the ache in his chest got too heavy, when the weight of everything he couldn’t say pressed down on him, he’d pull it out and look at it and remind himself that for one moment, at the top of a ferris wheel, you were his. even if you didn’t know it. even if you never would.
it was enough. it had to be.
things were, against all odds, going well. that was the thought that kept circling in your head as you walked home from class one afternoon, the autumn air crisp and clean, your scarf wrapped tight around your neck. things were going well. you were spending time with suguru, hopefully building something solid between him and you. and you were spending time with satoru again, too, in a way that felt almost like before, like the strange distance that had crept in between you had been bridged.
you weren’t sure exactly when that had happened. maybe it was the amusement park, the way he’d planned the whole day, the way he’d taken care of you. maybe it was the way he’d started texting you again, the stupid memes and the late-night check-ins and the you up? messages that made you smile even when you were trying to sleep. maybe it was just time, the slow reclamation of something that had always been yours, the way you found yourself gravitating back toward each other like planets in orbit.
whatever it was, it was good. it was so, so good.
there was, however, the matter of yuki.
the breakup had been… abrupt. that was the word you’d settled on, after turning it over in your mind for the better part of a week. abrupt. you’d come home from a study session at the library to find the apartment door slightly ajar, which was unusual because satoru was a little paranoid about locking doors. you’d pushed the door open slowly, already reaching for your phone in case something was wrong, and then you’d heard voices.
satoru’s voice, low and tight; you recognised it as the tone he used when he was trying to keep his temper in check. and yuki’s voice, higher, sharper, the words spilling out too fast to catch at first.
you’d frozen in the doorway, caught between the instinct to leave and the realization that they’d probably already heard you. and then yuki had come storming out of the living room, her face blotched red, her eyes wet, and she’d stopped when she saw you.
for a moment, neither of you said anything. you’d only met her a handful of times— the double date, a party, a brief encounter on campus— and you didn’t know her, not really. but in that moment, looking at her face, you saw something that made your stomach clench. it looked like she’d figured something out that you’d been trying to hide for years.
“you,” she’d said, her voice thick with tears but the hatred underneath it made you take a step back. “you’re the reason.”
you’d opened your mouth to say something—what, you didn’t know, maybe i don’t know what you’re talking about or i’m sorry or what happened?— but she was already moving, pushing past you, gone. the door slammed behind her, and you were left standing in the hallway, your heart beating too fast, your hands cold.
you’d found satoru in the living room, sitting on the couch with his head in his hands. he’d looked up when you walked in, and for a moment, his face was completely open, completely raw, and you’d seen grief, maybe, or exhaustion, or relief there that made your chest ache.
“hey,” he’d said, his voice rough. “you’re home early.”
“are you okay?” you’d asked.
he’d smiled a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “yeah. i’m fine. we just—it wasn’t working. you know how it is.”
you didn’t, actually. you didn’t know how it was to break up with someone because you couldn’t make yourself feel something that wasn’t there. you didn’t know how it was to go through person after person, searching for something you couldn’t name. but you nodded anyway, because that was what he needed.
you sat down next to him on the couch and let him lean his weight against your shoulder, and you didn’t ask any of the questions that were crowding your throat.
you didn’t ask why yuki had looked at you like that. you didn’t ask what she meant by you’re the reason. you didn’t ask if there was something he wasn’t telling you.
you just sat there, in the quiet of your apartment, and let him be.
[ an. do tell what you think of this and reblog pls!! the second part will be posted tomorrow or the day after tomorrow depending on how much of it i edit ]
wc: ~22k (i’m sorry omg) | cw: 1k special!! fratjo! heavy smut, lots of filth, hints of fluff, possessive/obsessive tendencies, toxic relationship dynamics, lil corruption kink, jealousy, unprotected sex, oral sex (m + f), too many creampies, huge breeding kink, degradation/praise, accidental? pregnancy, contraceptive failure, use of alcohol, frat culture, gojo’s lowk evil, explicit language, use of pet names (baby, princess), dark romance vibes, reader’s dad is basically tom brady lmao
summary: the hottest frat boy at usc, satoru gojo, becomes obsessed with you and develops a kink he was never supposed to have.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
LIFE AS THE daughter of one of the greatest quarterbacks to ever step foot on a football field should’ve been considered a dream come true, and in most aspects, it was.
You grew up in the nicest suburbs of Boston, got whatever it was you wanted, traveled on first-class flights before you were old enough to spell, had a father who treated you like gold in human form.
But, that last one? Yeah, that was the problem.
Being adored feels a lot like being controlled when you’re the only daughter of a man the entire country worships. Because in hindsight, you were. Not purposely, of course. You were daddy’s little princess from day one, which meant he needed to protect you at all costs.
From the moment you entered your elite preppy high school at age fourteen, that was when his watchful eye sharpened into one that never stopped watching. As a hall of fame athlete, a New England Patriots legend, he’s seen too much of this world to know that he needs to keep his precious girl safe from it all.
And when he retired? It got so much worse. He was always there. Which basically meant you couldn’t do anything without him knowing or without his permission.
Your best friend, Blair, who lived two houses down, lived the life you wished you could. Another rich, preppy privileged girl, yes, but one with parents who didn’t give a single fuck what she did. And she’s been partying since, well…forever.
She lost her virginity in the bathroom of a Red Sox game, threw a rager so big when her parents left for Saint Barts she got suspended for two weeks, snuck out of the house so often she practically wore a path through your backyard.
She begged you to join her. To come out and have fun, be a normal teenager, but you never could. Sometimes you wondered if your father even realized he’d built a cage around you—a gilded, loving, suffocating one. And you were tired of not being able to live life to the fullest.
Which is why when the time finally came to decide on college, you knew you had to choose the furthest plausible option. You also knew that wherever you went, would have to be with Blair.
So the two of you sat down and planned it. She listed all sorts of schools, Miami, Alabama, Ohio State, Wisconsin, all known for their party scene, but they weren’t far enough in your eyes.
Then, the idea hit you. California. All the way across the country, nice ass weather with no brutal winters, huge nightlife. It ticks every single box.
“How about USC?” You suggested.
Blair’s eyes widened like she’d won the lottery, “That’s it! That’s the fucking school. We’re applying—today.”
You indeed did apply that same day, keeping all of it, every whispered dream of palm trees and frat parties, a secret from your father. He didn’t need to find out that you were plotting your escape. Only if you got accepted, would you tell him.
After applying, came the long, excruciating wait. Every notification made your heart jump, every morning felt loaded with possibility and impending doom, but then on a random Tuesday afternoon after school, Blair got an email. You were sprawled across her bed when her phone dinged and when she checked it she froze, slowly looking at you, “No fucking way.”
Your heart stopped, “What?”
She glanced back at her screen as if it might disappear, “Bitch…I got in!”
You barely had time to process it before she launched herself at you, both of you collapsing onto the bed in a fit of hysterical laughter, “Check yours,” She demanded, already grabbing your laptop.
Your hands shook as you logged into the portal and when the screen flashed in red and gold, Congratulations! We are pleased to offer you admission to the University of Southern California…
Your vision blurred, you were going to finally leave Boston and remove the shackles. Blair grabbed your shoulder, “You’re free, babe.”
The word hit differently—free. But not yet, because you still had to tell him.
You waited until dinner, when the house was calm and your father set down his fork and asked warmly, “How was your day, princess?”
You pushed the printed copy of your acceptance letter across the table, watching as he unfolded it slowly. His sharp eyes scanned the words once, twice, then a third time, as if they might rearrange themselves into something less horrifying.
“…Southern California?” He said at last, voice tight, “That’s three thousand miles away.”
“I know.”
“And…you want to go there?”
“I do. Really bad.”
There was a heartbeat, a breath, a visible internal meltdown occurring within him, until he asked, “Is Blair going?”
“Yes. She got in too.”
He exhaled through his nose like that single fact alone saved his life, though it probably shouldn’t have. She’s the last person on Earth he should want going with you, but thankfully, he’s blissfully unaware of who she really is, “Well. I guess that’s different.”
Your mother kicked him under the table, “Just say you’re proud of her, honey.”
He looked at you again, long, conflicted, and terrified, yet still soft, “I am proud of you,” He murmured, “You know that. I just…you’re my little girl. And California is far.”
“I’ll be okay.”
He didn’t believe that, not at all, but he nodded anyway, “Then I guess…USC it is.”
Just like that, you were free. You could almost taste it. And now, months later, you’re here—Move-in day.
The California sun hits hotter and brighter, like even the light feels less restrained than anything you ever knew in Boston. Your father sits restlessly in the rented SUV that’s packed full with your belongings, your mother is in the passenger seat, Blair is following behind with her mom.
It should’ve been a sweet, sentimental moment. College send-offs usually are, but this one wasn’t. Because in order to get to your dorms, you had to pass Greek Row, and your father sees everything he fears most.
A group of shirtless guys on a lawn, covered in sweat playing die on an old, warped table. Two frat brothers throwing a football back and forth across the street like they own it, a cluster of girls in micro shorts walking toward one of the houses, someone’s shotgunning a beer while blasting John Summit so loud it shakes the sidewalk. Your father’s hands tighten on the steering wheel so hard the leather creaks.
“Oh,” Your mother murmurs gently, “Look at that…school spirit.”
He does not share the same sentiment. He stares, shell-shocked, shoulders squared like he’s preparing for war. One of the frat boys looks straight at the car, lifts his chin at you through the window, and smirks. Your dad nearly swerves into the closest telephone pole, “Oh hell no,” He curses under his breath, “Absolutely not. Over my dead body—”
“Dad,” You warn softly, cheeks burning.
He tears his eyes away from the horror, but keeps muttering, “This is a bad idea. This is a terrible idea. They let freshmen live near this? They let you live near this? Those boys are—They’re—”
“College students?” Your mom offers.
“Degenerates.”
You hide your smile behind your hand. Because the truth is, everything he saw that scared him? Is everything you wanted.
The noise, the craziness, the alcohol, the energy, the…boys. A world you were never allowed to touch is now directly outside your window.
Your father grips the wheel harder like he’s debating whether or not to spin the car around and drive your happy ass back to Boston himself, but he doesn’t. He continues onward; straight to the dorms, your new life, and the one thing he could never fully control—your freedom.
But freedom, apparently, also comes with an audience. The moment your father pulls into the freshmen unloading zone, heads turn. A few students stop mid-conversation, some whisper, some don’t even bother whispering. Phones lift in that sneaky, sideways way people use when they swear you won’t notice.
“Is that—?”
“That’s him, right? That’s him?”
“Dude, her dad is literally the goat.”
“Wait, does that mean she’s—?”
You feel the heat crawl up your neck, but your father doesn’t react. He’s practiced at this, years of fan interactions, interviews, cameras shoved in his face at even the most inconvenient moments. Nothing really shakes him—well, except the frat boys. Those do.
He steps out of the car and grabs your suitcase with one hand, posture straightening like he’s going on National TV. A couple of guys across the quad nudge each other when they recognize him, jaws dropping as if a God descended onto USC’s campus.
“Sir!” One of them calls out, already pulling out his phone, “Big fan! Like…huge fan!”
“Thank you,” Your father says with a polite nod, slipping seamlessly into his media smile and then, because the universe enjoys humor at your expense, another voice bursts from a group near the dorm steps.
“Holy shit, that’s his daughter?”
You want to sink into the pavement, but your mom slips her arm through yours, “Don’t mind them, sweetheart. They’re just excited.”
Blair, climbing out of her mom’s BMW behind you, practically cackles, “Oh my God,” She whispers gleefully, “You’re famous already. Do you understand the power you’re about to wield?”
You glare at her, but she’s too busy vibrating with excitement. Meanwhile, your father spots the second wave of frat brothers who’ve stopped tossing a football to stare openly at the scene unfolding, and stiffens.
His tone drops into one that is low and protective, “Stay away from boys who look like that.”
“I will,” Oh, you most certainly won’t.
Once you’re all inside the dorm lobby, even more chaos ensues.
Athletes, business majors, engineering kids with lanyards all mingling, moving, dragging various pieces of furniture; and then there’s the group of girls next to the elevators, eyes flicking between you and your father with thinly-veiled recognition.
One whispers, not nearly quiet enough, “You think Gojo’s seen her yet?”
The other girl beside her giggles, “Please. Someone’s probably already told him.”
You freeze, Blair’s head snaps toward you like a bloodhound catching a scent, “No way! You’re being talked about by him?”
“Who is him?”
Blair lowers her voice, “Okay, so—remember how I stalked USC on TikTok for, like, two months straight?”
“…Yeah?”
“Well,” She says, pushing her Prada sunglasses up her nose, “There’s this international student from Japan, Satoru Gojo. Apparently the frat guy on campus. Junior, filthy rich, shameless, hot as fuck, total slut, owns a white Porsche, finance bro who probably fails all his classses, and ends up on every ‘hottest men at USC’ list.”
You stare at her, “And you know all of that from TikTok?”
“Yep,” She says proudly, “I do my research.”
You open your mouth, then close it, “Okay, but what does any of that have to do with—”
Blair gestures vaguely at your face, “Sexy freshman girl with famous NFL seven time Super Bowl Champion quarterback dad? You’re deadass his exact type of…project.”
You almost choke, “Project?”
She nods sympathetically, “Project as in…he’d want to be the guy to ruin you for every other man on campus.”
Your father hears the word ruin and nearly breaks his own neck whipping around. Blair immediately straightens, innocent smile plastered onto her face.
“Don’t worry,” She says softly out of the corner of her mouth, “You probably won’t even meet him,” Then quieter, when she knows your father isn’t eavesdropping, adds, “You’re totally going to meet him.”
Your dorm room on the fourth floor is already propped open when you reach it. Small, bright with two twin beds and bare walls. It’s nothing like the Boston mansion you grew up in, yet somehow it’s more exciting than any bedroom you’ve ever had.
Blair lets out a delighted gasp, “We live here? Oh my God, we actually live here!”
She races inside to claim her side of the room, throwing herself onto the bed next to the window. Your father stands in the doorway, scanning like he’s doing a threat assessment, “It’s…smaller than I expected.”
“It’s a dorm, honey. Not the Ritz,” Your mother reminds him.
He hums, but does not relax in the slightest. And just like that, the four of you are unpacking boxes, hanging clothes, folding towels, arranging the mini-fridge that your father inspects with the seriousness of a homicide detective. He tests the door three times, plugs it into a power strip, unplugs it, inspects the outlet, then plugs it back in.
“Dad,” You sigh, “It’s a fridge, not a life-support machine.”
“You say that now,” He warns and you just chuckle.
It’s chaos, but the warm kind. The kind you’ll remember and cherish forever, yet also feels like the end of something and the beginning of quite literally everything else. At one point, Blair steps behind you to hang a string of fairy lights and whispers, “Okay, but seriously—imagine Gojo in this room.”
You elbow her so hard she drops a clip, your father spins around, “What was that?”
“Nothing!” You and Blair answer in unison.
Your mother laughs softly. Your father absolutely does not.
Eventually, after your bedding is on, your father stands there at the foot of your bed with his hands on his hips. A silence settles, one that says that this is real, this is happening, and this is goodbye. For now.
He checks his watch, again. He’s been doing it all morning. He has a flight to Oregon to catch—the new job he picked up right after you announced you were moving across the country. He needed the distraction, otherwise he’d be stuck in Boston all day, thinking about what you’re doing out here…and what you probably shouldn’t be doing.
He’s a commentator for College GameDay. Covering the biggest football games of the year, traveling to each host school every week, however, he should’ve left ten minutes ago. But he just can’t.
“Princess,” He says quietly, “You sure you want this?”
You nod, heart pounding with the thrill of independence, but your face softens into the kind of innocent expression that always makes him melt, and you’ve absolutely learned how to weaponize it.
“I do,” You say softly, then perfectly timed and aimed, you hit him with the, “But…do you really have to leave so soon?”
His entire chest caves in, “Oh, sweeheart…” His voice thickens immediately, “I don’t want to. I wish I could stay with you the whole day.”
Inside, you’re buzzing, thinking, please leave already. Oh my God, leave and let me live.
But outside? You look up at him with big, sad, puppy dog eyes, “I’ll miss you.”
He pulls you into a crushing hug, “I’ll miss you more,” He murmurs, “So much more. I hate the timing of this stupid College GameDay thing—I should be here helping you settle in, not rushing to the airport.”
You cling just enough to sell it, but not make him change his mind and stay, “It’s okay, daddy,” You say, ultra sweet, “You have to work.”
He sniffles, “I’ll FaceTime you from Oregon,” He promises, “Every night.”
You nod against his chest, all gentle affection while your internal monologue screams, yes, yes, yes. Commentate on football and go.
Your mom steps in next, hugging you warmly, “Call whenever you need anything. And maybe…don’t tell your father everything you’re doing.”
Your father shoots her a look of the utmost betrayal, she ignores it. Blair hugs them both dramatically, “You guys are like my second parents. I’ll miss you too.”
Then he steps away, still unwilling, still staring at you like you’re five years old heading into kindergarten instead of nearly nineteen. He wipes his palms on his jeans and breathes out shakily, “Okay. Okay, I can do this. You’ll be fine. You’ll be safe. Blair, keep her away from—”
“Boys?” She fills in the blank.
“Exactly.”
You almost laugh as he heads for the door, pauses, and looks back one last time, “You sure you’ll be okay without me?”
You nod sweetly, oh so, so sweetly, “I’ll manage.”
Resigned, he gives you one last look and disappears down the hallway with your mother. The moment they’re gone, Blair turns to you, deadpan, “Oh, you are one evil bitch.”
But you’re not pretending anymore. A slow, wicked grin spreads across your face, one you’ve been holding back for years, “Blair,” You breathe, “I am finally free.”
And somewhere down Greek Row, in a house with bass shaking the floorboards, a brother with white hair and blazing blue eyes checks his phone, seeing the group chat’s new messages.
sig chi or die
ryan: yo gojo you see the qb’s daughter?
ryan: she just moved in and she’s BADDDD
And he smiles, one full malicious intent. He hasn’t seen you yet, but he already plans to.
Blair gives you exactly ten seconds of peace after your parents leave before she turns to you, eyes manic with purpose, “Alright. Put on something slutty. We’re celebrating.”
“We literally just unpacked.”
“Exactly!” She says, already digging through her suitcase, “Sigma Chi is open for business and so are we.”
You laugh, half nerves, half adrenaline as she tosses the tiniest black skirt you’ve ever seen your way and a cropped baby tee. You catch it, then go still, because across the chest in red rhinestones it says, Let Them Eat Cunt.
“Blair.”
She beams like it’s the funniest joke on Earth, “I got it custom-made. For today. For your whore arc!”
“My dad would literally die if he saw this.”
“I know,” She says proudly, “Now put it on.”
You hesitate for only one second, then slide both the shirt and skirt on. The moment you do, Blair makes a strangled noise, “Oh my God, bitch. The guys are going to lose their fucking minds.”
You look at yourself in the mirror; skirt so short it could be considered a napkin, rhinestoned filth across your boobs, lips perfectly glossed and instead of nerves, a spark catches in your bloodstream. This is what you’ve been waiting for.
“Yes,” You murmur, adjusting the hem, “They will.”
Blair freezes, “Oh? Oh?”
“Blair,” You say, meeting her eyes in the mirror, “I didn’t move across the country to behave.”
She shrieks into her palms, “You are out for blood tonight.”
“Dick, actually,” You correct calmly, “I’m out for dick.”
Her soul leaves her body, “Oh my God—yes! Say it again!”
“I want to get drunk,” You explain, “I want a hot guy. And I want to erase the last eighteen years of being babysat.”
Blair is feigning tears, “This is everything I’ve ever prayed for. I feel like a mother watching her child blossom into a slutty flower.”
“Let’s bloom, then,” You grab your phone, keys, and head for the door without a semblance of doubt.
Blair scrambles after you, “Wait, slow down—!”
“I have places to be,” You coo, already striding down the hallway.
“We haven’t even pregamed!”
“Sig Chi has alcohol,” She laughs manically at that and follows you outside into the California heat.
The walk over is brutally short, every step feels like peeling off another layer of innocence, the music from Greek Row growing louder, deeper, and dirtier. Blair bumps your shoulder, grinning slyly, “You know…he’s probably there. This is his frat.”
You already know who she’s referring to…Gojo. Again with this guy?
You roll your eyes fondly, “Blair, you haven’t even seen him.”
“Oh, but on TikTok I have,” She says, “And trust me—foreign rich boys? They’re always the ones who fuck like they’ve got something to prove.”
That piques your interest. Maybe, just maybe you’d have to find that one out for yourself.
You round the corner and Sig Chi rises ahead of you. Three stories in all its glory, music blaring, people spilling across the lawn, lights pulsing behind the windows.
Blair squeezes your hand, wicked grin glued to her face, “Okay. Deep breath, babe. Act natural.”
“I am natural.”
“Not with you wearing that shirt.”
You scoff as you step inside and the frat swallows you whole. It’s loud and cramped, bodies swaying under LED lights, the smell of beer and flavored vape clouds hanging in the air. A table of jungle juice sits in the corner, multiple couples are making out aggressively against walls, and then, you see him.
You don’t even realize it’s him at first, you just register—absurdly tall, insanely built, ocean eyes, broad shoulders, cut-off muscle tee showing biceps carved by God himself, LA Dodgers snapback backwards on his white hair, laughing lazily with two girls hanging off him like decorations.
So, this is the infamous Satoru Gojo. No wonder why he runs USC. He’s hot as fuck and knows it. He’s leaning against the kitchen island like it’s his throne, until one of the brothers near him nudges his shoulder, “Yo, QB’s daughter just walked in.”
Gojo doesn’t react immediately, he never does. Instead, he finishes whatever joke he was saying, grinning, dimples deep, girls giggling into his ribs.
Then, slowly, he looks up. The moment his eyes find you? Everything stops. The flirting, the talking, the lazy smile—gone.
His mouth parts just a little, eyes raking down your body, the skirt, your legs, and then eventually stopping right on your shirt. For a split second, he genuinely looks stunned, but then?
Oh, he smirks. A slow, sinful curl of his lips like all of his dreams have finally come true.
You don’t answer, because he isn’t just staring. He’s studying, recognizing, and realizing. He knows who you are, everyone does. You’re the football dynasty princess, Boston royalty, a girl whose father could call the dean of USC directly and have a frat shut down in ten minutes flat.
And yet, here you are. In that shirt, in his house, looking like trouble he suddenly, desperately wants.
A girl he wants to ruin before anyone else has the chance to.
He straightens up from the counter and sheds the girls clinging to him without a second glance. They look confused and annoyed, but he doesn’t give a shit. He was never one to care about girls’ feelings anyway.
His eyes stay locked on you. Blair inhales sharply, “Oh my God—he clocked you. He fully clocked you, bitch.”
You swallow as he continues to stare, smirk, and look at your shirt like he wants to frame it above his bed. Then, he murmurs something to the guys beside him, still not breaking eye contact, and you feel it—the shift, the moment the king of Sig Chi decides he’s going to make you his next conquest.
Blair elbows you, “I swear to God if you don’t at least talk to him—”
“Blair—”
“No, shut the fuck up. I’m your wingwoman. I’m morally obligated to get you laid.”
You exhale, pulse electric, heat flickering under your skin as Gojo starts to move. Not toward you yet, but closer. Circling, watching, like a wolf that noticed the rabbit wasn’t scared of him.
You catch his eyes again, sharp blue under the brim of his backwards hat, and this time, he tilts his head. Acknowledgment, interest, amusement, and mouths something. Blair grips your arm, “What did he say?”
You gulp because you know exactly what he said. Two simple words, as clear as day, “Nice shirt.”
Her grip on your arm grows so taut your circulation stops, “Okay, holy shit. We need to get drinks right now or I’m going to pass out.”
You let her drag you toward the jungle juice table, but you feel his eyes following you. Every step you take, every sway of your skirt, his gaze is glued to it like he’s trying to memorize your movements.
Blair shoves a cup into your hand and whispers, “He’s coming over. I repeat, he is coming over!”
“Don’t look,” You whisper back.
“I’m not,” She lies, staring directly at him.
You take a sip of the juice; sweet, disgusting, perfect, and then, Gojo appears. He leans one shoulder against the wall beside the drinks table, arms crossing slowly, biceps flexing under his cut-off tee, snapback still backwards, silver-white hair falling into his eyes. He’s taller up close, annoyingly so, towering even with the casual slouch.
He looks at your face first, then your shirt again, and smirks, “Bold choice,” He drawls, voice low and painfully self-assured, “You always introduce yourself with your chest, or is tonight special?”
Blair chokes on her drink, you swallow, “It’s a shirt, not a dissertation.”
He grins, cocky and fucking lethal, “Could’ve fooled me,” He murmurs, eyes dipping to your bare stomach, your hips, your legs, “That thing’s doing a lot of talking.”
Your heart flips, but you refuse to fold so soon, “Then stop staring at it.”
He laughs, quiet, dangerously pleased, and drags his eyes upward until they lock directly with yours, “Oh, princess,” He says softly, like he already knows the nickname from his mouth will ruin you, “I’m not staring at the shirt.”
Your breath hitches as Gojo’s tongue slides across the inside of his cheek before he tilts his head, diverting conversation, “You’re new.”
“Freshman.”
“No shit,” His smile widens, “I meant new as in…no one here’s touched you yet.”
Blair coughs so violently she has to turn away, your cheeks heat, “Why would you assume that?”
He shrugs, bending slightly to dip his cup in the jungle juice bowl, filling it lazily, eyes never leaving you, “Because I’ve never seen guys on my lawn look so fucking scared.”
“Scared?”
His smirk grows, possessive and knowing, “They were staring at you like you’re a grenade with the pin half-pulled. Pretty skirt, filthy shirt, famous daddy?” He takes a slow sip of his drink, “Yeah. They’re terrified.”
You open your mouth, but he steps closer, close enough that you can smell his cologne—clean, expensive, a bit woodsy. His voice drops to something only you can hear, “But I’m not.”
Your pulse stutters and he notices, of course he does. He’s got girls’ body language down to a fucking tee. He leans in, lips grazing the shell of your ear, “You walk into my house wearing that,” He whispers, “And you really think I’m letting anyone else talk to you first?”
Your soul leaves your body. He pulls back just a bit, eyes locking onto yours again, darkened now and unblinking; his smirk softens as he nods to the crowd, “Guys are already looking,” He says, almost dismissive, “Thinking about walking over.”
He lifts your chin with one knuckle, light as a tease, heavy as a claim, “But they’re not going to.”
Your lips part, “Why not?”
Gojo smiles, wicked, "Because you’re talking to me.”
Something hot shivers down your spine. Blair, silently screams in triumph. Gojo watches your reaction like he wants to eat it almost as much as he wants to eat you.
Then he lowers his voice even further, “And if any other guy touches you tonight?” He taps the rim of his cup against your, a subtle clink, “They’re dead.”
Your heart slams against your ribs, he smirks again, “You don’t even get what that shirt’s doing to people,” He says, leaning back just slightly to give you a moment to breathe, but not space to escape, “But it’s okay. I’ll show you.”
Your mouth goes dry. He straightens up, flicks his eyes over your legs one more time, and adds softly, “Stay where I can see you.”
Then he walks off, not far, but far enough to make you watch and to tell every brother and guy in the house that you’re his.
Not yet. Not fully. But don’t even fucking try.
Blair is still gripping your arm like a talon when Gojo strolls off, leaving you breathless, dazed, and partially frenzied.
“Holy shit,” Blair hisses, “Okay. Okay. We need more alc immediately. You need to ride the confidence wave.”
“I’m…pretty sure confidence isn’t my problem right now.”
“No,” She agrees, dragging you toward the bar counter, “Your problem is wanting to climb that man like a tree, but that’s what vodka is for. Loosen up, be the slut you were born to be.”
You snort so hard you almost trip. The kitchen island is cluttered with liquor bottles, chasers, cups, and three guys already pouring shots.
Blair slaps her palms on the counter, announcing way too proudly, “This is my best friend! She is having her slut awakening tonight, if you care!”
“Blair—!”
They shout like they’ve just been told USC won the national championship. One of them, a blond with aviators on indoors, grins at you, “You taking shots or you just gonna stand there and look hot?”
Blair gasps, offended on your behalf. You roll your eyes and reach for the Tito’s bottle. Blond aviators whistles, “Oh, she’s going straight for the hard stuff.”
Blair squeals, “Oh, sweetheart, you have no idea.”
You raise the bottle, “Wait—” Blair warns.
Too late, you’re already taking a deep, burning, reckless swig. The kitchen collectively screams and you cough once, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, “Fuck.”
Blair smacks the counter, beaming, “Yes! That’s my best friend!”
Someone shoves a red cup into your hand, another chanting, “Chug! Chug! Chug!”
So you do, because why the hell not? This moment has been eighteen years in the making and the drink is warm, disgusting, and makes your head pleasantly light.
Blair hops onto the counter, already dancing, “I am so proud of you!”
Guys around you start cheering harder, forming a half-circle as if you’re performing, and you laugh—dizzy and loud.
For the first time in your life, you’re not a quarterback’s daughter with curfews and rules and expectations. You’re just a girl in a filthy shirt getting worshipped by a kitchen full of frat brothers.
One leans in, too close, grinning, “So, uh—you rushing? Because we were thinking—”
Another cuts him off, slinging an arm around his shoulders, “—thinking we should make you Sig Chi’s sweetheart.”
Blair snaps her gaze to you, giggles erupting, “Oh my God, (Y/N), they’re already trying to crown you.”
The first guy leans closer, bold with liquid courage, “You’d run this place.”
“Yeah?” You tease, voice looser than normal, “What would I get out of it?”
He smirks, “Priority at every party. Your own room. Free booze. And—”
Before you can even smile, a low voice cuts through the kitchen like a knife, “Who the fuck told you idiots you could talk to her?”
Gojo stands in the doorway, cup in hand, expression blank and walks in with the crowd parting for him like the Red Sea, “You boys drunk or just dumb as fuck?”
“Gojo, we were—”
“Don’t speak,” He snaps, stepping closer, “You think you can ‘crown’ girls now? Offer them rooms? Priority access?" He laughs once, “You can’t even organize a mixer without me holding your hands.”
One brother stiffens, “Gojo, come on—”
Gojo turns his head slowly, “You interrupting me?” The guy goes pale, Gojo’s voice drops, “As active brothers you’re supposed to know the rules,” He nods over toward you, “And rule number one—you don’t approach girls I’m watching.”
A ripple flows through the kitchen, “G-Gojo—”
“Probation,” He replies simply, “All three of you,” Their faces drop, “No parties. No tailgates. No socials. You’re on cleanup duty for two weeks with the Pledges.”
The room detonates with whispers, “And if you ever look at her again? I’ll pull your letters myself,” They stare at him horrified, “Now, get the fuck out of my kitchen.”
The brothers scatter like roaches and Gojo turns to you, “Having fun?” He asks, voice warm again, teasing the way only danger could.
“M-Maybe.”
He steps closer; his knee brushes your thigh, the scent of his cologne wraps around your spine, and the buzz of the vodka evaporates from how stupid hot this is, “I thought I told you to stay where I could see you.”
Your heart jumps, heat rushing straight into your stomach, “I didn’t go anywhere.”
His eyes flick down your body, slow and deliberate, “Oh, you went everywhere,” He says, “Guys over here. Guys over there. Taking shots on my counter like you’re trying to get a reaction.”
Blair is wheezing into her cup somewhere behind you. You lift your chin, “What—did it bother you?”
His jaw ticks, just once, but you feel it like a pulse under your skin. He steps closer, body angling into yours, hand coming down beside your hip on the counter. He’s caging you in without even touching.
“It bothered me,” He says quietly, “How much fun you were having without me,” Your stomach churns, his voice drops further, “Didn’t like seeing other guys look at you like that.”
“You told them off,” You remind him.
“I shouldn’t have had to.”
Your mouth opens, he watches you react—your pulse, your breathing, and soaks it up like it feeds him, “You’re drunk,” He says, eyes glinting, “But you’re not stupid.”
“Meaning…?”
He leans in, lips brushing your jaw, “Meaning you know exactly what you’re doing.”
Your thighs press together on instinct and he catches it, something daring flickers across his expression; hunger, annoyance, restraint, then he nods toward the staircase, “Come with me.”
“Where?”
He smirks in the way he always does before hooking up with girls, “Upstairs.”
Your breath falters, “Why?”
He takes your wrist gently, shockingly gentle for someone with such big hands, and pulls you away from the counter. His thumb slides across your pulse point, “You want me to say it?”
You shouldn’t. You really, really shouldn’t. But you nod.
His eyes drag down to your shirt again, bold letters across your chest, daring the world. He lifts his gaze back to yours, “Because, princess…” He murmurs, voice an unholy whisper, “…I wanna do what your shirt says.”
Your knees nearly give and Gojo’s hand tightens on your wrist, “Come upstairs,” He says again, firmer this time, “Before I do something stupid right here.”
You don’t think or even breathe, you just let him lead you through the kitchen, past the music, up the stairs; his hand warm and unyielding around yours, every step feeling like the point of no return, and everyone watches.
Because the king of Sig Chi just bagged the coveted QB’s daughter.
Gojo hears all their whispered words, but they don’t affect him. He just smirks over his shoulder, hand still wrapped around your wrist, doing what he’s done almost a hundred times before, and keeps walking.
Up the stairs, down the hall, past guys who stop talking just to watch you go. You can feel the attention, the shock, the rumors already spreading like wildfire and the second the door to his room shuts, he’s on you.
His mouth crashes onto yours before your back even hits the door, one hand sliding into your hair, the other gripping your waist and dragging you closer until there’s no space between you. Your hands fist in the hem of his shirt; he groans into your mouth, the sound dark, low, sinful.
And then Gojo doesn’t walk you to the bed, no. He throws you onto it. One push to your hips and you fall back onto his mattress, bouncing once; he stands at the edge for a second, just looking at you, chest rising, jaw tight, like he’s trying not to pounce too fast.
Then he laughs under his breath. A quiet, disbelieving sound. He’s had all types of girls on this bed—sorority girls, party girls, girls who begged for his attention, but none of them ever looked like this.
His shirt rides up as he pulls his hat off to run a hand through his hair, eyes raking over every inch of you. The skirt pushed high, the lewd baby tee, your glossy lips parted from panting.
You’re not like the others…you’re worse. You’re a good girl, not his usual type, not ran through; temptation he was never supposed to touch, the quarterback’s daughter with the perfect reputation, and the perfect face, and the perfect body he’s dying to destroy.
His laughter fades, replaced by something darker and hungrier as he steps closer, eyes dragging over you like he’s choosing which part of you to ruin first.
“Yeah,” He murmurs, tone dropping, “I knew you’d look good on my bed.”
Then his hands, big and unforgiving, close around your thighs. He drags you down the mattress in one smooth, brutal pull, your skirt sliding up high on your hips, your breath punching out of your lungs.
Your ass hits the edge of the bed, legs falling open for him on instinct. Gojo inhales sharply like the sight of you hurts him, “Fuck,” He breathes, half a laugh, half a groan, “You’re gonna kill me.”
He doesn’t climb onto the bed, doesn’t join you, he just stands there, looming, tall and broad, with his thumbs pressed into the soft inner curve of your thighs; pushing them wider until the stretch borders on obscene.
You can feel your pulse now, between your legs, desperate and unable to ignore. He looks down at you like he’s about to pray to whatever god put you in front of him or ruin you for sport. You can’t distinguish the two.
His fingers hook into the sides of your panties, “Lift.”
You obey in an instant; he slides them down your legs slowly, savoring the reveal, until they hit the floor with a soft thud.
The second he sees you, bare and already wet for him, his jaw flexes, “Jesus Christ,” He mutters, running a hand through white strands to control himself, “You’re soaked.”
Heat floods your face at the sight, at the words, and he smirks because he can tell, “Shy now?” He teases, “You wore that shirt and came to my frat but this—” His thumb barely grazes the inside of your thigh, nearly touching where you want him, “—this is what makes you flush?”
You try to speak, but he doesn’t let you. Instead, he bends deliberately slow, bringing his mouth closer until his breath hits your skin. Your thighs tense, it only makes him grip them harder, “Relax,” He coos, eyes lifting to yours from between your legs, “I’m gonna take care of you.”
You don’t get a chance to register anything, he leans in and licks one long, slow stripe up your pussy—so slow you swear he’s doing it just to see how flustered you’ll get from the first touch alone.
Your head falls back against the sheets and he laughs, a soft, smug sound that vibrates right into your core, “Taste so good,” He mutters, already going back in for more, “Knew you would.”
And then he loses himself. His hands slide under your thighs, lifting your hips off the edge of the bed, dragging you closer until your knees are hooked over his shoulders and his mouth is pressed fully against your sopping cunt.
He eats you like a man starved, deprived, one that’s been waiting for this ever so patiently, and one whose life mission is to ruin you for every man who could ever come after him. His tongue flicks and circles and presses, “Satoru—”
He groans, the sound reverberating so deep your body shudders, “Say it again,” He says between licks, “Fuck, say my name again.”
You do, over and over, because you simply can’t not.
He tightens his grip on you, holding you still as he sucks your clit with a filthy reverence, and your back arches so hard your vision spots. Your legs try to close on instinct, but he doesn’t allow it. Gojo pushes your thighs wider with his shoulders, pinning you open without even trying.
“Yeah…” He murmurs into your skin, breath so hot it makes you twitch, “Keep ‘em open for me.”
He dips his head again, sucking your clit into his mouth with a force that knocks a cry out of you and you try to wiggle away from the intensity, but he stops you.
He growls, a low warning, fingertips digging into your thighs, “Oh no, you’re not running from this,” His voice drops, rough, entertained, and mean, “Daddy’s princess doesn’t get to run.”
Your body jolts like he slapped you and he feels it; pausing for a second, his lips still brush your folds as he lifts those piercing blues to watch your reaction. A smirk cuts across his face.
“Oh my fucking God,” He breathes, “You liked that shit.”
You try to lie, “I—no.”
But you did like it. Some depraved, twisted part of you liked it.
He laughs, delighted, “Yeah? You denying it?” He gives your cunt another slow lick, “Cause your pretty pussy’s kinda telling me everything I need to know.”
Your face burns with shame, unable to stop the shrill sound that falls out of you. He groans, guttural and hungry, “Holy shit—daddy’s good little girl getting off on being talked to like a slut?”
He moves closer to whisper directly on your skin, your lashes flutter from the warmth, “Guess daddy’s girl isn’t so good anymore.”
You can’t stop yourself from reacting to that, your hands yank his hair hard and he moans straight into your cunt at the pull, “Ohh fuck yeah,” He hisses, “Give me that again, princess.”
You tug him once more, pushing him deeper into your core; your voice comes out small and shaky, “Don’t…wanna be good…” Gojo tenses, your next words fracture on a whisper that will haunt him forever, “…just wanna be good for you.”
That line sends him into a frenzy, his mouth crashes back onto you sloppily—tongue working like he wants to drag that confession out of you again, sucking your clit with a messy, perfect pressure that shatters your thoughts.
He holds you open as he devours you; there’s no rhythm to it at all, just a man fully out of his fucking mind.
“Satoru—Toru—” Your voice cracks as your orgasm slams through you with a force you didn’t think possible.
And he groans like your pleasure pleases him, licking you through the entire climax, refusing to let go of you until you collapse onto the mattress, trembling.
When you do, he pulls back slowly; face glazed, breathing erratic, eyes wild, “Fuck,” He whispers, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “Need to be inside you.”
He doesn’t waste a minute, lifting you by the hips again both effortlessly and possessively, he drags you up the bed until your head hits his pillows.
“Goddamn, look at you,” He sneers, hovering, “Already fucked dumb and I haven’t even put my cock in you yet.”
You whimper helplessly as he’s already lining himself up; thick, flushed, heavy in his fist, and pushes in, sinking inch by inch into a pussy so tight his eyes flutter shut.
“Ahh—fuck, princess,” His voice wavers, “You’re gripping me—fucking gripping my shit already—”
He tries to breathe properly, but fails miserably, “God, you’re so fuckin’ tight. Feels insane.”
He pulls out, pushes back in deeper this time, and your cry is instant. It’s music to his ears, “Yeah…that’s it. Take it. All of it.”
His pace builds, slow at first, then faster, angling to hit the spot that makes your nails drag down his back. When you clamp around him, his breath stutters, “Oh my God—don’t do that shit,” His hips jerk without his permission, “Fuck, I’m trying to pull out—I’m trying.”
But he’s not. He’s lying.
You feel it in the way he grips your thighs harder, his hips snapping deeper, the shudder that runs down his spine like he’s fighting himself.
“Toru—”
He cuts you off with a broken groan, “I’m trying to pull out, I swear. But your pussy—shit, won’t let me.”
Your walls clench around him again and he grunts, forehead pressing to your cheek, “Princess—stop squeezing, fuck.”
He tries to pull back this time. He really does, but he can’t. You’re too warm, too tight, and way too fucking wet from how good he ate you out.
“Oh—no, no, no,” He chokes out, “Fuck—I can’t, I can’t.”
His thrusts turn frantic and the filth spills right out of him, “Shit, I-I’m gonna cum—inside,” His hips slam into yours, desperate, “Can’t pull out. Fuck, I can’t—pussy won’t let me.”
Your nails claw into him now, so hard it’s certain to leave marks, and that’s what ends him, “Fuck,” He drags the word out, burying himself all the way to the hilt, and cums right inside you.
Spilling into you in long, uncontrollable pulses, hot and thick. He groans into your neck, “God—fuck, fuck, princess—cummin’ in you—so deep, shit.”
Each spurt drags another sound out of him, almost pained with a hint of reverence; his hips keep spasming and he stuffs himself deeper, like he can’t help it.
When you finally finish milking him dry, he lifts his head, looks down between your bodies, and sees it.
Where he’s still inside you, how full you are, a ring of white already gathering around the base of his cock and something shifts in him, “…Holy fuck.”
You blink, dazed, “What?”
He doesn’t hear you at all, eyes glued to the sight of you stretched around him, dick nestled in you like it belongs there. His tone drops into something low and stunned, “I—I really came in you.”
You nod weakly, out of breath, “Mhm.”
He swallows hard, but doesn’t pull out. Instead, he presses in even deeper, like he needs to feel it one more time. You gasp and he throws his head back, “Oh my God…” He mutters, almost to himself, “…it’s so warm.”
He runs his hand down your stomach, stopping right above where he’s still buried. Then he pushes gently, just enough to feel his load shift deeper, and you whimper.
“Shit…” His voice is nothing but pure, filthy awe, “I’ve never…fuck, I’ve never done that before. I don’t even fuck raw.”
You expect panic, but what hits him is the opposite. A wave of feral, possessive pleasure that lights up every neuron in his brain. He exhales shakily, eyes flicking up to yours with an emotion that looks close to worship.
“Princess…” He’s smiling, a crooked one, “That felt fucking incredible.”
Your stomach flips, because he’s right. It really fucking did.
He lifts your thigh higher on his hip like he wants to see everything and have this visual burned into his mind forever, “Fuck…” He whispers, chest rising faster, “You took all of it.”
His fingers gently spread you open around him, his cum spills out just a little, and he moans, “Ohh, fuck—look at that…” A soft laugh falls from his lips. You’ve never seen a man look so corrupted by his own desire.
But then, reality slaps him across the face, “Oh shit. Shit, shit, wait—no, no, no—” He drags a trembling hand through his mussed hair, expression fracturing between pleasure and dread, “—I cannot believe I just fucking did that.”
“Satoru—”
He cuts you off, still staring at the wetness leaking around him, “I mean…That was fuckin’ crazy—like way too good. Scary good. I get it now.”
Your pulse trips, “But also—” He finally pulls out and when more of his cum spills onto the sheets he moans again, “Fuck, okay—we need to go. Now. Like now-now.”
You raise a brow, “You’re freaking out?”
His eyes snap up to you, “Do I look like I’m freaking out?” He gestures at your pussy, “I just creampied the girl whose dad could literally shut down our chapter. Of fucking course I’m freaking out.”
But then he pauses, glancing down at you, your thighs, the mess between them, and something hot flickers back onto his face, “Not gonna lie though…it looked really fucking good.”
Heat floods your cheeks and he smirks, clapping his hands once decisively, “Okay. Get up. We need a Plan B before I start thinking with my dick again.”
You’re still trembling, the last of his load spilling out onto the sheets, and he stares at it—at you, for a second too long, chest rising like he’s physically restraining himself from going back inside.
But then he steps away, fast, a black hoodie already in his grip when he barks out, “Up. Now.”
You’re in a haze, legs barely working, but his urgency snaps you out of it. You sit up, shaking, pulling your skirt and panties back into place.
Gojo’s already dressed, hoodie thrown over his head, white tendrils sticking out, jaw clenched so hard you can see the muscle twitch, “Satoru…”
His sharp eyes cut to you, wide from leftover adrenaline, “Not now,” He says quietly, “We can’t talk right now.”
Because he’ll lose it and he’s hardening again, even with his cum leaking out of you, “Let’s go.”
You barely get your shoes on before he’s grabbing your hand and leading you out the room, down the stairs, and through the pulsing music, ignoring every brother who tries to high-five him and every girl who wants to touch him.
He’s too wound up and aware of the possibility sitting warm between your legs.
Outside, the cool west coast air hits, but it does nothing to help him. His grip stays taut on your hand, guiding you quickly down the sidewalk, away from Sig Chi and anyone who might see him like this.
He doesn’t speak to you, not once, but you can hear his uneven breathing and every few steps he mumbles something nearly inaudible.
“Fucking dumbass…”
“Should’ve pulled…”
“Evil ass pussy…”
However, thank God for college towns and their love for twenty-four hour pharmacies; a CVS sign glows bright up ahead and Gojo moves quicker, beelining it with you in tow.
Once inside, he pauses at the automatic doors, lifting his hood higher to shield his face, then walks straight to the family planning aisle. He doesn’t hesitate, there’s no need to browse or think, he just grabs the Plan B box so fast the air moves with it and heads for self-checkout.
No cashiers, no chance for eye contact, no witnesses. He’d rather be shot dead than caught lacking like this. If anyone found out that Satoru Gojo had a weak ass pull-out game, he’d lose all sense of power on campus.
He scans the box with tottering hands, grabs a bottle of water from the mini cooler next to the register, pays in cash, and throws the receipt away as soon as it prints. Only then, does he finally look at you, “Come on.”
The two of you make it maybe ten steps outside before he’s gnawing the Plan B box open with his teeth. He places the tiny pill in your hand and shoves the water at you, “Take it.”
He watches every centimeter of movement; the pill hitting your tongue, the rim of the bottle on your lips, and the bob of your throat when it’s all swallowed.
When it’s done, his shoulders fall, showing you how fucking scared he actually was, “Okay…” He murmurs, nodding, “Okay. Crisis averted.”
But then you shift your weight and his gaze drops to your legs, the memory of how you squeezed around him hits, “…Fuck.”
“What?”
His voice is quieter now, “You look way too good right now for someone I almost got pregnant.”
You laugh softly, but he doesn’t. There’s not even a flicker of amusement behind those bright eyes. He steps closer though, hand lifting to your face, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, “Come here.”
Gojo tilts your chin up, scanning all of your features with that same predatory focus he had right before he got on his knees for you. Then, he speaks like he’s laying down scripture. A speech he’s given to hundreds of girls before, you’re sure.
“Alright, princess. We need to set some ground rules.”
“Rules?”
His thumb grazes your lip, “Number one,” He says, tone steady, “This is just sex. Nothing more.”
You gulp as he continues, “Number two. I will never be your boyfriend.”
That one stings for reasons unknown. You nod anyway, “Number three. You don’t ask who I’m seeing.”
So he still plans on seeing other girls. Okay.
“Number four…” He steps closer, so close you think he might kiss you, “…when I want you, I get you.”
The way he says it makes your stomach flip violently, “And number five,” He adds, “You don’t let any other guy touch you like I did tonight.”
He can fuck other girls, but you can’t fuck other guys? The fuck?
“Why not?”
His eyes burn into yours, “Because you told me you wanted to be good for me…and I’m holding you to it.”
Then just like that, he steps back, shoving his hands into his pockets, hood still up, fully composed frat boy again, “Got it? Okay, cool,” He rushes, “I’ll text you.”
“That’s it?”
“Yup,” He pops the p, starts walking backward, eyes dragging over your entire body one last time, “Night, princess.”
And turns away, leaving you standing under the glow of the CVS sign like some whore he used, legs shaking, heart pounding, and the worst part about it all? You still want him and still want more.
Freedom like this is too much fun.
But you tell yourself you won’t text him back. This was a one-time thing, you needed to get it out of your system as a repressed daddy’s girl. That you’re not the type who gets addicted to a frat boy she met at a party, no matter how hot he looks or how good he fucks.
Yeah…that lie lasts about less than twenty-four hours. Because the next night, at 12:47 A.M., your phone buzzes.
satoru: open your dorm window
You blink at the message, confused, until headlights sweep across the courtyard, bright, white-blue, and unmistakable—his Porsche.
Blair is already asleep beside you, your heart’s sprinting. You slide the window open to peek out and there he is, leaned against the hood, hoodie up, hands in his pockets, looking at your window like he knew you’d listen.
He lifts his chin, “Come down.”
He doesn’t say please or explain further and you go, of course you go.
The next time you see him, it’s in your dorm room. And it starts with kissing—always kissing.
He’s got you pinned against the inside of your locked door, hands under your ass, lifting you like you weigh nothing, grinding you against the thick outline in his sweats with a low, starved sound in his throat.
“Missed this,” He mutters, lips on your neck, “Missed you.”
You don’t have time to decipher the meaning before your phone rings. Your dad’s contact photo lights up the screen.
You freeze, but Gojo doesn’t. He looks at it, then at you, and smirks evilly, “Answer it.”
“Toru—” But he’s already dropping to his knees.
Your phone quivers in your hand as you swipe to accept the call, “Hi, princess,” Your dad’s voice comes through, “How was your first few nights in the dorms?”
Gojo pushes your skirt up, your pulse skyrockets as you force a steady tone, “G-Good. Umm. Really good.”
He drags your panties down with agonizing slowness, eyes locked onto yours the entire time, enjoying every ounce of panic flickering across your sweet face.
“That’s good to hear,” Your father continues, “You settling in okay? Eating enough? Staying safe?”
Gojo’s mouth touches you and you nearly drop the phone. His tongue slides through your folds, deliberate and slow, savoring you like he’s got all the time in the world.
You bite your lip so hard you taste blood, “Mhm,” You manage, “I’m—Dad, I’m—I’m very safe.”
Gojo laughs softly against your pussy, “Good girl,” he murmurs, too quietly for anyone but you to hear and sucks your clit into your mouth.
Your voice breaks into the speaker, “What was that?” Your dad asks suddenly.
“N-Nothing!” You choke out, breathless, “Just—Just moving…something.”
Gojo looks up at you, eyes blazing, pupils dilated, and pride dripping from his smirk as he ruins your composure with the lightest touch of his tongue. You end up cumming so hard you have to mute yourself.
When you hang up, Gojo wipes his mouth with his thumb and stands, kissing you deeply, giving you a taste. Then he whispers on your lips, “Next time you say you’re safe…you’re gonna tell him that I’m the one keeping you that way.”
You don’t know whether that’s true or the biggest lie you’ve ever heard.
And the next time after that happens three nights later. You’re wearing tiny shorts and a tank top when he texts.
satoru: out front
satoru: now
You slide into the passenger seat of his 911 and the smell of him, clean and sharp, wraps around you immediately.
He doesn’t even say hi. His hand is in your hair before you finish closing the door; he’s pulling you over the console, kissing you with the same urgency as the first night.
Then he leans back in his driver’s seat, spreads his legs, and nods down at his lap, “Need your mouth,” He breathes, strained like he hasn’t gotten off in months instead of last night with some other girl, “Now, princess.”
And you give him it, because you’re somehow already gone for him and want to see what you can do. He grips your hair while you throat him deeper and deeper, until he’s cursing under his breath in Japanese and dragging a shaky hand over his mouth.
God, you fucking love it when he does that.
“Fuck—baby, baby, wait—” He pulls you off his throbbing cock, kisses you hard, and pushes your panties to the side, “Get on top.”
You straddle him and he drags you onto his dick in one long, devastating push. The car rocks as his hands grab everywhere—your hips, ass, waist, guiding you, using you, groaning into your neck.
“Mmm, that’s it—ride me,” He whispers, “Show me how bad you want it.”
You ride him until the windows fog and the V6 engine ticks with residual heat. He cums on your stomach with his face buried into your chest; a low, wrecked moan muffled against your skin.
That same weekend, there’s a night where he pulls you into a dark hallway at Sig Chi during a party. He pushes you against the wall without warning and slides into you from behind, hand clamped over your mouth.
The bass of house music is pounding, the hallway is thankfully empty, your skirt is bunched around your waist, and he fucks you slow and deep—like he’s trying to memorize the exact way your cunt clenches around him.
“You’re so fuckin’ addictive,” He breathes into your ear, “Gonna end up wearing you out every night.”
You don’t doubt it.
A week later, you’re in your communal dorm bathroom when you see it—blood. Thank the fucking Lord. The Plan B had worked.
You text him two words.
period came
Four minutes later he responds.
satoru: i’m here
You barely have time to lie down before he’s on top of you, mouth everywhere, voice rough with relief, “Good girl…” He murmurs against your stomach, “Fucking good girl.”
Then he pushes two fingers into you and you arch your back, whining. He smiles into your neck like it’s the best thing he’s heard, “Celebration sex,” He decides, “C’mere.”
Period? He does not care whatsoever. He fucks you like you’re his reward, and you let him.
But one morning, you catch him staring. Not at your tits or ass or mouth—at you and your face, something beneath your skin he’s trying and failing to deny.
He looks away fast, jaw tight, hoodie pulled up like he’s hiding from a fact inside himself and you pretend not to see it.
Because you know if you acknowledge it and name the thing growing between you, what you and him have will stop being fun and become dangerous.
Though the truth lingers in the air the next time he texts you at 1:03 A.M.
satoru: want you
And your fingers answer before your brain does.
come get me
He comes quickly.
Ten minutes after your text, his Porsche glides to a stop outside your dorm like it was summoned, and sends a text.
satoru: here
You’re already moving. As soon as you open the door, he grabs your jaw and kisses you before you can even sit down, pulling you into his lap like he’s starved. It’s harsher tonight.
“Always taste so fuckin’ good,” He mutters against your mouth, “Just for me, right?”
You don’t answer because you know he doesn’t need you to, it’s obvious. However, the next time he’s throwing you onto his bed, when you land on the sheets—something shifts.
There’s a scent in the air. Faint and sweet, a floral perfume you don’t wear. You don’t do floral, only gourmand fragrances. It hits you before you even spot the evidence.
There’s a hair tie on the nightstand that’s not yours, tube of lip gloss half-tucked under his pillow like it was hidden there in a hurry, a sweatshirt on the floor that definitely isn’t his.
And the worst part? He doesn’t even notice you noticing, because he’s too busy touching you.
His hands are already on your thighs, spreading them, his mouth dragging down your neck, voice thick with desire that doesn’t sound recycled or casual, “You been thinking about me all day?” He murmurs, “Thinking about how good I fuck you?”
You force yourself to swallow it down. The perfume, the hair tie, the gloss, the clothing, the ache blooming beneath your ribs.
But because you don’t answer, he grabs your jaw gently, making your eyes look into his, “Don’t get quiet on me now,” He smirks, “You’re not allowed.”
He kisses you again, filthily, and the sadness knots inside you in a way you refuse to acknowledge. Not now, not when he’s touching you and you want him this badly.
So you pretend.
You let him wreck you again, let him fuck you into the mattress with the haste of a man who can’t get enough. Although something tiny fractures within you when he flips you onto your stomach and you see the lip gloss again.
You shut your eyes, a yelp breaking from you as you try to imagine that it was never there.
Then four days later, you’re the one who texts first. You hate yourself for it, but you can’t help it.
you busy?
Delivered with no response.
Ten minutes pass, then twenty, then an hour.
You throw your phone aside, furious for caring in the first place. You knew what you were getting into from the moment you let a guy like Satoru Gojo fuck you.
Blair, who’s sitting in her bed beside you, glances at your expression and raises a brow, “Him again?”
You lie, “No.”
Two more hours pass and nothing. Your stomach twists with something awful and sharp because you know exactly what he’s doing. More so, who, he’s doing.
At 1:36 A.M., your phone lights up.
satoru: nah
satoru: come thru
You look at the texts, pissed off by his lack of consideration, but even more pissed by your lack of control. Because you go to him like he says.
You hear the music from the street when you arrive at Sig Chi. The house is loud and buzzing, full of energy he clearly enjoyed without you present.
He meets you at his bedroom door and the second you see him, all the oxygen leaves your lungs.
His hair is tousled under his blue snapback; his shirt is twisted, collar stretched like it was yanked. There’s a pink flush across his face, his lips look too red, like he’s been kissing for hours.
His breathing is slightly off as if his heart rate still hasn’t calmed down yet, but the room? Oh that’s the killer blow.
The sheets are tangled and half on the floor, there’s mascara smudged on his pillows, and God the trashcan ruins you. You can see multiple golden foils from where you are—condom wrappers.
And Gojo just stands there, letting you take it all in like he doesn’t even care. He watches you, blue eyes cool, leaning against the doorframe like you’re the one who kept him waiting, “You coming in?”
Your throat burns. Say no. Say no. Say fucking no.
But you step inside and the door clicks shut behind you, sealing you with the smell of a perfume that isn’t yours.
“Come here,” Gojo says.
And because you’re weak and something about him has rewired your brain, you walk closer instead of slapping him.
He hooks a finger under your chin, tilts your face up, and kisses you like he wasn’t just inside another girl before this. It’s greedy and possessive in a way he has no right to be; you let him take and take, until something within you snaps.
You push him back a step, breathing labored, “Satoru.”
He lifts a brow, already annoyed at being interrupted, “What?”
“I want…” Fuck, you hate yourself for how small it sounds, “…I want to be the only one.”
There’s dead silence in the room, but then—then he has the fucking audacity to laugh, “Oh, princess,” He coos, amusement curving his mouth as he pulls your waist against his, “That’s not how this works.”
Your stomach is in knots, the smirk is still there, “You can’t be the only one,” He says unapologetically, “But—”
His hand slides down your ass, gripping hard enough to make you gasp, “You can be my number one.”
Number one. Like you’re just barely good enough to earn the top spot on a team’s roster.
“…Your number one,” You echo.
“Yeah,” His lips brush your throat, “The one I fuck the most. The one I come back to. The one I call when I actually want it.”
You feel sick, “And what about me? Do I get anyone?”
He pulls back to look at you with eyes as sharp as knives, “No.”
The word lands like a slap, “No?”
“No,” He confirms, “You don’t let any other guy touch you. That was the deal.”
“That wasn’t a deal,” You seethe, “That was something you said after you—after you almost got me pregnant.”
He shrugs, “So? Still stands.”
Heat floods your entire face—anger, humiliation, desire, all tangled, “You’re allowed to fuck other girls,” You vocalize, “But I’m not allowed to—”
He cuts you off with a kiss so deep you forget how to breathe and when he breaks it, his voice is dangerously soft, “I don’t share.”
You swallow, pissed at yourself for the way your body always reacts to him, “And what if I don’t want to be your number one?”
Gojo smiles, “Then you wouldn’t be in my room right now.”
Your pulse trips because he’s right and you hate it. You shove him weakly, but he catches your wrists, pinning them above your head as he walks you backward toward the bed, “Don’t start pretending you don’t want this. Not after the way you moan for me.”
“Satoru—”
“You asked for the only one treatment?” He asks against your mouth, “Fine. I’ll fuck you like you’re the only girl in the world.”
He pushes you onto the mattress, “And then…I’ll remind you that you’re not.”
His tone is cruel, you’ve never heard him sound like this, and despite that fact, your body still betrays you. He drags your shorts down, mouth already on your inner thigh, kissing higher and higher, biting hard enough to leave a mark.
“Satoru—stop,” You whisper, but you don’t mean it and he knows you don’t.
His tongue licks up your folds and your back arches like you’ve been shocked. The reaction makes him laugh, “See? This pussy knows who it belongs to.”
You want to hit him, kiss him, run, and stay all at once. Your voice is barely a sound when you say, “I hate you.”
The words make him grin, “No, you don’t.”
He flips you onto your stomach before you can respond, pulling your hips up, positioning himself behind you—no condom, like always, “I’m your number one, too,” He murmurs, tip prodding your entrance, “You just don’t want to admit it.”
“Satoru—” He pushes into you in one long, ruthless stroke.
Your gasp shatters in the quiet room, “Fuck,” He groans, hands gripping your hips so tight you think they’ll bruise, “Every time—every time, you’re tighter.”
Then he fucks you like he’s proving a point, “Say it again,” He growls, “Say you want to be the only one.”
“I—I want—” You choke out, tears blurring your vision, “I want to be the only one—please—”
He moans, he actually fucking moans at that, as if your pain gives him pleasure, like he’s some sick sadist.
“Oh, princess,” He says, kissing your shoulder, “You break so pretty.”
And then he leans down just enough to whisper the nail in your coffin, “But you never will be.”
You cum around him anyway. Because you foolishly still want him, and maybe you’re some sick masochist too.
And when he finishes, pulling out of you with a quiet hiss, you think maybe he’ll soften—maybe he’ll say something real. But all he does is toss you a towel to clean yourself and grab his hat to shove it back on his head, muttering, “Close the door behind you.”
And like the dumbest bitch alive, you do.
You walk home at 3:12 A.M. with aching thighs and your heart bloodied. When you slip into your dorm, Blair is still awake with her laptop open. She looks up once, clocking everything in a single glance, “You good?”
“I’m fine,” You lie, kicking your shoes off.
She just stares and you stare back, knowing that she doesn’t believe you in the slightest, but doesn’t press.
You shower and scrub your body as if it can erase Gojo from your skin but you still feel him everywhere. Then you crawl into bed, praying you wake up a new person, but of course. You don’t.
The next morning, right as you wake, you open Instagram on autopilot, and Blair, sitting cross-legged in her bed eating dry cereal from the box looks over at you as your face goes blank.
Because on your feed is his story.
@.gojosatoru
Posted 32 minutes ago.
He’s at In-N-Out, with a blonde girl in his passenger seat, and her hand on his thigh. No caption.
Blair freezes mid-chew, “…Is that—?”
“Uh-huh.”
She leans closer, “Oh, fuck no.”
Your fingers go numb as you remember last night. He told you you were his number one, held you down, and fucked you like you belonged to him.
Now he’s posting publicly with other bitches? So as number one you can get the sex but you’re not worthy of anything else? Sure.
Blair sets her cereal aside, “Babe…are you okay?”
You fucking hate that she has to ask that. You swallow hard, “Yeah. Totally.”
She scoots closer, voice lower, “(Y/N)…he’s an asshole.”
You know, you’ve always known. But last night, in his bed, with his hands on you and his cock so deep—you forgot.
Blair studies you, then says gently, “You’re not this girl.”
Something inside you snaps back into place.
She’s right. You’re not. You’re not the girl who gets hidden, you’re not the girl he gets to fuck at 2 A.M. and replace by breakfast, and you sure as hell are not someone’s afterthought.
You inhale slowly, exhale sharply, and stand. Blair blinks, “What are you doing?”
You look her dead in the eye, “Remembering who the fuck I am.”
“And who is that?”
You don’t answer her with words. Instead, you walk over to your dresser and pull out the skimpiest bikini you own. Blair lets out a low whistle, “Damn. You’re gonna make someone crash their car.”
Putting it on, tightening the strings so it sits just right, you look at your reflection in the mirror.
The girl staring back at you isn’t the one crying over a frat boy. She’s someone else entirely; someone Satoru Gojo should have never underestimated.
You grab your phone, open your camera, and take the mirror selfie. Blair leans over your shoulder, “Caption?”
“Don’t need one,” You say with a smile, all you do is post the location of where you’ll be—Santa Monica Beach.
Oh, but you do decide to throw in a blue heart emoji, just to twist the knife. Then you hit post.
The likes come in immediately and your DMs explode. Blair’s jaw literally drops, “Oh my God, babe—TKE is already swiping up. Like, three different guys, holy shit.”
Yeah, that’s right. This is who you are.
Blair laughs with pure joy, “And guess who else viewed it?”
You don’t even ask, already knowing. Because a second later, your phone buzzes excessively.
@.gojosatoru: wtf is this pic
@.gojosatoru: delete ts
@.gojosatoru: answer your fucking phone
@.gojosatoru: (y/n)
Blair snorts, “Oh, he is so pressed.”
You slide your phone into your tote bag choosing to ignore it. He can scream into the void for all you care.
“Coming?” You ask Blair casually.
She grins, grabbing her sunglasses and keys, “Fuck, yeah I am. I ain’t missing this shit.”
You sling your towel over your shoulder and for the first time since you came to USC, you feel like yourself again, “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
You smile, “To remind him why he should’ve never posted that blonde bitch in the first place.”
You and Blair barely make it into the hallway before your phone vibrates again, but it’s not Gojo this time. It’s the TKE boys again.
tyler: u heading to santa monica?
zach: come slide we’re pregaming in the lot
kyle: we got room in the jeep if you need a ride
Blair leans over your shoulder, “Oh, we’re definitely taking the ride.”
You shouldn’t, but then you think of Gojo and how you’re done letting him dictate your life as if he’s the only one with power.
So you type back.
still at the lot?
The response is instant.
zach: still here. u look insane btw
kyle: pls come im begging
Blair cackles, “They’re literally foaming at the mouth, Jesus.”
You head downstairs and step outside into the morning California sun, the second the TKE boys see you, the whole group goes silent.
“Damn,” Tyler says, walking forward with a grin way too confident for someone who failed Econ twice, “You look…wow.”
You lift your sunglasses with one finger, giving him a lazy once-over, “Thanks. You driving?”
“Yeah,” Zach blurts before Tyler can speak, “You two riding over with us?”
You exchange a glance with Blair, “Sure.”
The boys practically beam; Tyler opens the passenger door for you and Blair slides into the middle seat, Zach sits beside her trying to play it cool.
The TKE boys are laughing, hyping each other up as music blasts through the speakers, and they glance at you like they can’t believe you’re actually coming with them.
You feel Blair tap your shoulder from behind, “You good?”
“Never better.”
But your phone keeps vibrating in your bag and you know exactly who it is.
satoru (16 missed calls)
satoru (24 messages)
You peep the last three.
satoru: where tf are u
satoru: stop ignoring me omg
satoru: seriously pick up
Blair sees the name and giggles, “He’s unraveling.”
Tyler leans over the center console, spotting the contact too, “Oh shit—Gojo’s blowing you up?”
“Yeah. Doesn’t matter.”
Zach scoffs, “Isn’t he like…obsessed with you?”
You smile sweetly, “Nah. He’s not.”
They seemed pleased with that answer and in less than twenty minutes, the Jeep rolls into the Santa Monica lot. Warm wind tangles through your hair as the ocean comes into view.
Everyone hops out quick, grabbing something to bring, but you? You step out slowly, letting the sun hit your bare shoulders and letting the boys stare unabashedly because they can’t help themselves. And God, does it feel good.
You eventually spread your towel on the sand, lay back, and get right to tanning. Everything is warm and golden, the boys crack open beers, Blair sets up the speaker playing Bad Bunny on full volume.
Tyler hands you a High Noon and you take a sip, laughing at something stupid Kyle says. And for one moment, you feel free again. But your goddamn phone won’t stop buzzing in your bag.
Blair nudges you, “You gonna check that?”
“Nope.”
She grins, “Good.”
“(Y/N)!” Tyler calls, tossing a football, “You play?”
You catch it one-handed despite being off guard, “Do you forget who my dad is?”
They laugh and so do you, but your phone still keeps popping off like a warning for what’s about to come next. Because not even ten minutes later, you hear it.
That sound, the unmistakable growl of a high-performance engine being pushed too hard. A Porsche 911 tears into the parking lot—his Porsche. Your heart plummets as Blair whispers, “No fucking way.”
The boys turn, heads all over swivel, and then he appears. Satoru Gojo steps out of the Porsche like he didn’t run five red lights on the drive here. His white tee is wrinkled to shit, blue shorts slung low on his hips, sunglasses pushed into his mussed white strands, jaw clenched so hard you see the muscle jump.
In his hand is his phone, the one he used to blow up yours, and he doesn’t walk over to you, no, he stalks. Across the sand, straight toward you with a purposeful, terrifying calm, the kind that makes groups of guys instinctively step back.
But you’re not scared in the slightest. You lift your sunglasses and meet his eyes; cold blue, laser-focused. He stops in front of your towel, shadow sprawled over your body, chest heaving like he’s on the verge of losing it.
“(Y/N),” He hardly ever uses your name, “Get up.”
You make him wait three whole seconds before you do; you stand, unbothered, brushing sand off your thighs, refusing to break eye contact. He takes a step closer, nostrils flaring, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“Pretty sure I’m sitting on a beach.”
The TKE boys shift behind you, Gojo’s eyes flick to them—Tyler holding a drink, Kyle shirtless and smiling, Zach close enough that his knee had brushed yours.
He laughs once, “With these loser cucks?”
Kyle bristles instantly, “Bro—watch your fucking mouth.”
But Gojo doesn’t spare him a glance, he keeps his eyes on you, “Deadass?” He murmurs, “This the shit you’re on now?”
You shrug, “Looks that way.”
“You ignored sixteen calls. Sixteen.”
“Yeah,” You reply, lifting your drink again, “Cause I didn’t wanna answer.”
Kyle folds his arms, “Yo, she’s busy. Maybe back up.”
Gojo turns his head just enough to look at him, “I wasn’t fucking talking to you,” Then his eyes snap back to yours, “So you’re really out here with TKE?”
“Why not?” You ask.
He scoffs, sucking his teeth, “They know that you were on my dick last night?”
Your cheeks grow hot with rage, but he wants that reaction, so you decide to give him nothing, “Thanks for the reminder. I almost forgot.”
“You forgot?” He repeats, voice tight, “After the way you were screaming my name?”
Kyle steps forward, fists clenching, “Alright, back the fuck off—”
You lift a hand, stopping him without looking away from Gojo, “No. Let him talk.”
“You’re really gonna stand here and pretend last night didn’t happen?”
“You mean the part where you said I’ll never be the only one?” You ask, titling your head, “Or the part where you posted the blonde on your story less than twelve hours later?”
His jaw ticks, “That’s what this is about?” He snaps, “A fucking story?”
“No. It’s about you thinking I’m stupid.”
“You’re jealous.”
You genuinely laugh, “No, Satoru. You’re delusional.”
His hands twitch at his sides, like he’s debating grabbing you or strangling someone. He glances at the boys again and something cold creeps into his countenance, “Answer me something.”
You raise a brow as he gestures at the guys behind you, “You fucking one of them now?”
Tyler coughs, Kyle looks away, Zach smirks like he hopes so, “Why? You care?”
Gojo steps closer, the warmth of his chest brushing the top of yours, “That’s cute. Acting like I don't."
“Go home, Satoru.”
“No.”
“It wasn’t a question.”
His gaze drags over your bikini again, “Get in the car.”
It’s sad—that some part of you almost gives in like always. Because you know that if you left now, the argument would end. It’d end with him giving you the craziest dick of your life and you back at square one; you refuse to do that again.
So, you stand taller, “No.”
A muscle in his cheek pops, “…No?”
“You heard me.”
And because Gojo can’t win with logic and can’t bear the thought of being denied for once in his life, he reaches for cruelty, “Fine…You’re cut.”
Cut. From his roster. But your voice is steady when you say, “Good.”
“Good?”
“Yeah,” You say, “Good. You did me a favor.”
Gojo’s expression flattens, “Cool. I’ll replace you in an hour.”
You take one step forward and smile, “I’ll replace you in fifteen minutes. Won’t be hard.”
The collective gasp from the boys is audible. Gojo doesn't even blink, but the vein in his neck jumps and for the first time since you’ve known him, he looks hurt. Real hurt.
He steps back, then once more, “Enjoy your day,” Adding coldly, “Princess.”
He turns and walks away, sand kicking up beneath his feet, and you don’t look after him. Not even when the Porsche engine snarls and he peels out of the lot so fast seagulls scatter.
Blair exhales, “Holy shit…I’m glad I came.”
Tyler whistles low, “Yo…you’re gonna break that dude.”
“Good,” You say, laying back down on your towel, “It’s his turn.”
But the beach doesn’t go back to normal after that. You tan, you swim once, you drink enough to feel warm, the boys continue to orbit you like planets caught in your gravitational pull, yet it's not the same.
Blair leans in at one point, whispering, “You know you don’t have to actually hook up with any of them, right?”
Right. That was the whole reason why you did this in the first place. To get revenge.
You hum, “I know.”
Though when the sun begins to set, casting amber over the waves, Kyle asks if you want to come back to the TKE house and you hear yourself say, “Sure.”
Not because you’re dying to fuck him, but because of everything Satoru Gojo did. The house is louder and dirtier than Sig Chi—bass rattles the wall, bodies are everywhere. Kyle leads you upstairs, respectful, a little nervous, but beyond eager.
Your stomach twists with anticipation, you’re finally getting your lick back. Kyle closes the bedroom door behind you, “Want a drink?”
“No.”
You step closer and his breath catches, “You sure?”
“Positive.”
He leans in and kisses you…It’s fine, you guess. Soft, warm, nothing like the way Gojo does. You’re unsure if that’s a good or bad thing. Kyle’s hands are on your waist and his mouth moves down your neck. He’s sweet, careful, and you should like this more—you don’t.
But you need it. You need something to hold onto that isn’t him. Kyle whispers, “You’re so fucking pretty,” And you let him guide you toward the bed.
Your phone buzzes in your bag, you ignore it. Then it buzzes again, long and insistent. Kyle notices, “You can get that if you want—”
“No,” You breathe, “Keep going.”
He nods and kisses you again, and you try, God you try to lose yourself in it. But the second his hand slips under your top, your phone lights up in the dark room. Bright enough in your bag that you both see it.
satoru: answer
satoru: stop playing
satoru: (y/n)
You go still, Kyle pulls back, “Hey…you okay?”
“Yeah,” You lie, “Just—just keep going.”
He leans in, but your eyes stay fixed on the glowing screen. Another message comes through and it’s not angry this time. It’s worse.
satoru: please
Your breath stutters as Kyle kisses your shoulder, your phone vibrates again.
satoru: princess please
Your entire body locks, because this isn’t how he talks. This isn’t a man who begs and it definitely doesn’t sound like one who moved on in an hour. Kyle’s hands slide down your waist, his lips brush your collarbone, and then you reazlie—you can’t do this.
You sit up abruptly, “Wait.”
Kyle freezes, “Oh. Uh, did I do something wrong?”
“No,” You say quickly, “No, you’re great. I just—I can’t.”
He bows his head, disappointed, “It’s cool. Really.”
You grab your phone and open the messages, staring at the last one until your chest aches.
satoru: please just pick up
Blair texts you at the same time.
blair: WHAT DID YOU DO? HE LOOKS LIKE HE’S HAVING A BREAKDOWN
You inhale sharply as the truth slams through you. You’re not over him, not even remotely. Your fingers tremble as you text Blair back.
where is he
blair: SIG CHI bro he showed up like a psycho
blair: he asked EVERYONE if they’ve seen you
Your pulse spikes so hard it hurts. Kyle is still on the end of the bed, giving you space and pretending he doesn’t see your face falling apart, “You sure you’re okay?”
You nod even though you aren’t, and stand too quickly, grabbing your bag, “I—I have to go.”
“Because of him?”
“…Yeah.”
He nods slowly, expecting it, like every guy on campus knows that whatever the hell is happening between you and Satoru Gojo is bigger than anything they could touch, “Douchebag doesn’t even deserve you.”
Yeah, he’s probably right about that but you bolt out of the room anyway, run down the stairs, and through the crowd spilling beer everywhere. Someone calls your name, but you don’t care. Your phone is in your hand, Gojo’s name filling the screen over and over like he’s clawing to get to you.
Pushing out into the street, cool evening air slams into your chest and you call him without thinking. It rings only once, “(Y/N).”
“Satoru—”
“You’re at TKE?” He blurts out. There’s noise behind him—music, voices, and footsteps as if he’s pacing through Sig Chi.
“Yes…”
“Did you go back with Kyle?” Your mouth opens, but you’re unable to speak, so he does it for you, “You did.”
“Satoru—”
“Just tell me,” He cuts you off, voice shaking with fury he’s trying to swallow, “Did he touch you?”
Your pulse slams against your ribs, Gojo keeps going, “He kissed you, right? You let him? You went into his room? You let him fucking—” He stops suddenly, breath hitching like finishing the rest of his sentence would choke him.
“Nothing happened.”
“…You’re lying.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, frustrated tears burning, “I left, Satoru. I left him. I’m literally calling you—”
“Why the fuck were you even there?”
“Because of you!”
A voice in the background of Gojo’s line says, “Bro, chill—” And you hear him snarl, “Shut the fuck up,” Followed by a door slamming so loudly you flinch. Now he’s alone and the truth crawls out of him, “I thought you were gone…I thought you actually went and—and fucked him.”
“I didn’t.”
“You almost did.”
Almost…and you would’ve too if he hadn’t kept texting, “You don’t understand,” He says hoarsely, “I’ve been looking for you for hours. I tore through the whole fucking house. I asked everyone. I—”
“Satoru…”
“Where are you now?”
“Heading toward Sig Chi.”
You hear movement and the sound of his breath catching, his shoes hitting the floor, something crashing behind him as he pushes through the thumping house.
“Stay on the phone,” He orders, “You’re not walking alone.”
“I’m fine.”
“Stay on the fucking phone.”
You listen then. Breath syncing with his footsteps as he barrels through the hallway and out the back door, onto the street. He’s running now, you can tell, “Satoru—slow down—”
“No,” He pants, keys jangling, car door slamming, Porsche engine purring to life, “You think I’m letting you walk alone after someone else had their hands on you?”
Your grip tightens on the phone, “So what? You’re coming to get me?”
“I’m already halfway there,” He breathes, rounding a corner so sharp the tires skid, “Don’t hang up.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
A long exhale leaves him, desperation blended with rage, “Tell me again. Tell me nothing happened.”
“…Nothing happened.”
He lets out a broken laugh of disbelief, “Good…Because I’m two minutes away, and if he had fucked you—”
You feel it in your bones, the relief so violent it comes out as anger, “Satoru,” You whisper softly, “Just…get here.”
“I’m coming, princess,” And then he hangs up.
The Porsche’s roar echoes down the street long before his headlights appear and once they do, he swings by the curb so fast you stumble back a step. He rolls the window down only to say, “Get in the car.”
You open the door, slide into the passenger seat and the second you’re in, he peels off so hard your shoulder hits the door, “Fuck—relax.”
“Can’t,” His knuckles are white on the wheel, every muscle in his forearm flexes with barely contained aggravation, and he doesn’t look at you once during the drive. He whips into the Sig Chi driveway, parks crooked as shit, and kills the engine.
Finally, he turns his head, eyes blazing, “Inside.”
You don’t argue; you follow him through the front door with your pulse in your throat, up the creaking stairs, through the hall, until he shoves his bedroom door open and pulls you inside, slamming it with so much force the walls shake.
“What the fuck was all of that?”
“Oh, don’t do that,” Your tone is full of bitterness, “Don’t think I forgot about the blonde you posted today. Don’t act like you didn’t show me exactly where I stand.”
“That was different.”
“Was it?” You step closer, chest heaving, “Was it different when I walked into your room last night and saw a trashcan full of condoms? When your sheets were a fucking mess? When your lips were swollen and you looked like you’d just—” You don’t finish that thought. He flinches at your words, but you don’t stop there, “When you fucked me and laughed in my face, telling me I’d never be the only one?”
His throat works, “Say something,” You snap, “Go on. Justify it. Tell me I’m crazy.”
“I didn’t fuck her,” He runs a trembling hand through his hair, “I didn’t fuck anyone,” He says louder, “Not the blonde. Not last night. Not today. Nobody.”
You stare at him, “Satoru. Your room—your trash.”
“I couldn’t even get it up…happy?” He spits out the truth like it hurts, “I kept—” He gestures violently, “—trying. With someone else. But it didn’t matter. My dick wouldn’t stay fucking hard.”
Your mouth falls agape, he keeps going, voice cracking down the middle, “I kept putting the condom on and I’d go soft. Again and again and again,” He laughs once, “That’s why there were wrappers. Not because I fucked anyone, but ‘cause I literally couldn’t.”
He steps closer, “You wanna know why?” You don’t say anything, but he gives you the answer anyway, “You.”
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” He says, voice dropping dangerously soft, “Can’t stop seeing your face, can’t stop remembering how you sound when you cum, can’t stop thinking about how it feels to be inside you.”
Your thighs press together involuntarily, “And do you know how fucking pathetic that makes me feel?” His voice breaks again, “That I can’t fuck anyone else because the only pussy I get hard for is yours?”
Now you’re trembling, “But sure, go ahead. Tell me again you were just being petty. Tell me again that you thought going home with that TKE fuck was gonna hurt me.”
“I didn’t—”
“Yes, you did,” He rasps, “You wanted to make me jealous,” He takes a step closer, “You wanted me to come find you,” Then another, “You wanted me to lose my fucking mind over you.”
Your back hits the wall, he cages you in with his arms, “And congratulations…It fucking worked.”
“Satoru…”
His forehead presses to yours, breaths mingling, anger turning molten, “You’re not replacing me, and I’m sure as hell not letting anyone else touch you…because you’re mine.”
Something hot flickers in your chest, “And you’re mine.”
He freezes, blue eyes turning a shade darker, “Say that again.”
You lift your chin, “You’re mine.”
As soon as the words leave your tongue he surges forward, mouth crashing onto yours with a force that feels like the room exploded. His hands are already on your hips, lifting you, dragging you toward the bed.
Your back hits the mattress, bouncing once before he’s on you, over you, everywhere; kissing you like it’s oxygen. His teeth catch your bottom lip, his tongue forcing its way in, and his fingers tear your shorts down so fast the friction burns.
“Spread,” He growls against your mouth. Without hesitation, you spread your legs wide open. He drags you down the bed by your thighs like you’re something he gets to rearrange however he wants, and when he drops to his knees—it’s over.
His mouth is on your cunt instantly, tongue flattening against your clit, sucking and licking like he’s trying to claim you with his mouth first.
You arch intensely, a choked cry crooning from your throat, “Fuck—Satoru,” Your thighs clamp around his head, but he forces them wider. You try to lift your hips and he pins them down.
“Stay still,” He mutters, “Or I’ll take my time,” It’s a threat, a wonderful filthy one. He eats you until your vision blurs and you’re pulling at his white tendrils; when you cum, you break with your head thrown back, mouth fully open, moaning his name in a way that would destroy him if he weren’t already in shambles.
“You’re so fucking perfect like this,” He pants, climbing over you, dragging his mouth up your stomach, ribs, throat, “Ruined and wet and waiting for me—fuck.”
He lines his cock up without looking, he doesn’t have to at this point. He knows your body by heart, and when he pushes in it’s one languid stroke that make your nails claw into his back and his breath punch out of him, “Shit—baby, so tight—”
He locks one hand behind your knee, shoving it higher, deeper, opening you more than you’ve ever been before, “You feel that?” He grits, hips snapping hard enough the headboard slams the wall, “Feel how easy this pussy takes me after I eat you out?”
The moan that escapes you sounds like a sob, “Feel how deep I am?” He thrusts again, brutal and perfect, “Feel me right fucking there?” One of his big hands presses right on your lower belly, a helpless whimper falls from your lips; his eyes go dark, “That’s where I wanna cum.”
Your stomach drops, “Satoru—”
“I want it so bad I can’t fucking think,” Each thrust is more forceful, sloppier, desperate, “You have no idea,” He pants, “No fucking idea what it did to me the first time—seeing my cum dripping out of you. Fuck, I been thinking about it every night since.”
Your cunt clenches around him, his eyes roll back, “Yeah…” He groans, “You liked that, didn’t you?”
His hand slides to your jaw, holding your face still so you can’t look away, “You want me to fill you again? Want me to make you mine for real?”
God, you shouldn’t want it. Not one bit.
Not with him and not when the risks outweigh the rewards. But at the same time, you fucking do.
Your brain fogs, melts, almost liquifies, “I want—” You gasp, nails sinking into his back, “I want you to fill me—”
He growls, “Fuck, princess—don’t say it unless you mean it—”
You’re too far gone to stop yourself, “Make me yours,” You whisper, trembling, “I want all of it, please.”
Hearing you beg for a load would make even the strongest man fold, and for a guy like Gojo, it takes very little to get him to. He snaps, thrusts turn punishing, ragged, the rhythm of a person who has lost every ounce of sanity, “You don’t—understand what you’re asking for.”
You cling to him, eyes half-lidded, “Satoru—don’t pull out.”
He shudders, grip on you tightening painfully, “Baby—fuck. You’re gonna make me—shit, you’re gonna make me cum—”
You wrap your legs around him and pin him in place, he fails to hide the moan that leaves him, “Oh my God,” He grunts, “You want it—you actually want it.”
He convulses then, slamming into you one last time, shoving himself all the way until his tip kisses your cervix, and cums inside you with a sound that is pure, ruined surrender.
His cock is throbbing, pulse after pulse, pumping you full of hot, thick white ribbons. He stays there, trembling through it, shaking, and when he finally pulls out, he looks down.
The sight that greets him is his favorite in the world. His cum leaking out of your pussy in warm, heavy streams, “Fuck…That’s perfect.”
He drags two fingers through the load, smearing it, then pushing it back in you with the darkest smirk on his face, “I could get addicted to this,” He murmurs, before adding, “Maybe I already am.”
Your chest is heaving, the room spinning around you. He’s still hovering over your hips, transfixed on the mess he made like he can’t look away, “Should make you keep it.”
Your entire body tenses because he doesn't look at your face when he says it—he’s still staring at your legs, like the sight has rewired something fundamental in him.
He pushes his fingers deeper, you whine, “But I can’t,” He mutters more to himself than you, “I shouldn’t.”
He pulls his fingers out and wipes them on your thigh, eyes hooded and dark with something you’ve never seen in him before. Gojo sits back on his heels, rakes a hand through his hair, when it finally hits him—reality.
He actually did it. He came inside you. On purpose this time. His eyes flick up to yours, unsure, “…We need to get you a Plan B.”
You knew that was coming, but the tone is different. He sounds shaken, disappointed even, “Okay.”
But he doesn’t move. He just keeps staring at you—the bite marks blooming on your throat, the mess between your thighs he put there, and something in him cracks all over again, “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”
Your pulse stutters as he exhales hard, standing. The room tilts as he grabs his USC hoodie off the floor, tugging it over his head with shaky hands. He hesitates a second too long before speaking, “I-I didn’t mean to…do it like that.”
“Do what?”
His eyes flick away shamefully, “Nut in you like I was trying to get you pregnant,” He mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, “Because that’s what it felt like,” Your heart skips, he glances back at you, almost pained, “But that’s not—we’re not doing that.”
Silence stretches, then he shakes his head as if snapping himself out of whatever daze he’s in, “Get dressed. Please.”
You pull your shorts back on and he hands you one of his shirts without looking directly at you—like one wrong glance, on more glimpse of you fucked-out and dripping, and he’ll pin you back on the bed to do it again.
When you’re covered enough to leave, he grabs his keys; his hand finds yours, he squeezes without thinking and doesn’t let go. He leads you out of Sig Chi through a side door because he doesn’t want anyone seeing you like this.
He walks too quick, not talking, not until you reach the quiet part of the sidewalk does he finally say something, “Don’t ever let me lose you like that again.”
You look up and he’s staring straight ahead, but his grip tightens, exposing more than he means to, “Come on,” He murmurs, unlocking the Porsche, “We’ll get the Plan B.”
But even as he says it, even as he feigns rationale, his hand won’t stop squeezing yours. The Porsche unlocks with a chirp, he opens your door for you and then slams his own harder than necessary. He starts driving, fast, silent, and focused but not on the road.
Every streetlight flickers across his face, shadowing and revealing the truth in flashes. Good. She’ll take the pill. This was just heat, adrenaline, possession.
But beneath that, something far darker hums through him. Still…fuck. I could give her what no one else can. I want that.
He swallows hard, grips the wheel tighter, drives even faster. The CVS is almost empty, thank God. He shoves his hands into his hoodie pockets because he doesn’t trust them not to shake, walking over straight to the aisle he was in mere weeks ago.
Gojo remembers the last time he bought it, but the last time he never wished, that for one stupid second, that if biology had given him a loophole, that maybe—maybe you’d keep a piece of him.
He grabs the box with stiff fingers and at the register, the cashier doesn’t make eye contact; something ugly and possessive in Gojo likes that. Likes that no one here knows what he just did or what he put in you and how deep you let him.
He pays the fifty dollars again, shoves the box into his pockets, and hands it to you the second he makes it back to the car as if he may take it back if he doesn’t.
You take the pill out, open a water bottle, tip your chin back, and he watches. His jaw moves once, like he’s grinding the idea to dust. Good. She’s safe. She won’t be pregnant. This isn’t happening.
Then, right behind it, a quieter, eviller truth. Would’ve been kinda nice if it was.
And the thought doesn’t fade, it festers. Even after you swallow the pill and he drives away with his hands white-knuckled on the wheel, even after he drops you off at your dorm and tells you to text him when you’re inside.
No, it fucking lingers. A wrong desire he keeps trying to destroy, a feeling he can’t outrun. Something vital within him shifted when he finished in you that second time, and it bleeds into everything that happens next.
The next morning, you’re brushing your teeth when your phone buzzes.
satoru: you got class at 10 right?
Before you can answer, another text comes.
satoru: be outside in 5
He picks you up with a coffee in the cupholder, the exact way you like it, and a muffin he claims he “accidentally bought two of”. You don’t call him out on the lie.
Gojo doesn’t drop you off at the curb, either. He walks you all the way to the building and when you turn to go inside, he hesitates, “Text me when you’re done.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know,” He cuts you off quietly, “But just do it,” And he walks away before you can fight him on it.
The night after, he shows up again in the same hoodie with the same look in his blue eyes, and that same damn inability to stay away.
He kisses you before the door fully closes behind you—soft at first, almost tentative, like he’s afraid of wanting you too much. Then he remembers your voice calling him yours, your legs wrapped around him, your cunt squeezing around his dick while he came inside you, and suddenly? He’s not soft anymore.
He lifts you, carries you to your bed, lies you down like you’re fragile, but unravels you like he’s ravenous. He fucks you slow and deep, way too deep; breathing into your neck, voice shredded, hands quivering on your thighs.
At one point, he stops entirely. Stops moving, buried all the way inside you, hips pressed flush, eyes squeezed shut like he’s in physical pain, “Princess…” His forehead presses to your jaw, “If I move, I’m gonna cum in you again.”
You shiver and he doesn’t pull out, not yet, only when he finally forces himself; finishing on your stomach, staring at your body the way a sinner stares at temptation—ruined, in awe, and absolutely starved for more.
In the days after, he starts acting like your boyfriend. Though neither of you ever say the word, and acting like your boyfriend also apparently includes spoiling you rotten, but he’d never admit that’s what he’s doing.
It starts with him handing you his card one afternoon, “Here. Go get your nails done. Want your hands lookin’ nice around my cock.”
You choke on air, but he won’t meet your eyes, pretending it’s not the sweetest, filthiest thing anyone's ever said to you. Next thing you know, he’s paying for all kinds of appointments. He sends you money for your facial along with a text claiming, “i could give you a better one but idt you’d like it as much”.
Then he’s bringing you on routine mall runs. He takes you straight to Sephora, Aritzia, Zara—anywhere you so look at or mention and buys everything you touch. You tell him he’s insane, but he just shrugs, “It’s not a big deal. Gotta keep you pretty for me.”
You don’t buy the reason for a second.
Then comes the dates. Real ones at fancy places. The first time you’re confused when he tells you to “dress nice”. The second time, you’ve learned that “dress nice” means he’s dropping a stupid amount of money at a restaurant where the menus don’t have prices.
From sushi restaurants in Beverly Hills to Italian spots in West Hollywood, the dinner always goes the same way. With him watching you the entire time like the sight of you sitting across from him looking so beautiful is doing things to his soul and paying the bill without giving you any time to even pretend to pick it up.
“Don’t insult my manhood, princess,” He jokes, already placing his card down, “I’d rather die than let you pay a dime.”
But the worst parts aren’t the dates or the ridiculous instances of spoiling you. It’s what happens after.
One night, you’re sitting in his bed when he removes his silver chain he never takes off, the one you’ve seen in every photo and TikTok. He’s hooking it around your throat while you protest, “Toru—”
“Shh,” He hushes, “Just try it.”
It settles against your collarbone, cool and heavy with a distinct weight to it. His eyes drag over your neck, slow and hungry, like the sight of something that’s his on you does something violent to him, “Mm,” He hums, thumb grazing the metal, “Looks real good on you.”
Your pulse stutters and he kisses you before either of you can process what it means.
And then there’s the night where you’re laying on his chest, tangled in the sheets after he fucked you senseless, when you ask, “What’s Japan like?”
His voice softens in a way you feel in your ribs, “Depends where you go. Tokyo’s crazy. Kyoto’s pretty. Snow up north is perfect.”
You smile into his skin, “Sounds amazing.”
“Yeah,” He replies, adding way too casually, “I’ll have to show you one day.”
You’re quiet for a second before saying, “Teach me something.”
His eyes are warm, melting, “Okay…Say this—suki.”
“Suki,” You whisper; he exhales slowly, almost shakily, “What does it mean?”
He hesitates, choosing to lie gently, “It means…I like this.”
You believe him, but the truth is written all over his face. He doesn’t mean he likes the moment, he means you. Then he looks at you with his chain glinting on your neck, wondering when wanting you turned into needing you—and he’s terrified he can’t stop.
And the need for you only grows.
He picks you up every day from class, keeps snacks in his car that he only buys when you’re around, gives you his favorite sweatshirt when he notices your cold, opens your door every time. On his wrist sits your hair tie, although he says it’s for you, part of you thinks he wears it just because it’s yours.
When you’re walking together, he switches sides so he’s closest to the street. When guys stare, he sees it before you do. One afternoon on the quad, a guy from your lab waves too eagerly at you. Gojo’s voice is flat, “Who the fuck is that?”
You elbow him, “He’s just in my class.”
Gojo scoffs, “Yeah. Don’t like how he looks at you.”
You try not to smile, yet you do.
His frat brothers also start to tease him, “Gojo doesn’t even talk to other bitches anymore.”
“Bro’s whipped.”
“He’s in love with the QB’s daughter.”
He throws a pong ball at their heads, but doesn’t bother denying any of it.
Then, the sex between you? It starts to evolve into something precarious. He no longer fucks you like some sleezy, fuckboy frat bro chasing a climax. The tempo is slower, sensual, intimate in a way that makes your blood curdle.
There’s a night in his room with the lights low and music soft, where you’re riding him, moving slow, his hands gripping your hips like you’re sacred.
His head falls back against the pillow, he’s too sensitive, too close, “Baby…” His voice breaks, “Don’t…don’t do that unless you want—”
But you roll your hips anyway and he loses it. His fingertips dig into your thighs, eyes rolling back, breath catching in a strangled gasp, “Fuck, princess—stop, stop—if I cum like this it’s going inside you.”
And the terrifying part is that he doesn’t sound scared of that. He sounds desperate for it.
He pulls out at the very last heartbeat, just barely. His cum splashes across your chest in hot, heavy ropes and he stares at you like he’s memorizing it. He touches it, swipes some with this thumb, smearing it over your skin. He whispers, almost reverently, “God…would’ve looked better in you.”
Then his gaze glosses over his chain around your neck, and he wonders what it would be like to give you something more permanent.
Next weekend, there’s a tailgate at Sig Chi for the USC football game. It’s loud and crowded, red solo cups litter the backyard and Don Toliver is blasting from a blown out speaker Gojo keeps threatening to throw over the fence.
You’re sitting in his lap in a tiny red skirt you probably should’ve reconsidered, but he hasn’t stopped touching you since you showed up. His hand rests on your thigh at first until it slithers its way to the curve just beneath your ass; thumb rubbing slow circles like he’s publicly claiming territory.
Every time you shift, you feel how hard he is under you. He’s shameless in how he pretends not to care, but his brothers definitely notice. One of the Pledges walks by and does a double take, though Gojo doesn’t look up. He just tightens his grip on your waist and says, completely casual, “Yo, Pledge. Flick me up with my girl.”
My girl. The words strike your bones, “Your—your what?”
Gojo finally lifts his eyes, jaw set like it’s the most obvious thing in the world and that he hates the entire Pledge class, “My girl,” He repeats, patting your thigh once, “C’mon, hurry the fuck up, idiot.”
The Pledge blinks and scrambles to grab his phone, you try to move off Gojo’s lap, flustered, but his arm locks around your waist, “Sit still,” He murmurs into your neck, “Wanna see how pretty you look sittin’ on me.”
Your pulse skitters and he doesn’t even look at the camera—he looks at you, hungrily, lazily possessive, like he already knows he’s gonna post this shit.
When the Pledge sends over the photo, he’s immediately plugging it into his feed on Instagram, which is something he never does. His feed is reserved for himself, thirst traps, aesthetics. So when he posts you with a caption, “me and mine”, all of USC sees it and implodes.
He brushes a kiss onto your jaw, “Let them talk.”
And that same night, you barely make it inside his room before he has you against the wall, kissing you like he’s been deprived of it. Your skirt is on the floor already, your top has been shedded. He lifts you, legs locking around his waist, and thrusts into you so deep your vision spots.
His entire body is shaking, “Princess—fuck, slow, slow, if you keep—”
But you’re too cockdrunk to stop. He grips your ass, burying himself inside you to the hilt, moaning into your shoulder like he’s rupturing, “I’m not gonna…baby—I can’t, if you don’t let go.”
You tighten your legs around him and he falls apart. For one horrifying, heart-stopping second, he doesn’t pull out. He stays in your pussy, groaning into your neck, the two of you trembling against each other.
Gojo only yanks himself out at the very last fraction of a second, finishing in thick, desperate ropes on your inner thighs; he stares at the mess like it’s his masterpiece, but also like he wants it somewhere else.
He strokes your thigh with the back of his fingers, voice impossibly soft, “I can’t keep doing this. I’m trying. I swear I’m trying. But every time—every fucking time, I almost stay inside you.”
Your heart skips a beat, “And the worst part?” He looks at you, eyes blazing, “I don’t even know if I’d stop myself next time…”
And it happens two nights later, when things between you have settled into this terrifying, intoxicating rhythm. You’re already falling asleep in his bed, cheek pressed to his shoulder, his arm wrapped around your lower back like he’s locking in you place.
He whispers, “Come here,” Pulling you into his chest so your thigh slots between his and you feel him instantly—he’s hard, achingly so.
You look up at him through sleep-heavy eyes and he caves. He rolls you onto your back, slow, like he’s been waiting for an excuse to fuck you.
His mouth finds yours, hungry and unhurried; your breathing is barely steady when he finally pushes his cock into you and it’s different. All of it is. Far too deliberate, delicate, deep.
He groans into your neck, voice already wrecked, “Fuck…I’m obsessed with you.”
He’s still sliding himself in when you clutch his biceps, arching up into him with his breath catching in his chest, when he loses the last piece of control he had. His hips snap forward sharply, burying his cock fully inside, and curses low like the feeling of being right where he is now knocks the sense out of him.
He does try to pull out once, you feel it, the hesitation in his hips. But for reasons unknown, you wrap your legs around his waist on pure instinct rather than purpose, and he can’t stop what happens next.
Gojo collapses into you with a broken sound, forehead to yours, thrusts morphing sloppy and desperate, “Baby—fuck, don’t—” His voice cracks, “I can’t—if you do that—”
But you’re already tugging him closer, nails digging into his back, those pretty little cries spilling from your lips send him straight past rational thought.
His hands clamp around your hips, dragging you flush against him, “Oh…God—” He chokes and thinks maybe for a second, he’ll try to pull himself back, but the moment he feels you tighten around him, he breaks with a sound he’s never made before.
A desperate, helpless moan punched out him as he bucks his hips and stays there—buried, locked to you like he couldn’t move even if he tried.
“Fuck, I’m cumming—inside…shit,” And you feel it, hot spurts filling you so completely full that it steals your breath. He can’t even stop, his entire body spasms against yours, quaking through the release, his forehead lodged into your throat as if he’s holding onto you while he falls apart.
It’s a lot. More than the last time. More than either of you expected. So much, it’s leaking around him even while he’s still stuffed deep, twitching through the last waves. He doesn’t move, he just stays there, even when he pulls his face up to look at you with blue eyes blown, “…Fuck. I didn’t pull out.”
Your heart sits high in your chest, he watches your expression like it’s life or death, “Honestly…I didn’t even try.”
But that’s when it hits him. He should tell you to go on birth control. He knows it. That it’s the responsible, sensible, smart thing to do; the normal thing guys in college say when they don’t want their lives derailed.
Though, truth is? He doesn’t want normal, not with you. Because birth control kills the possibility, the danger, the fucked up little thrill that coils low in his stomach every time he pushes in deep and realizes that he could claim you in the one way no other guy has.
If you were on the pill, there would be no risk. No moment where he hovers on the edge, shaking, wondering if he should pull out or just stay, and he lives for that moment. That heartbeat of insanity right before he cums, where he thinks, if I don’t pull out, she’s mine for real.
So that’s why he never says the words, “You should get on birth control.”
And as deranged as it is, he doesn’t want to eliminate the one thing that makes fucking you feel holy, catastrophic, and fate-altering.
But…little does Satoru Gojo know that you’re already on it. You got on it right after that second time he finished in you.
Because that night scared you—you couldn’t trust him anymore, you couldn’t trust yourself either, and the recklessness was going to ruin you both.
You weren’t an idiot. Despite being a sheltered good girl your whole life and being inexperienced with sex, you know the consequences. And after watching his hesitation to pull out disappear night after night and feeling him stay inside you longer each time you fucked, you knew you made the right call.
However, you kept it a secret. You figured it was what was best for the both of you. You were protecting yourself all while letting him play out his little fantasy or whatever sick game he gets off on, letting him think every time might be the time he gets you pregnant.
It was smart, it was calculated, it was you being safe. Or…So you thought. Because of course, life had other plans, cruel and ironic ones. The kind of plans that are in motion before you even realize anything is wrong.
The Plan B you took after that second time he finished in you? Yeah. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work when you’re ovulating. And that night was exactly when you were.
The symptoms creep up on you so sneakily that you don’t even notice them. At first, it’s just fatigue. A bone-deep heaviness that sinks into your limbs on a random Monday morning, although you chalk it up to Gojo keeping you up until 3 A.M. again—him pinning your wrists above your head and whispering “one more round, princess”.
But then the smell of breakfast the next day makes you nauseaous, an odd twist within your gut when you catch a whiff of Blair’s bacon egg and cheese sandwich, “Girl, you good?”
“Fine,” You lie, "Probably just dehydrated,” Though you’ve been drinking water all day and still feel wrong.
Then your boobs hurt, really hurt. Tender in a way you’ve never felt before and Blair notices when you flinch throwing your tote bag over your shoulder, “That bad?”
“I think I’m getting sick.”
You’re not getting sick. You know what your body feels like when something is off and this feels different. The next morning you’re brushing your teeth when Blair says casually from the sink beside you, “When did you last get your period?”
“Last month,” But then your hand stops in mid-air.
Last month. You haven’t gotten it this month yet and it should’ve come by now. Your blood runs cold, “Wait…what day is it?”
Blair checks her phone, “October 27th.”
No. No, no, no. Your toothbrush slips from your fingers and clatters into the sink as realization cleaves through your ribs. It’s been three weeks since that night. Three weeks since the Plan B. Absolutely enough time to pass to start experiencing...pregnancy symptoms. And you already know it has a reputation for not always being effective.
“(Y/N)…?” Blair frowns, “What’s wrong?”
You lift your trembling eyes to hers, “Fuck class, we’re skipping. I need to go to CVS.”
She nods at that and the two of you urgently walk together to the CVS of doom and despair. Except this time, there’s no adrenaline buzzing within your veins, only fear.
You’re in the family planning aisle once again, but not to grab a Plan B, instead it’s a box of three pregnancy tests that feel far too heavy in your shaky hands. Blair hovers behind you, pale, “You really think—?”
“I don’t know,” You whisper, voice breaking, “I don’t know.”
But you do. You do know. You just can’t bring yourself to admit it. Your hands continue to tremble as you pay and walk back to the dorms and shut the bathroom door. Blair waits outside for you, “(Y/N)…I’m right here, okay?”
You nod, barely breathing, your reflection in the mirror looks like a stranger—pretty, terrified, wearing his silver chain around your throat like a brand or prophecy to something more.
You open one of the tests, take it, and set it on the counter. You wait two minutes, only two, and grip the sink and pray. For what, you’re not sure. That it’s negative? Or that it’s positive so you don’t have to keep pretending you aren’t already half in love with Satoru Gojo?
Negative. Yeah, definitely negative. You’re only eighteen, in your first semester of college. You moved across the country for this experience. Your dad would literally murder you for fucking it up.
You squeeze your eyes shut, then you look, and everything inside you falls, collapses, and rearranges.
Two pink lines. Bold and immediate. You’re fucking pregnant. That can’t be. You rip open another test and force yourself to pee again. False positives happen all the time, right? Right?
You wait another two minutes, only for the result to be the exact same…pregnant. Yeah, there’s no denying both. But fuck it, might as well take the third.
Another test, another positive. Three positive fucking tests, “Oh my God,” You whisper, “Oh my God…oh my fucking God—”
Blair knocks lightly, “(Y/N)? You okay? What’s happening?”
“He…” Your voice cracks, “He got me…pregnant.”
The word tastes unreal in your mouth, “But didn’t you take a Plan B? Aren’t you on birth control—?”
“I must’ve been ovulating or something,” You hiccup, tears brimming, “I-I did everything right.”
“Baby…open the door.”
You open it, numb, and Blair pulls you into a crushing hug as the three tests shake in your hand, “Oh, sweet girl…” She coos, “What are you gonna do?”
You shake your head, tears hitting her shoulder, “I—I have to tell him.”
As soon as you make it back to your dorm room you text him.
toru come over
now
please
He replies instantly.
satoru: omw what’s wrong
satoru: princess ??
You don’t answer, but minutes later you can hear the rumble of his Porsche pull into the dorms’ parking lot and not even seconds pass before his frantic knocking rattles your door. When you open it, he stops breathing. Your eyes are bloodshot red, your entire body is quaking, and his chain, of course it’s still on your neck.
“(Y/N),” He exhales, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him with trembling fingers, “What the fuck’s going on? Did someone—did a guy—? If someone touched you I swear I’ll—”
“It’s not that,” You whisper and hold out the three tests.
Gojo goes utterly still. He looks at the tests, then at you, then at the tests again. His throat bobs, “…What are those?”
“You fucking know what they are.”
“They’re…positive?”
You nod once, he inhales sharply like someone punched him, “Fuck,” He says it again, quieter, “Fuck.”
You watch his whole demeanor short circuit. At first it’s shock, but then something within him settles, something darker, something like acceptance wrapped in possession. He’s already thinking, you’re pregnant. With my baby. Mine.
His throat works once, hard. His mouth twitches, barely but unmistakably, because he tried to smother whatever expression is trying to surface.
“C’mere,” He murmurs, pulling you into him like he can fold the entire world away. You break immediately, tears spill hot and fast, your hands clawing into his hoodie as you shake uncontrollably.
And Gojo holds you, arms wrapped around your waist, palm pressing the back of your head gently into his chest, and behind your hair, unseen, his lips curl with a quiet, corrupt satisfaction he can’t suppress.
He does feel bad that you’re crying. He really does, but he also doesn’t care in the way he probably should. Because at the end of the day, you’re carrying his baby, and no one else will ever be able to say that.
He keeps rubbing circles into your spine, shushing you softly. His voice is warm, soothing, everything he thinks he’s supposed to sound like in this moment, “It’s okay, princess…breathe. I’m here.”
But really, ever since you said the words, he’s been reminiscing. Which time was it? After the third time he came in you, he’s stayed in you more often than not. He’s lost count of the nights he finished deep inside, hand fisted in the sheets, moaning your name.
Was it the night on his couch? The night he fucked you in the bathroom of his frat formal because he couldn’t stand the way his brothers were looking at you? Was it when he pulled you onto his lap and didn’t even pretend to pull out? Or—
You sob, “I don’t—I don’t know how it happened—I thought—”
He pulls back slightly, thumb brushing your cheek, “Well, we stopped buying Plan Bs. So we weren’t exactly being…safe.”
Your chest tightens, oh, right. He has no idea that you’ve been on the pill, “Satoru…I need to be honest with you.”
His thumb stills against your cheek, petrified for whatever you’re about to say, “…Okay,” He says slowly, carefully, “Tell me.”
Your bottom lip trembles, “I…I’ve been on birth control.”
Everything in him freezes, “…What?”
“I started it…after that second time, the night we fought,” You whisper, tears slipping fast down your cheeks, “I couldn’t trust us anymore. I knew we were being stupid and I just…needed to do something. But I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want things to change.”
Gojo stares at you like the entire universe just rearranged itself behind your eyes. Birth control. You were on birth control and still wound up pregnant. It wasn’t the nights after. It wasn’t the couch or the bathroom, it wasn’t the time he came in you so deep he saw stars behind his eyelids.
No, it was that night. The one where he called you his and you called him yours, the one where he finished inside you on purpose and you wanted it. The night you took the Plan B after he watched his cum drip out of you like it was the eighth Wonder of the World. Of course it was that night; a night that ended up being prophecy.
Gojo isn’t even upset with you for not telling him about the whole birth control thing, either. Matter of fact? Some twisted, fucked up, and deranged part of him feels satisfied. Because you really tried, you tried so hard not to get pregnant.
But fate already made its decision long before either of you pretended you had control and the idea of that makes something warm and primal settle in his chest, “Oh my God…it was that night.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, fresh tears dribbling down your cheeks, “Satoru, I—I don’t know what to do. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I took the pill, I was on birth control, we—we should’ve been fine—”
He shakes his head immediately, firmly cupping the back of your skull. What he wants to say is that this was always supposed to happen, but instead he opts for, “Hey. Stop. No. This isn’t on you.”
Because it isn’t. If anything, the blame sits squarely on him—he’s the one who kept cumming in you like he was trying to write your future with his body alone. You were the one taking precautions and trying to keep things under control. He was the one who didn’t stop.
So, of course you got pregnant. He practically begged the universe for it with the way he fucked you, “I should’ve been pulling out,” He murmurs, thumb brushing away the tears, “But I didn’t. That’s on me.”
Your breath breaks, “How come you don’t you look upset?”
Gojo stiffens at the accusation. He doesn’t look devastated or destroyed and he definitely doesn’t look like a twenty year old frat boy whose life got flipped upside down.
He looks…eerily calm, “I don’t know what I’m feeling yet,” He lies; he knows exactly what he’s feeling and it’s not something he can say out loud without disrupting whatever fragile world you’re clinging to.
You turn away, pressing your hands to your face, shoulders jerking, “My whole life is screwed, Satoru. My dad—my classes—everything. I don’t even know how to breathe right now.”
His stomach twists, he hates that his lack of fear and panic makes him feel like a monster. He steps closer until his chest brushes your back and wraps his arms around you from behind, tugging you into him.
“Princess,” He murmurs against your shoulder, “I know you’re terrified. I get it. You have every right to be. But I need you to hear me,” You don’t look at him, but he tilts his head, voice dropping into something achingly soft, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Your lips quiver, “Then why does it feel like everything is falling apart?”
He exhales slowly, forehead dropping to the curve of your neck. Everything is falling apart for you, but for him? It feels like everything is falling into place.
The girl who arrived to USC that every guy wanted, the girl who has always been good until she met Satoru Gojo, had been claimed by him. He closes his eyes, swallowing down the feral pulse in his chest, “It feels like it’s falling apart because you’re shocked. It’s big and sudden. Anyone would feel what you’re feeling.”
You shudder and he tightens his hold, protective in a way that feels instinctual, “But you’re not alone in this. Not for one second.”
You sniff harshly, “You’re taking this way too well.”
He almost laughs at how easily you see through him, “I’m taking it the only way I know how.”
Quietly, privately, his mind says a different thing, because some part of me knew this was coming the second I didn’t pull out. He presses a soft kiss to your temple before you can see the flicker in his expression.
“Talk to me,” You whisper, voice rasped, “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
He hesitates, because the real answer is, you’re pregnant because of me. Because you told me to make you mine and I did. What he says to you is gentler, “I’m thinking that we’ll figure it out and that you’re safe with me.”
But beneath it, humming like electricity in his bloodstream, I don’t regret it. Not even a little. It was always gonna be us. You were meant to be mine.
You don’t even get a chance to respond to what Gojo has said when the universe decides to fuck you over for a second time. Your phone vibrates in the pocket of the hoodie you’re wearing—his hoodie. A single buzz, then another. You still instantly, Gojo’s hands pause on your waist, “Who is it?”
You pull back just enough to fish your phone out, wiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand. Your vision blurs as you blink at the notification. And when you see the name on the lock screen, you freeze entirely.
Gojo’s brows knit, “Baby?”
“…It’s my dad,” You swipe his message open with tottering fingers and the text hits you like a brick to the sternum.
dad: Hey sweetheart! Good news! College gameday is in USC this weekend so I’ll be seeing you in a few days.
dad: I can’t wait to see you, princess. Love you.
Your throat swells, he leans in slightly to read the message himself because you can’t find your own voice, and for the first time tonight, Satoru Gojo breaks, “…Oh fuck.”
Your dad is coming in three days.
And has no idea that his daughter is knocked up by a frat boy.
Your wedding with Satoru — the one he never showed up to.
✦. cw : tragic love, doomed love, heavy angst, hurt no comfort
Satoru stood in the hallway already dressed, his hair slightly tousled as if he had just woken up, even though he had gotten up very early today. He was smiling — that bright, easy smile that always made your breath catch in your throat.
Satoru told you not to be afraid.
He lightly touched your chin with his fingers, making you lift your head and meet his unbearably bright, sparkling gaze.
He convinced you that everything would be fine.
That it was just another boring business trip, some kind of formality, a couple of days — and he would be back to nag you about dinner and demand that you scratch his head while he slept with it in your lap...
The music starts.
You take a step. The heavy satin skirt rustles against the marble floor, and the sound deafens you, drowning out the quiet chords of the cello. The bridal veil slips down before your eyes like a thin veil of fog.
It still feels like you’re dreaming...
Satoru had always been confident. Always the best. Always the one who laughed in the face of danger. But looking into Satoru’s eyes, into that endless azure you only ever saw when he let himself be real with you, vulnerable, you were absolutely, unshakably sure he would come back.
Although there had always been a silent distance between you because of his work — the way his phone could start ringing in the middle of the night, the way he would simply silence it and pull you closer, murmuring that it was nothing — you believed him.
You believed him with every piece of your soul.
So when he disappeared for nineteen days, you were more than confused.
For the first three days you were angry that he didn’t warn you, that he didn’t text or call. Then you started writing first. At first gentle messages, then worried ones, then desperate ones that remained unread.
You called — and only heard the cold “The subscriber is unavailable.” And with every beep, with every new day, a sticky, icy horror grew inside you, crowding everything else out.
You didn’t know anyone you could contact.
You didn’t know where Satoru worked, who his friends were, whether he had a family besides the one the two of you had created in your small apartment...
At some point, when the silence became unbearably loud and you stopped sleeping and eating, staring into the darkness outside the window, a thought crept into your head that made you physically sick: was there ever really anything at all? Had you imagined him?
Or, even worse — he had simply left.
Got tired, got bored, and left without saying a word, leaving you in this ignorance...
Satoru had always seemed closer to the sky than to the ground, and you didn’t even have wings.
You squeeze the bouquet so tightly your fingertips go numb, and the delicate stems of the white roses seem about to snap under the weight of your longing.
Your father’s hand on your elbow feels strangely unfamiliar. You feel his warmth, his pride, his desire to pass you into “reliable hands” — and it makes you nauseous.
Not because of him.
Because of yourself.
Because you’re here.
All of this is wrong.
With every step toward the altar your heart pounds somewhere in your throat, drowning out your breathing. You stare straight ahead at the figure of the groom waiting at the end of this endless path.
And then Satoru came back.
He simply opened the door with his key on the evening of the nineteenth day, and when you heard that click you nearly lost your mind running into the hallway.
He was there. Alive.
Satoru stood with his back against the closed door and looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. Shadows lay beneath his eyes, his shoulders were lowered, and there was some strange metallic smell in the air that you instantly hated.
But when he saw you, his face changed.
The exhaustion didn’t disappear, but something flared up in him, something so hungry, so desperately longing, that your heart clenched.
Satoru looked at you as if those nineteen days had been an eternity to him, as if all that time he had done nothing but wait for the moment he could see you again.
You wanted to scream, to beat your fists against his chest, to demand explanations.
Instead, you burst into tears.
Silently, your whole body shaking, your face buried in his chest.
Satoru explained nothing.
He only whispered, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry…” somewhere into your hair, and his hands, usually so confident, were trembling as he gathered you into his arms.
His embrace was greedy, aching, almost bone-crushing.
Satoru kissed your wet face, your lips salty with tears, and there was such anguish in those kisses that you stopped asking questions.
You didn’t dare to ask.
You ended up in the bedroom without even turning on the light.
Satoru hovered above you, and when he pushed inside you it wasn’t familiar, not playful. It was desperate. As if he was trying to become a part of you, dissolve into you, hide.
Hide from everyone.
At first you didn’t notice his gaze — heavy, studying, unusually thoughtful. You only saw the features you loved, felt his weight, his warmth. Then you thought he was just deathly tired.
That he needed this — oblivion.
And you pulled him closer, wrapping your arms and legs around him, pressing him to you as tightly as you could.
You let him love you, letting him all the way inside, and you loved him back — with blind, almost painful desperation.
And at some point, when you were already on the edge, when the world had narrowed to the point where your bodies touched, you thought his eyes were shining.
When Satoru, pressing his forehead into the curve of your neck and shoulder, exhaled, “I love you so much… you have no idea,” there was so much pain in his voice that you only squeezed your eyes shut tighter, afraid to scare him away.
The priest begins to speak.
His voice is even, echoing like in an empty church filled with people, but you don’t hear a word.
You only hear the silence.
The same silence that screamed in your ears on the nineteenth day.
The one from five years ago.
The one that settled in your chest forever after that morning when you woke up alone.
You look at the groom, nod at the right moments, smile faintly.
Satoru didn’t let you go for a long time after.
He lay there with his fingers laced through yours, stroking your palm with his thumb. Then, as if remembering something important, he reached for his trousers carelessly thrown on the floor.
You heard the rustle, and when he turned back something glinted in the moonlight in his hand.
Satoru took your hand, and you felt cold metal on your finger. A ring…
You froze, staring at him...
Satoru propped himself up on his elbow, his face very close. He was smiling — that same soft, warm smile you loved so much — but in his eyes something had frozen… something wistful, doomed, that made your heart drop.
“Marry me,” he asked. No pathos, no usual arrogant smirk. “Be mine. Forever.”
Satoru was begging you to stay with him.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to unite this man and this woman in holy matrimony,” the priest’s voice reaches you as if through cotton.
“What if we were standing here together, Satoru? What if this day were ours?” you ask yourself silently.
Your groom is good. Kind. His eyes are calm and warm, without that terrifying endless blue you used to drown in every day...
But you don’t see him.
You imagine Satoru standing at the altar instead.
He wouldn’t stand still, he would definitely lean toward you and whisper something stupid to make you laugh at the worst possible moment.
You close your eyes for a moment and the image comes to you so vividly it almost hurts: him in a perfectly fitted suit, you in this same dress but with a different light in your eyes. Satoru looking at you, and there’s no longing in that gaze, only happiness. Pure, untouched by pain.
Satoru had always been too full of life, and it burned everyone around him.
You say yes to him and take his last name “Gojo” instead of your own.
He slides a ring onto your finger and you place one on his.
You kiss under the applause, his hands on your waist so familiar you think you might die from happiness right there.
You had a chance.
A chance to anchor all that fragile happiness and call it yours.
But you were afraid.
Afraid of the seriousness in his eyes, afraid it was too good to be true, afraid you’d scare him away by saying yes.
You thought there was still time.
You thought he always would.
Because Satoru always came back.
You didn’t manage to say anything, but he, too perceptive, read everything on your face.
His wistful smile widened slightly, and Satoru removed the ring from your finger himself, placing it in your palm and closing your fingers into a fist.
“It’s okay,” his voice was steady. “Think about it, sweetheart. And when I come back, you’ll give me your answer.”
Something inside your chest snapped at those words.
“You… you’re leaving again?” you breathed, panic ringing in your voice.
Satoru pulled you close, pressing his nose into the top of your head.
“Just for one day, silly,” that familiar teasing note slipped into his voice. “I’ll take care of something and come right back. Meanwhile you can think about how you’re going to call me ‘husband.’”
He kissed you until you relaxed in his arms, lulled by his warmth and a false sense of safety.
You pressed closer to him, feeling how hard his heart was beating, and whispered, “I love you.” You fell asleep with the cold metal of the ring clenched in your fist.
“If anyone knows of any reason why these two should not be joined in marriage, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
Your heart skips a beat. Forever.
You swallow hard.
Inside you something tears, screams, thrashes in hysteria.
Your mind is screaming: Say it! Say you love someone else! Say that the ring hanging on your chest isn’t just jewelry! Say that your heart has been dead for five years, buried with him wherever he is!
You look at the hall.
Guests sit there smiling, some wiping sentimental tears. Your mother sits in the front row, happy. Finally her daughter has “found a home.” Finally you stopped “living in the past.”
But the past isn’t something you can just stop waiting for.
The past is something that lives inside you.
Breathes with your lungs.
Beats with your heart.
The silence stretches a second too long.
A too long.
The groom gently squeezes your fingers in reassurance. He thinks you’re nervous. And you are. Just not for the reason he thinks you are.
“Very well,” the priest smiles. “Then we shall continue.”
And you hate yourself for staying silent.
In the morning Satoru was already gone from your apartment.
Satoru left.
You woke from the cold on the side of the bed where he had been, from the silence. Only the ring you had loosened in your sleep still glimmered on the sheet.
Satoru left without saying goodbye.
And never came back.
He didn’t come the next day, didn’t call in the evening, didn’t text a week later.
Satoru Gojo disappeared without a trace, dissolved as if he had never existed.
As if that night with his desperate love and the ring in your hand had only been a dream.
“I,” the groom begins, his voice firm and confident, “take you to be my wife…”
You look at his lips and see different ones.
Feel another kiss on your own — the last one before sleep. Salty with your tears, gentle, promising a quick return. A lie. Or not a lie?
You will never know.
He vows to love you in sickness and in health, in riches and in poverty, until death do you part.
Until death do you part…
It wasn’t even death that separated Satoru from you.
It was something else.
Something he never told you.
Something that took him away from you, leaving only a ring on a string and a question without an answer.
You waited.
First a year, then two, then five.
You learned to live again, forced yourself to leave the house, smile, work.
You met a good, caring man who looked at you with steadiness and calm.
He proposed, and you said yes. Because you should. Because it was time. Because he was good.
But he was never him.
Because you had always loved only Satoru.
Your turn.
You open your mouth, and it feels like a broken howl will tear out of it. But you speak. You say the words you’re supposed to say.
You vow love to the man standing in front of you.
And every word is a lie.
Not because you don’t want to love him.
Not because he’s bad.
But because the part of you that knew how to love for real — desperately, completely, down to your bones — left with Satoru that morning five years ago.
And you’re still waiting for it to return.
Just like him.
“As a symbol of your love and commitment, please exchange rings,” the priest’s voice drifts.
The groom takes your left hand. You watch as he slides a new ring onto your finger — smooth, golden, proper. It settles exactly where Satoru’s ring had rested that night.
It covers that memory, erases it, makes it nonexistent.
Goosebumps run across your skin. Cold, sticky like fear.
Under the fabric of your dress, on your chest, the small metal circle burns against your skin. It knows. That ring knows you’re betraying it. That you’re choosing life without him.
That you’re giving up.
Now it’s your turn.
You take the ring for the groom from the velvet pillow, your fingers trembling. You slide it onto his finger, and the gesture feels like a final sentence. For you. For the girl who five years ago lay in the arms of the most incredible man on earth and believed it was forever.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride!”
Your groom leans down.
His lips touch yours softly, carefully, properly.
You close your eyes, and in that moment, in that darkness, you don’t feel him.
You taste the salt of your own tears on your lips and the sharp metallic scent that has nothing to do with this bright hall.
The guests are touched, happy for you.
You are not happy. You are mourning him. Mourning yourself. Mourning the life that was stolen from you — by circumstances, by silence, by his cursed job, his cursed confidence, his cursed love that Satoru carried away with him.
The kiss ends. You open your eyes.
Your husband smiles at you, wiping your tears with his thumbs.
“It’s okay,” he whispers. “I love you.”
You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat.
Everything is fine.
Now you’re married.
Now you have a home, a family, a future.
You have everything except him.
And when you walk back down the aisle while guests shower you with rose petals, your hand reaches your chest on its own. Through the fabric of your dress you clutch the ring, the only thing left to you from Satoru. You squeeze it so tightly the metal seems to bite into your skin.
And in your head pulses one thought, one prayer, one scream no one will ever hear:
What if I had said yes back then?
What if I hadn’t let you go?
What if you had stayed?
What if you were alive?
What if you were here?
You walk out of the church to the sound of the wedding march, and the sun blinds your eyes.
But inside you it’s night. That last night. And Satoru looking at you with longing and the purest love as he slides the ring onto your finger, only to disappear forever.
Satoru squeezed your hand back then in the dark of the bedroom, and there was so much tenderness in his eyes you could have drowned in it.
Satoru said he would come back.
He promised you.
But Satoru never came back.
And you marry someone else.
But inside you die every time you remember him.
And standing on the threshold of a new life, in a white dress, with a stranger’s ring on your finger and a new name you now carry, you know one desperate truth: you will love Satoru until the day you die.
Until your very last breath.
Until the moment you close your eyes and maybe finally see him again — smiling, with those crazy eyes that hold the whole sky, his hand reaching out to you.
I’m so sorry, Satoru.
I’m so sorry I didn’t say yes.
And I’m even more sorry that I’m saying it now — to someone else.
But more than anything I’m sorry I never found out whether you would have said something else, if you had known you were leaving forever.
And you will never know that the most desperate wish Satoru had before he died was to see you one last time.
Do not repost, copy, plagiarize, translate, or feed my work into AI in any form!)
Divider credit: @omi-resources
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬/𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: racer gojo/f1 gojo x racer reader/f1 reader. nsfw content. rivals to lovers. toxicity. misogynistic/sexist themes. jealousy. suggestive themes. explicit language. alcohol usage. possessiveness. mentions of restrictive eating. mentions of death. themes of child neglect/child exploitation.
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: a twenty-one year old american rookie in ferrari red was never supposed to exist. especially not beside satoru gojo, the team’s beloved golden boy. one brutal race and one mistake later, their rivalry turns intoxicating and impossible to ignore.
Summary: Soulmate AU; In a society where soulmates are born with the same quirks, you happened to get lucky that the boy you’ve been in love with since childhood, Izuku Midoriya, was also born quirkless. That is until one day just before high school, he developed a quirk out of nowhere. You had immediately lost all hope of a happy ever after with him, but he knew better, and now has to find a way to convince you that you’re still soulmates without revealing his big secret.
This had been on my mind for a really long time and I finally had the courage to post it. It's some Gojo fluff because our six eyed king deserves some parenting too. It's basically reader!insert, gojo, geto and shoko being reborn into the MHA world as teenagers after their canon deaths. So a JJK x BNHA drabble.
The U.A. training facility was quiet, almost eerily so. The usual clamour of students and hero drills had vanished. The only sounds were the faint hum of Gojo’s cursed energy and the soft shuffle of All Might’s boots on the polished floor.
Gojo leaned against the wall, blindfold firmly in place, but his posture was heavier than usual. For all his casualness, his body carried memories too vast, too painful for someone of his age. All Might, sensing the unusual tension, approached cautiously, placing a hand on Gojo’s shoulder.
“You’ve been unusually quiet today, Satoru,” All Might said softly. “Something’s on your mind.”
Gojo exhaled slowly, his voice uncharacteristically flat. “…Everything. The world, my past, Sukuna… every person I couldn’t save, every death I caused indirectly, every moment I ignored to protect myself… it all comes back sometimes. I can’t… stop seeing it.”
All Might nodded, remaining silent, letting the young prodigy speak. He knew what it was like to carry the weight of being the strongest—to be looked at as a symbol, yet secretly afraid of failing those who relied on you.
“I watched people die, All Might,” Gojo continued, the words sharp yet tinged with guilt. “…Suguru. Shoko. Y/N. Every failure, every fight, every misstep… Sukuna… I thought I could handle him, and I failed. I watched… and I couldn’t do anything to stop it. And now… now I’m back here, in a world where I can fight, but…” His hands clenched into fists. “…the memories—they’re all still here. They don’t go away just because I’m in a new world.”
All Might crouched slightly to meet Gojo at eye level. “…Satoru,” he said, voice steady but compassionate, “you are carrying more than anyone should. More than I ever carried alone. But venting, speaking your truth… that’s the first step. You don’t have to bear it in silence.”
Gojo’s shoulders sagged slightly, a rare vulnerability breaking through. “…I pretended I could handle it. I smiled. I joked. I fought like nothing mattered… but inside, it was constant. Every single day… wondering if I could have saved someone. If I could have done better. If… if my presence even mattered at all.”
All Might placed a firm hand on Gojo’s back, grounding him. “…Listen to me, Satoru. You did matter. You still do. And being the strongest isn’t about never failing—it’s about how you move forward after you do. Every life you save now, every lesson you teach, every action you take… it’s all proof that you’ve learned. You’ve grown. You’ve endured more than anyone could imagine.”
Gojo tilted his head, a faint smirk touching his lips despite the exhaustion. “…So… talking to you like this… it doesn’t feel like weakness?”
“All Might shook his head. “…No. The strongest heroes—those who truly endure—have someone to trust. Someone they can confide in. I had mentors once. I had people who listened. And now… you have me. And one day, you’ll see that even the strongest need anchors.”
Gojo exhaled, energy slightly easing, a weight lifted. “…Maybe… maybe I’ve been trying too hard to carry it all alone. It’s… exhausting, pretending I don’t feel it.”
All Might smiled warmly, eyes gentle but commanding. “…You don’t have to pretend here, Satoru. Let it out. Let it all out. Every fear, every regret, every burden… I’ll listen. And when you’re ready, you’ll rise again. Stronger, wiser, and… still the protector you were always meant to be.”
Gojo’s blindfold shifted slightly as he nodded, a rare glimmer of peace crossing his features. “…Thank you… truly. I needed that.”
All Might placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “…You’re not alone, Satoru. Never alone.”
And in that quiet space, for the first time since Sukuna, Gojo let himself breathe—not as a master of cursed energy, not as a prodigy, not as a legend—but as a soul unburdened, if only for a moment, by someone who understood the true weight of being the strongest.
_______________________________ x _____________________________
10 things I hate about you 𝜗ৎ hockey player! gojo x reader
pt. 1/2
pairing ⊹ ࣪ ˖ college au - hockey player! gojo x reader
summary : getting accepted into one of the ivy league universities was supposed to be you getting the best education you could get, not the centerpiece of a bet created by none other than the hockey team, the players challenge satoru that he can't make you fall for him in 10 days in which he allows his pride take over to go out of his way to take on the bet thinking it would be easy. what he didn't expect was to fall for you instead, but after you find out his ulterior motives, your trust in him shatters and so does his heart. now with the truth out, he is now more determined than ever to get you back, but this time, he isn't playing games.
warning / tags ⟢ fluff, angst, brief smut, college au, this fic is based on the film '10 things I hate about you', partial angst with readers father regarding sickness, reader is low income.
w.c : 10k
a / n . this is a reupload from my old blog ! and yes this fic was inspired by '10 things I hate about you'
transferring from a community college to one of the top 10 universities was a huge step for you. you weren't even sure how you did it. but those two years of attending your local community college that wasn't even ten minutes away from your house paid off. one that made you feel ashamed in going since it felt like a detour from your actual goals.
growing up, you promised your family members that they'd see you majoring in the best schools and in becoming something they would be proud of to call a daughter. thats why you studied so hard in grade school, getting the best grades not allowing them to go below an 85%. but after your mother left shortly after your father got diagnosed with cancer. your dreams had to take a backseat to allow you to become the backbone of your family that consisted of you, your father, and your two younger brothers.
money came in short with your minimum paying job and it just wasn't enough to pay off any college funds. your brother who just turned sixteen always helped you out with groceries and bills now that your father retired from his job, after you forced him to, making sure he was taken care of at all times. hospital bills were also pricey, sometimes your insurance wouldn't cover all the costs and they had to be paid directly from your personal money.
so after applying to yale and actually receiving an acceptance letter in the mail a week after had you trembling in both excitement and fear. you were happy you could finally get the education you've been longing for, but on the other hand you wouldn't want to leave all the responsibility to your brother. he disagreed and encouraged your dreams instead when you sat him down to talk.
"y/n you've always been wanting to go to university. im sixteen now, im not the ten year old you know anymore, I am more than willing to take care after dad and matt."
you let out a sigh as you averted your gaze back down to the letter in your hands. the bold lettering called out your name and you tried to resist. but you couldn't.
"anything happens, you call me immediately." you firmly ordered. the pink haired boy chuckled, the corner of his lips lifted up as well as the corners of his eyes wrinkled before nodding. "got it."
thats how you found yourself packing the last bit of your shirts. no matter how hard you tried to, you just couldn't help the bit of tears that spilled from your eyes. you paused, letting out a shaky breath before feeling a pair of arms wrap around your waist. you looked down to see the soft face of your brother, Matt.
"sissy dont cry. me papa and yuji will be okay!" he promised.
you knelt down to wrap your arms around him as well, holding onto the warmth you were going to leave behind in a few hours. then, another pair wrapped around you both, a much stronger set of arms, then another, your fathers, who was weaker than before but still full of love. before you knew it, your whole family was cuddling together in the comfort of your own room.
no words were exchanged for a few minutes.
"ill miss those blueberry pancakes you make" your father whispered, making everyone giggle. you raised your head up, propping it on top of matt.
"ill leave the recipe for you guys."
your father placed a small delicate peck on your forehead.
airports were your least favorite method of transportation. you couldn't handle hearing the incoherent voice in the speakers call out the plane that was about to board in twenty minutes, or the panicked looks on peoples faces when they realize they booked the wrong flight, or the people just in general, so many people. the whole process was messy and annoying.
your family walked you to where the escalators headed up to your gate. with a sigh, you turned to face them watching as they held back tears. "ill miss you guys." a beat passed. then another. and you found yourself in another family hug.
it was still weird with the missing pair of warm arms that belonged to your mother. but looking back, maybe they weren't warm at all. they were always cold and empty whenever you hugged her. you reminded yourself that she left willingly. you quickly pushed those negative thoughts behind, not wanting to think about her when you had the next best four years of your life right ahead of you.
"call me if you need anything." you said with your voice more steady.
your father nodded before everyone let go at the sound of the speakers calling out your gate number. with one final look and a last goodbye, you stood on the escalators holding back tears of your own.
if the process of checking into the airport wasn't annoying enough, the next five hours boarding the plane itself would be. the man snoring next to you couldn't be any louder, the baby crying behind you wouldn't shut up, and the women gossiping in front of you was the only source of entertainment you could get.
but it all came to this. yale. the beautiful sight of the university's campus. you took it all in, seeing how students walked in with luggages or boxes of their own with the assistance of their parents or friends.
the sun casted a glow on the building itself making it appear straight out of a movie. you stood there for a moment, continuing to take it all in before your main character moment was interrupted by someone bumping into you.
he had white hair that resembled snow itself. he stumbled a bit before regaining his balance. the boys behind him that you figured were his friends laughed at the sight.
"oh uh sorry." he quickly apologized, glancing your way smiling like he meant the entire opposite of his apology before playfully nudging his friend as they continued making their way into the building. you blinked, continuing to watch as he disappeared. he was oddly.. beautiful.
after picking up a few papers form the directory, you followed the directions on the map to where the dormitories were located. you found out that you would be sharing your dorm with a roommate, you didn't mind as you saw this as an opportunity to make your very first friend.
and you were right because the second you twisted the door knob, not fully getting to turn it around before it swung open on its own, introducing a rather tall girl with the prettiest aesthetic and the sweetest smile plastered on her face that comforted you in ways you didn't know you needed.
"hi! I'm miwa!" the girl said in which you returned her greeting with your name. she moved to the side allowing you to step in. you took in the large room. it looks like she already has claimed her part of the room on the left side. band and show posters plastered all over her walls neatly with stuffed animals lying peacefully on her bed. it reminded you fondly of matt recalling how he has millions of plushies on his bed.
"need some help with that?" she pointed at your suitcases. you hesitated at first not wanting to bother her but it wouldn't hurt, right? "yes please." you chuckled which made her grin.
"great, roommate bonding begins now!"
hours pass by full of cleaning and organizing and chatter between you and the blue haired girl. you found out that she's been here for the past two years and you explained to her that you were a transfer. somewhere in between hanging fairy lights and folding blankets, she let it slip that she's crushing on a boy that is on the hockey team.
"didn't know they had a hockey team here." you said as you placed the last piece of clothing in the closet provided by the school. miwa gasped dramatically. "okay now I need to take you out to watch a game sometime!"
she flopped down onto your bed next to you. "its like an essential yale culture."
"deal. i'd like to see how good looking this boy you claim is the most handsome boy in all of yale to exist really is."
"he is!"
the first day of school wasn't until next week, yet you could already feel the nerves setting in as well as the homesickness. you pulled out your phone, dimming the brightness now that miwa was asleep and all the lights were turned off. pressing on yujis contact you sent him a message.
you || 9:04 P.M
everything alright?
yuji || 9:10 P.M
everything's great
you let out a sigh of relief at his words.
the first day was full of chaos, at least for you. you woke up a bit late after your alarm failed to do its job, you lost your map that showed the entire campus, and on top of that you had no idea what to wear.
after brushing your teeth and washing your face, you quickly slipped on a pair of pants and a cute top before rushing out of your dorm all while brushing your hair. you made it on time thankfully, but you surely learned your lesson to set your alarm to full volume.
your classes finally came to an end and you dragged your tired body that was aching from carrying all the syllabus and textbooks in your bag towards your dorm. miwa was already there scrolling through her phone.
"oh hey!," she flinched as she took a closer look at you. "you look rough"
you placed your bag down on the floor before flopping on your bed. "I am rough" you said with a grumble. she moved from her bed towards yours. "hey lighten up, tomorrow will be better. its the second day of school and the first hockey game"
"already?"
"yeah. since its the same previous team as last year versus some other school. coach said he wanted to kick off this season early for some reason. im not complaining, I get to see kokichi!"
"oh right your man" you teased which made her chubby pale cheeks turn a light pink shade before she bolted towards her closet pulling out two tops. "okay so which one says 'hey cute hockey player over there! wanna go out with me?'"
you burst out laughing before pointing at the one on the right hand. "that one, definitely that one."
you were never the type of person to enjoy sports. your brothers and dad enjoyed them though. they always connected both the couches together and gathered a bunch of blankets and snacks whenever a big game came up. now you are here witnessing one happen right in front of you, not on a screen.
you pulled out your phone to snap a picture to send to the family group chat. one you created after you had to delete the previous one with your mother in it. you angled the phone carefully, snapping a picture of the players already spread out ready to kick off the game.
you stared at your screen for a second before sending the message to the group chat. the second you sent it, the announcer's voice came to the speakers and the crowd erupted.
"there he is!" miwa squealed as she pointed at the dark haired boy, kokichi. he was rather attractive and you could see why she liked him. they definitely would make a cute couple. he was walking with a friend who had white hair. your eyes squinted as you looked a bit closer.
it was the same boy who bumped into you a week ago. his white locks were messy and he had a grin plastered over his face. it seemed that he was popular with the girls because they went wild at the sight of him.
you were interrupted from your thoughts when miwa's elbow made contact with your shoulder. "look, he waved at me!"
your eyes traced back to kokichi. "yeah, I saw." but your eyes kept wandering back to the boy with white hair. number ten. you watched as he placed his helmet on and slid across the rink to get into position.
a buzzer sounded across the arena, putting the game to a start and sending the crowd into a loud roar. you sat a bit straighter as you tried to keep track of the hockey puck. all the players were a blur of white and blue as they slid through the ice rink.
number 10 was sharp.
he was focused and quick, weaving through the other players. he stole the puck clean with a swift movement of his stick, gliding towards the opposite teams net. the air was thick with anticipation and it seemed that the entire arena was holding it's breath, and you didn't realize that you were holding yours as well.
then he hit it straight into the back of the cage with a satisfying clank.
applause echoed and so did the screams of the players' name.
satoru.
he rushed to his teammates doing a small celebration before continuing the game. maybe hockey wasn't too bad.
the game ended as soon as the buzzer could be heard, with your school winning. people made their way towards the exit or down to the rink. the hockey cheerleaders, glittering with their tiny ass skirts, made their way to their boyfriends who were players.
but most of them?
they went to satoru, congratulating him like he had just saved the world itself from an apocalypse. his hands reached to take off his gear, forehead dripping with a thin layer of sweat.
"im gonna go talk to kokichi." miwa said as she stood up from the bleacher already feeling the nerves settling down her stomach. you nodded, following her. she wrapped her arms around the boy, a hug in which he returned as well.
"thanks for coming." he said in a low voice placing his lips on hers practically melting the poor girl setting her rosacea on fire. you stood there a bit awkward not realizing that a pair of eyes was placed on your figure.
"hey, is she new?" a player asked his friends, pointing directly at you.
the other boy shrugged. "I guess, never seen her before." he turned to satoru who was busy untying the shoelaces of his skates, whistling at him. "yo satoru! remember when you were whining about not having any other girl to crack?"
satoru's eyebrows furrowed in confusion for a bit before he approached his friend. "yeah, what about it?" the guy grinned, jerking his chin toward the bleachers.
"what about her?"
he could barely see you due to his poor eyesight now that he had taken off his contacts. he saw you with a girl he knew was in a situationship with kokichi, his friend. "who the hell is that?"
"she's new. go after her."
satoru grumbled. "she looks like a total loner." his friend shrugged, untying his long black hair. "you like a challenge though, don't you?" he tossed his stick into his bag. "ten days. thats the bet"
"woah we're making this a bet?" satoru raised his eyebrow. there was a beat of silence, long enough to make him think this through. it's been a while since he's been laid, not wanting to continue the life of being a frat boy and a 'play boy.' he really just wanted to focus on his studies and hockey as well, if he found a girl somewhere throughout that then he'd settle down.
he grabbed his water bottle, taking a sip from it. "ten days." he repeated, mostly to himself. "suguru I don't know-"
"you backing out?" suguru questioned, wanting to stir something.
no matter how much he wanted to resist, he just couldn't because no matter how much he swore that he stopped doing that shit, he missed it just a bit. "fine, ten days."
his jaw was tightened watching as his friend smirked. the group chuckled a bit, like it was just another 'harmless' game. satoru glanced at you.
pretty.
you and miwa made your way to the exit after the little make-out session with her now new boyfriend. she kept squealing about how she couldn't believe she finally got together with him. you were incredibly happy for the both of them.
"he kissed me! like he actually kissed me! I thought I was going to pass out!"
satoru debated, standing still for a moment. you were a step away from leaving, your arm wrapped around your friends, chattering about whatever. part of him wanted to plan this through, something smoother than just..
"fuck it." he mumbled.
his legs moved before his brain ordered them to. "hey-" he called out, jogging a bit to fully reach you. you turned slowly, miwa did too with her eyebrows furrowed. he realized that maybe this wasn't the best option. his lips parted a bit before continuing.
"uh.." he scratched the back of his neck. "you dropped something."
you stared at him in confusion. "no I didn't.." you looked down to confirm that you in fact, didn't drop any item.
"right uhm, that was supposed to be my opening line" he cursed at himself, but it made you chuckle. satoru was dorky, you thought. he had an uneven smile before he looked back at you.
"im satoru"
"I know" you felt like everyone in this damn school knew who he was. "oh im y/n." you quickly introduced yourself after the small pause. for some reason, satoru didn't feel like this was the beginning of a bet he agreed to, but a beginning for something he wasn't ready for.
"go out with me."
miwa snapped her head so fast towards you, you could have sworn you heard a crack. you blinked at satoru, unsure if you heard him right.
"what?"
"go out with me, please." he repeated confident just like the first time. you weren't entirely convinced. "is this a joke?" satoru froze. of course this was a joke. he always played around with random girls so why did it make him feel guilty this time.
"no. I want you, pretty." he smiled softly, showing off his pearly whites that could have any girl soaking her panties in under 10 seconds.
you could feel miwa vibrating next to you, begging you to say yes, or at least something. "I think i'll pass." you mumbled, not unkindly just firm enough to make your point, staring at him for a bit before turning your heel to leave with miwa who now had a disappointed look on her face.
"whyyy?" she whined.
a grunt left satoru's lips. "I can take you out somewhere, anywhere! real nice places sweetheart!"
"like the 7/11 in broadway?" you shot back. he froze before chuckling a genuine laugh, shaking his head. "even better!"
the corner of your lips tugged up a smile as you giggled with miwa at his advances as you both left.
"well look at you missy, pulling mr captain of the hockey team."
"im just that good." you continued to hold your smile, not letting it drop.
and neither did he.
every night at eight, you'd have a video call with your family, just to make sure everything was alright back at home.
"he had an appointment today." yuji said while he was washing the dirty plates, handing them to matt to dry. you used to always put the dishes away back to their original places, but you were no longer there to do your job and that hurt you a bit.
it stung seeing how they had to adapt to live without you and you recalled how you all had to do the same when your mother left. you watched how matt didn't hand it to anyone, he just placed them down.
"and the results?" you asked, your voice quiet and steady but ready for any news you didn't want to hear. not yet.
"not out yet, but im sure nothing has changed since last time he got checked up."
yuji turned off the sink, handing the smaller kid the last dish before drying his hands with a towel. "how's yale treating you? saw the picture you sent."
you hummed looking back at how the day went. "it's going great I guess. our school won the game by the way, oh and a boy wants to take me out."
"you agreed?" yuji has always been the overprotective type, despite you being older.
you answered by shaking your head. "no, he's sketchy."
"how come?" now he was completely alert. a boy is hitting on his sister hundreds of miles away from home? not on his watch. you shrugged.
"he has a whole fangirl club or something."
matts voice could be heard from afar. "he's a red flag!" his words made you chuckle. "you been teaching him new vocabulary?"
yuji rolled his eyes. "its the kids at his school. but seriously, trust your gut. if you don't feel like something is right about that gut, don't take his offer."
you nodded, pressing the sleeve of your sweater up to your nose taking in the scent of old memories. it hasnt been washed since you left home and that nostalgic smell lingered.
one that you desperately wanted to go back to.
satoru could've sworn he left dissecting frogs back in high school, but here he was again, poking around at the laid back amphibians internal organs. "no way am I doing this shit." with a mutter, he placed the tweezers down gagging, shaking his hands in disgust before pulling out his cigarette box, sliding one out placing it in between his pretty pink lips, far too pretty for a man. "smoking in class? you'll set the smoke alarm off." suguru scooted closer to his friend.
"better than doing a bbl on a frog." satoru grumbled, looking away not being able to stare at the gross mess that was right in front of him. "that girl from yesterday.." he narrowed his eyes in thought, trying to remember your name. "y/n" he mumbled after it finally reached him.
"she didn't want to go out with me." he continued. the black haired boy scoffed, not comprehending the words that were coming out of the school's playboy. " you're satoru fucking gojo, this should be easy as hell for you!"
"look man, I dont do this shit anymore."
suguru rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he looked at the frog's corpse. "I'll pay you." satoru grunted bringing the lighter up to his cigarette, huffing it slowly before blowing it towards suguru, in which he looked down at the smoking boy unimpressed.
"I have enough money, I don't need your pocket change."
suguru paused in deep thought. "you're right, heard she's only into pretty guys anyways." satoru brought a hand up to his chest as if he was truly hurt, because he was.
“are you telling me im not a pretty guy?” he took out the cigarette from his mouth, before crushing it down against the table, which left a nasty dent on the cheap laminate. "why do you want me to play with her?"
suguru brought his pierced tongue out to lick his dry lips. "I guess I just miss the old you. seriously satoru, I'll pay you. 300 bucks if you take her out on a date," he scooted closer to his friend. "500 if you get in her panties. and 1000 if you manage to make her your date to hoco."
as if divine intervention occurred, the door creaked open, pausing the chatter between the two boys. there you were. wearing a well put together outfit that just made satoru's hormones run crazy, as you made your way to your desk. the sight of you made gojo straighten his posture suddenly hyper aware of every detail of himself. quickly running a hand through his hair and gulping, his adams apple bobbing.
he turned to look at suguru who was already giving him a pointed look.
"bet."
another thing that you like about yale's campus is that its not too far away from shopping areas. you found a nearby barnes and noble not even a few blocks away from the school. it soon became your go to stop where you would buy books and cd's. you weren't able to fit any of your beloved music or novels when you were packing, so you started a new collection that was placed neatly back at your dorm.
you entered, the bell placed on top of the door notifying any workers of your entrance quickly making your way to the music disc section, straight shelves full of cd's. you're surprised to see many new arrivals.
some were year old music, and some were rare old ones from the 2000's. you reached out to grab a few, a soft smile plastered on your face as you scanned the labels. so deep into it, you didn't notice the bell chiming again.
'debut' by bjork was being held by your hand right now, having an inner battle with yourself whether to be financially responsible for today. you placed the cd back when you remembered that the hospital bill from your fathers last visit would soon come back. and you were not looking forward to seeing the multiple zeros behind whatever number was in front of it.
"excuse me, have you seen any cd of bjork?" the smooth voice behind you asked. "oh yeah-" you answered, turning to look back at the voice.
halfway through your sentence, you took a good look at who was behind you. satoru. "oh, it's you." your eyes narrowed as they focused on him. the boy slid his glasses on the crown of his head. you didn't know he even wore those. satoru seemed to have noticed your observation.
"lost my contacts."
"are you stalking me?" you asked defensively which just made him laugh. his body got closer to yours as he skimmed through the cd's.
"you not getting that bjork one?" he asked tilting his head as his long pale fingers slid the music disc right out of its place. the plastic creaked the second he held it.
"uh its a bit expensive.." the words came out in a mumble, almost embarrassed to admit you couldn't afford a fifty dollar cd. you shifted your weight onto your right leg, looking anywhere but him.
he looked at you before looking down at the case. "guess I'll get it."
you blinked. "didn't know you liked her."
"I dont. but I like you, so I'll get it for you, baby. anything else you want?"
you head snapped towards him, watching how he didn't even let you answer as he placed the bjork case that contained the disc you've been wanting for a while into a shopping basket. you were so shocked you didn't even realize the term of endearment.
"its fifty.." you reminded him.
"be a sweetheart and dont mention the prices, I dont care one bit about it." your eyes dropped to the basket, lips parting to say anything but nothing came out. nothing but a, "can I get the post one..?"
you couldn't find how much one has ever spent at barnes and nobles, but you were pretty sure you may have broken whatever record there was. satoru didn't mind, just like he said.
when the cashier asked how he'd like his receipt he declined it. when he saw the total on the screen in bold green letters, he ignored it. and when he handed you the bags full of books, cd's, and figures, some that you didn't even ask for. he just noticed you staring at them for a little too long and he'd just grab it and place it in the basket, he had a smile plastered right on those pink lips.
"I think I deserve a kiss for all of this.."
its the least you could do, right? besides he didn't tell you where he wanted the kiss. so you stepped up on your tippy toes a bit to place your lips on his cheek.
"thank you. seriously thank you." his smirk softened to a smile, returning the kiss but on your forehead making your breathing stutter.
"any time," he mumbled kissing your nose before backing up. "oh here, give me your phone"
your hand pulls out your phone from your back pocket, handing it to him. "what for?"
"im putting my number in.." his fingers typed quickly, the dumb smirk on his face not leaving, before slipping it back into your hands.
'my sugar daddy'
you visibly cringed at the name he chose. "you've got to be kidding me." you said with pure disbelief. he nodded, proud of his decision. "I did buy you all this didn't I?" he tucked a strand of loose hair behind your ear, leaning down to whisper into it.
"ill send you a picture to set up as my contact photo. perhaps a nude?"
"perhaps not."
miwa's eyes widened when she saw you stumble into the shared dorm with heavy bags on each hand. "woah.. didn't know it was black friday." she half joked, getting up from her bed to help you out. you exhaled in relief when the weight was taken from your poor limp arms. "and I didn't pay a single penny."
she averted her gaze from the bags up to you. "who did pay for them? your sugar daddy?" your face burned at that damn name. "you're not wrong. it was satoru." you held up your phone, opening this contact name you knew would have miwa laughing.
she squinted, looking at it before she burst into giggles.
"hes so extra." you set the bags down on the desk, taking one thing out at a time. miwa wiped the tears that spilled from her eyes. "how'd this happen?"
you dragged a hand down your face, shrugging. "he saw me at the store and offered to buy me whatever. but I swear I didn't ask for all of this."
"he likes you."
you paused for a second. "does he now?"
it was a dumb question. who else would buy a random person they have no interest in hundreds of dollars worth of barnes and noble? no one, except him of course.
you retold the same ridiculous events to yuji, who still wasn't pleased at the idea of you getting hit on not even a month into school. his arms were crossed over his chest as he was lazily sitting on his desk chair, same as you.
"return everything."
you scoffed. "no way! even if I did I wouldn't be able to, he didn't ask for a receipt."
"he shouldn't be buying you shit. didn't you tell me yesterday how your gut was telling you something was off?"you moved from your desk to your bed, sighing as your back hit the mattress. "well maybe I was wrong about him."
satoru felt proud of being able to treat you like a princess, buying you all sorts of things, showering you with everything you wanted. he remembered how you hesitated on buying that cd. it bothered him a bit.
'did she have a problem with money?'
his phone rang with a message from suguru.
'party tonight at the frat, you coming?"
of course he was, he hasn't missed a single function since he joined yale. his fingers typed out, "Omw!" but before he could send it, he stopped, and then deleted it. why was he thinking about you right now?
why is he declining a party?
"im not in the mood tonight."
he stared at the screen for a moment, realizing that he actually sent that. a calloused hand rubbed his cheekbone, exhaling before he received another notification, this time not from any of his friends but from spotify.
'the marias are performing near you! click to see ticket prices and shows available!'
the marias? where had he heard that name.. his mind instantly flashed to you. you were holding the marias disc, the one he bought you along with all the other cd's. it was as if his body was moving without him knowing because a second later, he was buying two tickets.
your first day was an unconfirmed barnes and noble date. but your second day, the concert, would be an actual date.
he clicked the 'pay now' button without hesitation.
you weren't expecting to see a screen showing the digital receipts slip right into your line of sight while you were halfway through placing some textbooks in your locker. the bold blue letters read, 'THE MARIAS'
"hi pretty.. got these for you and me." your eyes widened at the familiar voice. the white haired individual really had a habit of sneaking up behind you didn't he? "you.. you got-" you stammered, blinking at the sight of the tickets, then back at him.
"got these for you and me." he repeated himself, both his voice and gaze softening. not sure to be flattered or continue being suspicious, you slowly reached for his phone, taking it from his pale hand to make sure what you were seeing was real.
not only did he buy you both tickets to a music artist you liked, but he also got the best seats. "you got the marias tickets.." you said mostly to yourself. his smirk was still there, but it showed no sign of being cocky.
"mhm, thought you'd like it."
"satoru.. you already spent so much on me yesterday.." how come a boy you barely knew was dropping a thousand on you each day. "I told you I like you. this can be our first date." he gently grabbed back his phone.
you swallowed, your mind trying to wrap itself around the unexpected layers of satoru you’d been seeing over the last few days. and you wondered if you were the first one to see this version of him.
"one date." you said firmly as you lifted up your finger, finally agreeing to his advances. his charm was different.. it was bold, yes, but real. "don't push your luck, im only accepting because its bjork."
"there will be more than one date, pretty." there was short pauses between his words allowing each syllable to sink in. like he meant it.
you had no idea why you were allowing him to score another point at this game he was forcing you to play. "at least let me pay for the gas.. or for the food." you offered but satoru only scrunched his face up shaking his head.
"don't do that."
he had some extra cash on him. 300. just like suguru promised when he said he'd pay satoru 300 if he managed to take you out on a date.
"just wear something pretty for me, and easy to remove."
you rolled your eyes. "im not sure about that second part, you're pushing your luck here sir."
"mm no not sir baby, its sugar dadd-"
your hand shot out to cover his mouth, cutting him off before he even had the chance to finish. he was shocked for a bit before he licked a long stripe against your hand moaning.
you recoiled immediately, gagging with a mix of shock and disgust. he chuckled at your discomfort and the sight of you wiping your hand on his chest.
"you like that baby?"
"no!" you shot back, closing your locker before rushing to the bathroom to properly clean your hand.
"ill see you later my love!" he called out.
miwa helped you get ready for the concert date after school. she straightened your hair pin straight while you both talked about what could happen later. your phone vibrated with a notification from 'sugar daddy'
"you still wearing something easy to remove right?"
you stared at the message. any past thoughts of him not being that bad quickly vanished. obviously, you weren't going to give him the satisfaction of your reply, so you left him on read. guess that hurt his feelings because a few minutes later he texted again.
"im joking baby :("
"still haven't changed that contact name?" miwa asked, finishing up the last strand for the final section. you grumbled a little 'shut it'
"im kind of nervous.." you admitted. this was going to be your first date after all.
miwa stopped, her hands hovering in mid air, before she turned your chair to face each other. her expression softened, a mix of understanding and excitement. "hey, it’s okay to be nervous. besides you kind of already know him.."
"briefly." you couldn't help but sigh, your eyes following her figure as she chose an outfit from her side of the closet to lend you.
"he wanted something easy to remove right?"
"dont."
you both met up to where you agreed, which was just outside the girls dormitories. the second he saw you, his heart fluttered.
you looked, no, you are gorgeous.
"...hey" a smile crept up on his face. he was dressed casual while you went all out thanks to miwa.
"hi" you smiled softly.
"you're so beautiful.." you'd be lying if you said you weren't flustered. even if you tried lying, the dark tint of pink on your cheeks would say otherwise. "thank you"
with a chuckle, he led you to his car. a model of the year, typical for a rich ass boy like him. being the gentleman he was, he opened the passenger door for you before closing it as you settled yourself down.
he made his way over to the drivers seat. "can't believe I finally landed a date with you" he mumbled before reaching over to hold your hand in his.
why was he acting like this? it was just a bet.. right?
you stared down at your hands that were now intertwined. you'd expect his to be cold from how pale they were and the amount of time he spends playing hockey in the cold rink.
your eyes lifted to his face, he was focused on the road now, a quiet little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, like just having you next to him was enough.
"im going to be honest, i don't know any of this bands songs."
your breath caught in your throat. "you bought the tickets without knowing how they were?"
he shook his head. "I bought the tickets because I knew you knew who they were." his hand squeezed yours, keeping his eyes on the road. "have I told you how absolutely sexy you are? I mean look at this.." his hand moved from yours to tug at your skirt, making you gasp.
"feel good, baby?" he continued squeezing your thigh, biting his lower lip as he felt the warmth of your skin.
he slapped it playfully, moving his hand onto the steering wheel leaving you flustered.
"pervert.."
the concert was beautiful. the music reached your heart it made you tear up, of course some songs hit close to home. gojo couldn't help but admire you from time to time. watching as your pretty mouth sang along to the unknown lyrics.
"lets take a picture pretty." he said out of nowhere. "a picture?" he nodded before pulling out his phone, wrapping his arm around your waist and pressing his cheek against yours, snapping a few pictures of you and him throughout the night, mostly of you. you did the same, filling up your gallery with endless pictures and videos.
he pressed his lips on your temple before pulling away to continue enjoying the performance.
as the night came to an end, he drove you safely back home, both of you discussing the songs you enjoyed being performed the most.
"I think I enjoyed back to me the most"
"no way! paranoia was clearly the most enjoyable."
he rolled his eyes. "yeah well I think what I enjoyed the most was seeing you sing. you're gorgeous baby."
"you already told me that like twenty times."
"and ill continue to tell you for the rest of my life and beyond that." his words made your stomach twist. not in a bad way. definitely not. you watched how the dim light lit up his face making him look even more handsome than he already was.
"want to go to the ice rink?" he asked.
'right now? I dont think im wearing the appropriate clothing for skating.."
satoru grinned, pulling up to the building where the arena was in. "good thing I came prepared then." he reached towards the backseat, pulling out a duffel bag.
"you can thank your friend miwa."
you stared down at the clothes, which belonged to you, now on your lap. light pink thighs and a sweater as well as leg warmers. "you guys planned this?"
"she helped me out. I wanted to make this the best first date."
it was late, so the place was quieter than usual, dimly lit, making the place peaceful. the cold air nipped at your cheeks as you both stepped inside, and you tried your best not to show how nervous you were.
"ive never skated before." you admit.
"good thing your man is a hockey player." he finished tying up his laces before getting down on one knee to tie yours. he said it so casually. 'your man'
satoru looked up at you all while he continued fumbling around with the laces on your skates. "I really hope we have that romcom moment where you slip on the ice and fall right into my arms."
"what type of movies are you watching?" you giggled, feeling the heat creep up to your neck.
he finished the second skate, placing it on the ground before gripping your thighs. "like I said.. romcoms." he murmured, bringing you closer to his face. he darted his tongue out to lick the inside of your thigh.
a gasp left your lips. "h-hey.."
he didn't stop there.
he was starved. his lips traveled all throughout your inner thighs, nipping once in a while. "pretty.."
a shaky hand pushed his head away, watching as a string of saliva connected his lips with you. "so uhm.. you gonna teach me how to skate..?"
the fog of tension shattered the moment you placed your hand on his forehead, pushing him away. he licked his lips before chuckling. "yeah, come on."
the second you stepped onto the ice, you were already struggling. it was more slippery than you'd expect it to be, but satoru's large hands, placed on your waist, kept you steady.
"lean on me."
you held onto his arms, following his step wobbling once in a while.
"I got you doll."
twenty minutes was all you needed to learn how to maintain your balance on the ice. you excitedly followed satoru, holding his hand as you both made rounds around the rink, your skates gliding smoothly. he glanced at you, smiling as he watched you. "look at you... natural born skater" just as he said that, you bumped into his shoulder.
"natural born liar."
he chuckled seeing how your eyes showed signs of being tired. he wrapped his hands around your waist, lifting you up with ease. "lets get you out of here. kind of sad we didn't have that cute moment."
"what cute moment?" you wrapped your arms around him before he placed you down the carpet when he got you both out the ice rink. "the one where you fall right into my arms and we kiss."
you rolled your eyes. "maybe next time."
he raised an eyebrow, kneeling down again to take off your shoes. "so is that a confirmation that we will have another date?"
"mhm." you hummed quietly and before you knew it, you were leaning into a kiss with no control over your body, like it was possessed by a curse or something.
he hesitated for a second, deciding not to kiss you back. it was just a bet.
"lets go."
you stared at him in hurt and betrayal. this is what he wanted wasn't it? you felt your heart sink deeper as the seconds passed. you didn't allow him to put your shoes on, doing it yourself instead.
"baby.."
"dont." your voice wasn't firm, it was soft. barely even a whisper to be honest. "you're just messing with me aren't you?" he looked startled, like he had gotten caught with his hand down the cookie jar, because he did.
"no..no you're not something to play around with."
you were mad. furious even. "feels like it."
opening the door after gathering your clothes, you left without a goodnight. or a kiss. once you were out of view, satoru dragged his hands down his face groaning. he's grown attached to you without knowing it in the span of three days. and he's hurt you by denying your kiss.
he rushed after you.
"let me walk you."
"its fine. my dorm isn't that far."
"damn it y/n." he pressed his lips against yours, cupping your jaw. the kiss was full of frustration and it was desperate. his other hand found your hip, bringing you closer to him. he wanted to deepen the kiss, but he noticed you weren't kissing back.
he pulled away before smashing his lips against yours again, hoping that you'd kiss back this time but you didn't.
"I'll see you later.." you mumbled out.
he watched you walk away quickly in the direction of your dorm. now it was his heart who was sinking. he didn't remember any of his last 'bets' hurting this much.
so why does it feel like you were ripping out his heart right now?
when you reached your dorm, ready to get any call from your brothers, you already planned not to mention anything. not the concert date with satoru and definitely not how yuji was right about him. you couldn't let him have that 'I told you so' moment.
your phone vibrated at the back of your pocket as soon as you dropped your bag onto the floor. miwa was staying over at her boyfriends tonight, giving you and satoru any privacy if things went to a more heated direction.
it did. sorta.
with a sigh, you slid your thumb across the screen, answering the call from yuji.
"took you a while."
you forced a laugh. "sorry, you woke me up." you allowed your body to rest, flopping down on your messy bed with a 'thump', the back of your head sinking into the pillows.
"I'm just calling you to let you know that a hospital bill might reach you."
you quirked an eyebrow, staring at the ceiling. "its going to be sent out to me? all the way to yale?" yuji let out a small 'mhm', casual like he was commenting on the weather.
"yeah, from dad's last check up."
"oh," you rubbed your face, feeling a different kind of tired. "thats right."
"its just from his prescriptions and shit.. I would've paid it myself but.." his voice trailed off.
"no, no dont worry about it. not like i'm already drowning in student loans or whatever"
"of course not." you could hear him chuckle from the other side of the phone.
after the call ended, you let the silence settle. you received your mail usually by the end of the week in your small issued mailbox that was located in the front of the school. most of the time it was just flyers for clubs you had no intention of joining. but soon, a hospital bill that you desperately wanted to leave behind home, where it belongs, will appear right inside the small box.
after dreading to see the ridiculous amount you had to pay for oral chemotherapy medication, your mind circled back to satoru, a finger brushed against your lips, reliving the moment he placed his against yours in a kiss you wanted to return, but didn't.
you felt like it wasn't real.
why would he hesitate in the first place? your hand dropped back down against the mattress, gripping the bed sheets to brace yourself from any tears that might come out.
miwa dragged you to watch kokichi practice in the ice rink. the memories from last night hit you like a wave every other minute you sat on the bleachers. the same spot you were rejected.
you were annoyed.
no. pissed. pissed at how he dodged your kiss like it meant nothing and honestly you have every right to be. because why is he hesitant to kiss you when he’s the one that was so desperate. is this some sort of sick joke?
you didn't want to mention it to miwa or anyone. you were too embarrassed and the poor girl was happy she even had the opportunity to help out satoru with last nights date. you couldn't take that away from her. when she asked how it went you spared the details and just gave a brief summary.
"it was fun, he took me to the concert, we sang. then the ice rink, thanks by the way, and he taught me how to skate."
"thats so cute!" her face lit up.
you both continued to see the hockey players glide across the arena. but someone was missing. number 10. your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a microphone starting.
“can't take my eyes of off you..” a voice murmured into the microphone, a voice you instantly recognized. satoru. you blinked once. and then again-unsure if you were hearing correctly or if the loud ass volume you listen to your music in was finally catching up to you.
you squinted your eyes to see the white haired boy stand right in the middle of the rink, the whole team joining him as well. his body stepped forward, then another, until he broke into a dance. you let out a few chuckles of disbelief as you watched him make a fool of himself.
“i love you baby!” you wanted to crawl into a corner and die from embarrassment. “and if it’s quite alright, i need you baby..” his finger pointed right at you. a few people around you chuckled as well, one yelling, "go verona!"
you brought your hands up to you face covering it in embarrassment as a flush appeared. he was so off key now, yelling out the lyrics as he did little tricks around the ice, nearly slipping but catching himself with a dramatic spin. he made a bee line towards the top of the bleachers. you wanted to escape but he was quick, wrapping an arm around your waist.
“oh pretty baby..” he panted as the chorus died down. he placed the microphone down, grabbing your cheeks without a warning with both hands planting a long and sweet kiss on your plump lips. this time, you kissed back without hesitation from either of you.
"satoru.." you managed to say before he continued his desperate kisses, sliding his tongue into your mouth leaving no room for the words that were swirling in your head. miwa was ecstatic, clapping with others, who were surprised that the ex-playboy was acting straight out of a 2000's movie.
"shut up.. let me just kiss you." his fingers threaded through your hair.
and kisses continued all the way to his dorm, no sign of stopping any time soon as he pushed you down his bed.
"im sorry about yesterday.. let me make it up to you."
"I think you did already with your little performance."
he chuckled, shaking his head. "nah, you need more than a song."
satoru wears everything on his face. like everything. you could tell what he was feeling with just a glimpse at his blushed face that turned from his usual pale color to a deep red. his mouth was open when he sank into you.
he smirked when he watched you struggle to take him. the small moans you let out made him twitch. "you look so fucking good. taking my cock like this." he wrapped your legs around his bare waist before his large hand found your neck, wrapping lightly around it.
"sa..satoru.." you whimpered.
"mmf- yeah that feels good. so.. tight and wet f'me. should've done this yesterday." he rolled his hips against yours gently. satoru has never been this gentle during sex towards anyone. he slid in and out of you slowly, making sure you felt every single one of his veins.
"oh fuck.. not going to last long inside this warm fucking pussy."
he licked your lips before shoving his tongue down your throat. satoru pulled away, forcing your jaw to open to spit right into your mouth.
"swallow."
you obeyed, swallowing his shared spit, opening your mouth to show him.
"good girl."
you screamed, gripping his shoulders when he slipped almost all the way out before slamming all the way in. he was loving this, almost forgetting the amount of money he would receive for getting into your panties.
it wasn't until you both finished, and his arms were wrapped around you in a comfortable position to cuddle, placing loving kisses on your forehead, that he finally remembered that this was all a bet. was.
he was scared that maybe he didn't want this to be just a game. his breath stilled, his fingers still tracing random shapes on your back as he pulled back slightly, taking a close look at your peaceful expression.
he didn't want it to end.
he took a look at his calendar that was placed on his nightstand. he counted the days knowing he didn't have that much left with you.
"love?"
you hummed, opening your eyes, your expression soft, when he called out to you.
"i'm playing tomorrow.. then we're having a sort of 'hoco' type of thing at the frat.. come with me?"
you nodded, placing your head on his chest listening to the way his heart beat at a steady pace. "course.." you murmured, he did tire you out after all. his body relaxed at your answer. there were still so many things left unsaid, so much you both needed to figure out. but he was okay with just having you this close to him right now.
you didn't call your family that night. your phone was put on do not disturb, laying on top of the nightstand. satoru's arms were still wrapped tightly around you.
but across the country, yuji grew worried, because not only were hospital bills going to reach you, but terrible news as well.
he paced back and forth outside the hospital room, the one where your father was currently staying, checking his phone every second to see if you have seen his messages or calls.
nothing from you.
he tried to come up with a reason. you were probably studying, or just busy in general. he wanted to cry because the feeling of being the one now responsible for everything was finally sinking in. he didn't know why your father collapsed. he didn't know if your aunt was on her way to pick up matt from school. and he didn't know when the hell you would answer your phone.
"answer.. please." he prayed.
the next day when you woke up to the sound of shuffling, you were met with several forehead kisses.
"sorry baby, have to go straight to the rink." your eyes fluttered open slowly, eyes adjusting to the morning light. you remembered the game today, and the party as well.
"practice hard.." your morning voice came out groggy, in which he let out a soft laugh.
"ill see you later baby." with that he left.
you looked around, still groggy, seeing the clock on his wall. eleven o clock.
your eyes widened. shit. you were late for class. you threw the blanket off of you, quickly putting on the same clothes from yesterday. when you reached for your panties, you noticed they were ripped. the sudden pain you felt on your stomach was a reminder of your poor decisions from last night.
you slipped on your skirt, praying you wouldn't flash anyone by the time you got to your dorm. after grabbing your bag, you reached for your phone before bolting out of his room.
when you made your way to class, you felt a deep feeling in your gut telling you, no, yelling, that something wasn't okay.
the cold air of the rink hit you the moment you stepped through the doors, crisp and biting against your skin. the faint sound of blades carving across ice echoed through the space, mixed with low shouts and the occasional laughter of teammates mid practice.
miwa was buzzing beside you, excited to see her boyfriend play, and for the party he asked her out to. you caught sight of satoru not that far away talking with a boy with gauges.
"I'll be back: you said to her.
"okay! I'll go grab us some seats then!"
you watched as the blue haired girl quickly made her way up the bleachers, snatching a good spot for the both of you. you approached satoru, ready to scare him as you snuck behind him.
"dude, I'm telling you I fucked her already, pay up." he grumbled.
your entire world stopped for a second. were you hearing correctly? the other boy laughed. "thought you didn't want to take this bet?" his hand reached for his pocket, pulling out his wallet to slip out a few hundred dollar bills.
it all suddenly clicked.
"it's whatever. honestly, she's everything i've wanted in a girl." the boy you thought you could trust accepted the bills into his hand. how could you have thought that this actually meant something. that you actually meant something to satoru.
"are you fucking kidding me?" you stared at him, feeling so many emotions all at once. anger, betrayal, and even denial. your mind was processing what you just heard. you wanted to hear it wasn't real, that he wasn't only after you because of a bet and that he actually likes you. but you knew you were better than that, you couldn't help but connect all the dots. the way he just randomly went up to you? the way he spent so much money on you?
it wasn't fate. it was orchestrated. and you felt stupid for now realizing.
there was horror written all over gojos face. "no baby.. baby listen to me." but you refused, shaking your head. you refused because the following words were going to be the confirmation that you dreaded to hear. without another word, you turned away pushing though the crowd. "y/n!" he shouted, but you didn't turn back. as you made your way down the hall, his hand wrapped around your wrist, "please, PLEASE listen to me!" in which you yanked back.
"it was all a bet huh? and for what? I knew I shouldn't have trusted yo-" you were interrupted by his lips molding against yours. no matter how much you wanted to melt into it, you didn't. your hands landed on his chest, pushing him off you before wiping your lips. the boy stood there, stunned, as his sad blue eyes watched you walk out.
how could he do this to you? after you accepted his dates. after you let him use your body for pleasure. after everything?you felt horrible for leaving miwa alone, but you didn't want to ruin her day. her boyfriend was playing hockey, with satoru.
it was when you pulled out your phone, ready to block him, when you saw the several missed calls from yuji and from your fathers doctor. your heart sank even more. you quickly found a secluded spot.
satoru wanted to follow after you, desperate to fix things. but he couldn't, not with a game he needed to play. but in all honesty he was done playing.
yuji was screaming at you through the phone. his voice was raw. one you haven't heard in years.
"I called you twenty fucking times y/n! all of last night, where the hell were you?!"
you were hyperventilating. the situation sinking in, the one with gojo and the one where your dad was on the brink of death. "with.. with this guy.."
silence.
"with a guy?" he spat. “you were with some guy while dad was- y/n, he’s in critical condition. they had to resuscitate him last night. and im over here wondering that something important was going on with you only to find out you were busy sucking some guy off. was it the guy you told me about?"
"..yeah..but it didn't end well."
"I dont fucking care about that right now. honestly im glad, let this be a lesson. we thought we were gonna lose him. and you were out playing house with some asshole?”
you didn't answer, too busy trying to even breathe. "im sorry... im sorry." yuji didn’t respond right away.
"i already paid half of the shit," his sharp voice continued. "if you could send some money over that would be great. and those bills, have you paid them yet?"
you swallowed hard, tears stinging the backs of your eyes. “o, I… I haven’t had time, yuji,”
“you haven’t had time?” he repeated like the words physically hurt him. there was a long pause. when Yuji spoke again, his voice had softened.
".. just please pay his medication.. my job isn't paying that well."
"I will.." you said quietly. "where is matt?"
"he's with aunt teresa. i'll call you if anything happens again, please answer next time."
you sniffled, wiping your runny nose. "okay. I love you."
click.
the call ended with him not saying those words back. you still had your phone up to your ear, wishing that magically yuji would say it back.
you felt so unwanted
unloved.
you could feel your eyes stinging even more and your throat closing up on you. you felt like you were losing everyone, your father slipping away in a hospital bed miles from here, your brother who had always been your anchor, your voice of reason, now too exhausted to carry you, and satoru.
satoru.
that night your phone was blowing up. call after call, text after text- all from him.
satoru : y/n please.
satoru : call me, return my calls lets talk pretty.
satoru : it was a bet, but believe me when I tell you that I truly love you.
satoru : I love you. say it back baby. please I need you. can't lose you, im sorry love please don't leave..
you remembered when you planned to block him before the call with yuji, your finger hovered over the red block button. but you simply put your phone on dnd and headed to sleep recalling the horrible events of tonight. tear stains were placed on your cheeks, mascara ruined, just like how your life felt.
miwa had tried, she really did. she tried her best to comfort you, but she understood you needed space. the sweet girl provided you with extra blankets as well as water, she even rubbed off the remaining makeup on you.
satoru hasn't felt this horrible since he accidentally flushed down his sisters goldfish back in first grade. but it wasn't the same.
the goldfish didn't hate him. you did.
and he hated himself for how he made you feel. he hated himself for doing this to you. but god was he grateful to have taken on that bet. not for the money, but for you. because of the bet, he met such a wonderful girl who he was completely smitten for. too bad that the girl now hates his guts.
the weather matched how gojo felt. he looked like hell.
his usual outfits was replaced by a simple white t-shirt with sweatpants. the confident boy was now just a regular burnt out college student who looks like he missed out on eight hours of sleep to study for his physics final. he hasn't eaten since yesterday, deciding his body didn't deserve to be rewarded with food.
he made his way to the small mailroom provided for students. his face lit up when he saw you there, not looking so good like him.
"baby."
his voice startled you, making you drop your mail, watching as they scattered all throughout the tile floor.
you crouched down to gather your mail, avoiding his eyes, heart pounding in your chest from too many things at once, his voice, your brother’s call, the reminder of your father, the unbearable guilt, and now him standing here, looking like someone you didn’t know how to love right now.
satoru knelt beside you, brushing your fingers by accident as he helped you collect the envelopes. the moment your skin touched, a sharp breath escaped his lips.
thats when saw it. a bunch of letters from kaiser permamente.
"what's this..?"
you froze, hand curling tighter around the envelope like you could hide it, like you could make it disappear if you just willed it hard enough. but he had already seen.
you stood quickly, clutching the papers to your chest. “it’s nothing.”
“sweetheart…” His tone shifted, serious now. “that’s a hospital.”
"i know, i can read." you shot back.
satoru rose to his feet slowly, eyes still locked on you, his earlier exhaustion now sharpened with concern. “y/n?” His voice cracked. “is everything okay?”
you didn't know how it came to this. but you were hugging him tightly, crying into his chest like he wasn't part of the reason why you were going through it.
not since junior year, when satoru gave you the spare key and called it romantic instead of reckless. not since the first time you stayed over, tucked beneath his hoodie and comforter, claiming the couch as your own, limbs curled like you belonged.
you used to knock. now, you just come in like the walls still know you. like the hallway still remembers the sound of your laugh. like the banister still carries your fingerprints.
but tonight, it’s not your house anymore. it’s not your boy. it’s not your place.
and yet you still come anyway.
he hears you downstairs—your shoes hit the floor with the same tired kick, the creak of the third stair still makes you pause. it should gut him, how much muscle memory you’ve retained. it should haunt him, how naturally you come back. instead, it just makes him bitter.
he hates that you feel like you still have the right to be here, even if he was the one who gave you the key. can’t you tell it’s not yours to use anymore?
you, with your tear-soaked apologies and those wide eyes like broken glass, acting like all of this is salvageable. like you didn’t break it in the first place.
you’re a stranger now, still wandering through his house like you’re not. like a thief picking through drawers you used to own.
he doesn’t say anything when the door to his bedroom creaks open. doesn’t lift his head. doesn’t greet you at the top of his porch stairs like he used to—like he used to do everything. used to meet you at your car door, used to bridal-carry you through the threshold just to hear you giggle, used to toss you onto his bed like the whole world was a joke only you two were in on.
but that’s not what this is anymore.
so when you finally step into his room, the air tight and the light dim, he doesn’t look up.
he’s on the floor, slouched with his back against the edge of the bed, legs bent awkwardly, one sock twisted halfway off his heel. phone on the carpet, screen gone dark. his head is tilted just slightly. eyes blank, face still.
you haven’t been alone with him in two months.
not since the call. not since new year’s. not since you pressed the phone to your cheek with shaking fingers and asked him not to be mad before telling him the one thing that would ensure he was.
and now, here you are.
and satoru regrets it. regrets calling you. regrets the way his fingers hovered over your contact for three whole minutes before he caved. regrets the ache in his chest and the hollowness in his bed and the way his pride’s been bleeding out ever since winter break. he regrets the hormones, the loneliness, the fucking weakness—worse than all of that, he regrets how your presence drags everything back.
the old feelings, the soft ones, the dangerous ones. the ones that still think you’re his.
“hey,” you whisper, and he finally looks up.
you look like shit.
he used to love when you looked like shit. used to think you were the most beautiful thing in the world when your hair was a mess and your eyes were puffy with sleep and your lips were swollen and your mouth was crusted with drool. he used to love having you like that—bare, stupidly human, because back then, he thought he was the only one who got to.
you’re in a hoodie and sweats. his, probably. the same ones you used to steal on purpose just to give him an excuse to pull you back in. and he already knows that underneath, there’s nothing. you know what he called you here for.
the fucked up part is— satoru’s not sure he knows.
he doesn’t say anything. just turns his head to the side. eyes low, voice silent. watches you from the corner of his eye like he’s studying something half-dead. like he’s trying to memorize a face he’s supposed to be forgetting.
you shuffle closer, socked feet sliding across the carpet. the silence’s so thick it feels like dust, before you drop your keys on the ground with a soft clink.
satoru flinches, and when he looks up again, it hits him how fucked this is—your trembling hands, your glassy eyes, the crack in your voice like you already know this was a mistake. like you know walking into his house won’t glue the split down the middle of what you broke, but you’re here anyway.
“satoru,” you murmur, “why’d you ask me to come over?”
he hears it: the glint of hope in your voice. like maybe he’ll say he missed you (he does), or that he doesn’t know (he really doesn’t), or maybe even that he wants to fix it (god—if he could forget it all, he would).
but satoru may be a man hurt, however he is not a man without pride. he can’t just let you in for nothing.
“because,” he drawls, spinning the keys you dropped at an attempt to steel himself. “you always come when i call,” he continues, voice low, bitter. dry enough to slice your throat.
he watches the way your face falters. watches the way your mouth tightens, the way you blink fast like that’ll stop the tears from rising. you swallow like it burns, and it should make him feel better. it should feel like revenge. like power.
but it doesn’t. it just makes him feel fucking sick.
satoru watches as you fidget with the hem of your sleeve. says nothing when you close the bedroom door behind you. just stares at you too long in the dark, hoping maybe something about you will feel unfamiliar now. hoping maybe he’ll look at you and see a stranger, not the girl who used to steal his socks and fall asleep on his chest during the boring parts of movies.
he should tell you to leave. should tell you to take your guilt and go. should tell you that letting you come here was a shitty, horny, stupid idea born out of insomnia and loneliness and the kind of pain that tastes metallic.
but he doesn’t.
he just watches you. watches you scan his face, desperate for some glimmer of the boy you used to love—your toru. not satoru, the one who got cheated on. the one who lost both you and suguru in one breath.
you find nothing, and yet you nod anyway.
you walk toward him slow, like maybe he’ll stop you. but he won’t—not tonight.
you kneel in front of him, settle between his legs like muscle memory dragged you there. your hands find his knees, trembling just enough to betray how scared you are.
you whisper his name once, soft, and when he stares down at you, he sees everything he once loved. your mouth. your lashes. the slope of your shoulders. the way your brows pinch when you’re trying not to cry.
you’re still beautiful, and that’s the cruelest fucking part. because satoru gojo hates you a whole lot, but he thinks he might hate himself more.
for calling you. for letting you in. for letting you stay. for still being the fool who took you in and let you win control of his stupid, loyal, traitorous heart.
you inch closer, slowly, like you’re waiting for him to stop you, and he still doesn’t. you rest your cheek against his thigh for a second, eyes closed like you’re praying, then your fingers drift to his zipper.
satoru doesn’t move.
not when you palm him through his jeans, not when your hand presses gently, then firmly, coaxing him hard with touch alone. it’s tentative at first—your thumb stroking the outline of him through the denim, and then bolder, like you remember exactly how he likes it.
because you do. you remember everything.
and when he stands up, shimmies out of his denim, rough, wordless, eyes never meeting yours—you stay kneeling. obedient. worshipful. like you don’t even know how else to be around him. like guilt has hardwired you into this shape: quiet, still, ready to be used.
you don’t look up. don’t ask what he wants. you just wait, breath shallow, fingers curled into the carpet like it might ground you.
and he doesn’t say a word. just looks down at you, at the familiar slope of your back, the soft line of your spine, the mouth that wrecked him before you ever really broke his heart—and takes what’s left of you anyway.
your lips press to his hipbone, then trail up to the waistband of his boxers, and his breath stutters out a low, soft groan, barely-there. involuntary. his fingers twitch against his thighs.
and when you nuzzle at his stomach, when your hand slips under the waistband and wraps around him for real—warm skin, already hard, already leaking, he bites his lip to stop from exhaling your name.
“fuck,” he mutters. “don’t—”
but he doesn’t stop you. his hands fly to your body, gripping your arms, like he doesn’t know whether to push you back or pull you closer. and when you tug his jeans and briefs down past his hips and lean forward to kiss the base of him, he shudders.
you always knew how to wreck him.
your mouth is hot and slick when it closes around him, slow at first, your lips stretching, tongue pressing flat underneath as you take him in. his hips twitch. his fingers slide into your hair and anchor there.
and when you start to move up and down, slow and deep, hand twisting at the base while your mouth works the head—he groans again. louder this time. the kind of sound he used to make only for you.
he tilts his head back, jaw tight, breath ragged. his thighs tense under your palms.
and when he finally dares to look down, when his eyes flick open and catch the sight of you on your knees between his legs, your wet lips stretched around his cock, your cheeks hollowing, your lashes fluttering—he chokes on a breath.
his hand clenches in your hair. he squeezes his eyes shut like it might erase you.
but it doesn’t.
he thrusts once, shallow, into the heat of your mouth. your throat tightens, and you make a quiet sound around him that shoots straight to his gut. he grits his teeth. tries to forget. tries to pretend this isn’t your mouth. that it isn’t you swallowing him down like you still belong to him.
but it is you. it’s always been you.
and when he finishes, head tipped back, lips parted, a long groan dragging out of his chest, it’s your name he breathes without thinking, like a wound reopening.
you swallow without hesitation. like it’s muscle memory. like you’ve done this a thousand times. like you never fucked it all up.
still, he doesn’t look at you. doesn’t move. his hands fall limp at his sides.
because normally, he’d pull you up right after. kiss the taste of himself from your tongue, lay you back on the bed and bury his face between your thighs until you were shaking, gasping, clenching his head like you’d die without him.
but how the fuck could he do that now?
not after what you did.
his throat clenches. his jaw ticks. his eyes stay locked on the ceiling because he can’t bear to look down at you. because he still doesn’t know the details, and he doesn’t want to.
he doesn’t want to know if suguru wore a condom. doesn’t want to know what position it was, where it happened, what you wore. how many times you guys fucked, if you said his name, if you thought about him—if it was better.
if it was better.
his chest hurts, and you’re still kneeling on the floor like nothing happened. like nothing’s changed. like your betrayal isn’t the only thing he can fucking taste.
…
he still remembers the call.
two days after new year’s. 1:12 a.m. caribbean time. his second to last night in paradise, in denial, in the version of his life where you still loved him and his best friend was still his best friend.
your name flashed across his screen, and he answered before thinking—stepping barefoot out onto the hotel deck, shoulder leaning against the railing, phone pressed to his ear. the sea whispered below, the breeze soft on his neck, warm and idle—but none of it reached the burning pit swelling in his chest.
you were crying before you even said hi.
“hey,” he said quickly, straightening, already moving away from the room, eyes wide, voice tight. “hey, hey—are you okay?”
the panic snapped through him fast, gut-deep, immediate. he thought someone had died. he thought you had been hurt. his voice pitched up, cracked a little.
you sniffled hard, breath jerking. “i’m okay,” you rushed, too fast, too guilty. and then, quieter, broken— “i’m so sorry.”
you burst into another wave of sobs and something inside him curled. his stomach twisted. his throat went dry. the hairs on the back of his neck stood straight.
“s’toru,” you whispered, “please don’t be mad, okay?”
his heart dropped. no, plummeted.
like a body thrown from a high rise, like gravity itself had grabbed him by the ribs and yanked him down into the earth with no warning, no mercy. his chest caved in as if he’d taken a punch straight to the solar plexus. his knees weakened beneath him, and for a second he wasn’t even sure they’d hold. his throat seized shut, his lungs stopped working, and the warm island air, so sweet just minutes ago—felt suddenly thick and useless.
his grip on the phone faltered. his fingers, slick with sweat, nearly lost their hold, and he had to re-anchor it against his ear with a hand that was visibly trembling. he didn’t think he’d ever been this still and this shaking at the same time. his breath caught in his throat. short, sharp, and uneven, like his body had realized what was coming a split second before his mind caught up. the back of his neck burned with heat, a crawling, prickling sensation that spread down between his shoulder blades. his hands flexed, then curled, then clenched into tight fists at his sides, like he could physically brace for the pain if he just gripped something hard enough.
something primal, deep in his chest, spoke to him then: don’t listen. another voice, crueler, quieter: you already know what she’s about to say.
his brows knit together, jaw tightening so hard he thought his teeth might crack. he bit the inside of his cheek until the metallic tang of blood bloomed across his tongue. he took a shaky half-step forward, body acting on instinct, like movement might ground him, might delay the full collapse of everything that had kept him standing.
but it didn’t.
it didn’t stop the panic. it didn’t stop the truth. and it sure as hell didn’t stop you from saying what came next.
because after that came the words—and then came the unraveling.
you told him.
voice shaking, breath catching, the way it always did when you were about to say something you knew would kill him. and still, you said it anyway.
you started talking, voice shaking so hard it barely held together, and he caught fragments at first—just broken pieces of something he didn’t want to understand. something about suguru. something about too much to drink. new year’s. it was fast. it wasn’t planned. it didn’t mean anything.
you swore it didn’t mean anything.
you repeated that more than once, like if you said it enough, it would change the shape of what you’d done. like the weight of it might shift if you just sounded sorry enough.
but it had happened.
no matter how fast, how accidental, how drunk you both were, it had happened, and now here you were, crying on the phone in the middle of the night, not because you were still in love with him—but because you couldn’t bear the guilt without unloading it into his chest like a confession might fix something shattered clean through.
you told him you had to say it, that it was eating you alive, that you couldn’t look in the mirror anymore without hearing his name echo behind your eyelids. you told him you didn’t want to hurt him, that you never meant to, that you didn’t even know how it happened—but the thing is, it did happen. and no amount of crying or late-night calls could take it back.
he crouched down right there on the balcony, barefoot on the concrete, back against the glass door, crouched like a kid hiding from a nightmare. hands threaded through his hair, chest tight, breath stalling somewhere between his ribs and his throat.
it didn’t help. nothing helped.
his mouth dried up. tongue thick and useless. the warm caribbean air felt suffocating. the salt from the ocean stung his nose. his linen shirt clung to his back and underarms, wet with a sweat that had nothing to do with the climate.
and still, you kept talking.
your voice came through the phone like static, like something underwater. he couldn’t hear anything but the same handful of words over and over.
“we didn’t mean to—”
“i’m sorry—”
“please say something.”
but he had no words left. he just stared at the ground, watched the concrete as his vision blurred and nausea bloomed.
then he hung up.
and you called again. and again. and again.
forty-seven times, his phone lit up so bright in the dark it made his eyes ache. the buzzing echoed off the walls. a name he loved now felt like venom.
he didn’t answer a single one.
…
the next morning, he sat at breakfast in silence. eggs untouched. hands shaking around a glass of orange juice. he stared at his plate like it had betrayed him too.
he forced down a bite, and thirty seconds later, he was hunched over the hotel sink, gagging.
he threw up twice that day. once in the poolside bathroom, once in the trash can in his room. the second night, he couldn’t even make it to bed. he curled up on the bathroom floor, hoodie pulled over his head, knees to his chest, heart in pieces.
he tried to rationalize it, desperately, frantically, in the suffocating silence of that hotel room. tried to walk himself backwards through every moment that could’ve gone differently, every second where he might’ve missed the signs, where he might’ve said the wrong thing or looked away when he should’ve looked closer. he ran through every fight you’d ever had, every time you went quiet after a party, every glance between you and suguru that now felt soaked in implication, and he begged his memory to show him what he hadn’t seen.
he tried to convince himself that maybe it was his fault, that maybe he hadn’t loved you loudly enough, hadn’t been there in the right ways, hadn’t answered the phone fast enough when you needed him. he tried to ask himself if he had pushed you away without realizing it, if he had let something rot in the foundation of what you built together and just painted over the cracks.
he asked himself why—why suguru, of all people. why the one person he trusted most, the one who knew every inch of his love for you, who sat across from him during every conversation where he planned how to win you over, who helped him pick out your birthday gift, who told him he was lucky to have you.
why you, when you knew just how much that friendship meant to him, how sacred and rare it was, how much he’d bled to keep the people he loved close.
and most of all, he tried to figure out how he could still want you, after everything, after all of it, when nothing made sense and nothing felt real and everything he thought he could rely on had slipped through his fingers like it was never solid to begin with.
he scrolled through your socials that night, thumb shaking against the screen, eyes wide with something between dread and desperation, combing through everything you’d posted, every picture from that party, even the ones you weren’t tagged in, searching for your face, for his face, for some trace of the moment everything changed. he zoomed in on backgrounds, stared at group shots too long, clicked usernames he didn’t recognize just to find some angle, some confirmation, some goddamn proof that what you said wasn’t real—or at least wasn’t as bad as it sounded.
he searched suguru’s profile next, though part of him already knew it would make him feel worse. it wasn’t about what was there—it was about what wasn’t. you weren’t there. not in photos, not in stories, not in comments. it was like both of you had wiped yourselves clean of that night.
but it didn’t matter.
because even though you were nowhere—nowhere online, nowhere in sight, you were everywhere in his head.
you were in the way his chest squeezed every time his phone buzzed. in the tightness in his throat when someone laughed too loud at dinner. in every ache behind his eyes when he tried to remember what your voice used to sound like before it said “please don’t be mad.”
you were in his chest, coiled tight and aching.
you were in every dream he’d had since junior year, every version of his future that still had your hand in his, your head on his shoulder, your hoodie in his passenger seat.
and after that night, he didn’t sleep. he just lay there in the dark, eyes wide open, blinking up at the ceiling with the echo of your name caught at the back of his throat like something sharp, something he couldn’t spit out or swallow down—tasting like guilt, like heartbreak, like bile.
wishing he’d never answered the fucking phone. wishing he could go back to a time when you were still just his, and the worst thing that could’ve happened was a fight about curfew or a forgotten anniversary—not this.
and it wasn’t even just you, that’s what made it worse.
it was suguru.
suguru—the boy who sat next to him in seventh grade science class, drawing dicks in the margins of his notebook. suguru, who passed him gum before every exam. suguru, who knew when to laugh and when to listen. who stayed up with him all night freshman year when his dog died, who covered for him when he snuck out to meet you. who knew him better than he sometimes knew himself.
satoru didn’t just lose his girlfriend. he lost his best friend.
the only person who’d ever seen him scared. the only one he ever really cried in front of. the one who’d helped him plan how to ask you out, who’d stood beside him through every messy, dizzy phase of being young and in love and trying not to fuck it up.
that was the person who betrayed him.
not some stranger. not a fling you swore didn’t matter. not a mistake you could brush off with a shrug and an apology. no—suguru. the one person he never thought would hurt him. the one person who had been by his side since they were kids, when satoru was all limbs and braces and loud opinions, when they both still thought forever meant something.
it wasn’t just a betrayal of love. it was a betrayal of everything. of history. of brotherhood. of the kind of trust that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud because it’s always just been there.
and it wasn’t loud. wasn’t explosive. wasn’t the kind of betrayal that burns everything down in an instant. it was worse, because it was quiet; just a missed call.
one call. that was all suguru had given him.
a single missed call, the day after everything came undone—after you told him the truth, after he collapsed in on himself on that hotel balcony, after he’d thrown up in the bathroom trying to understand what he’d done wrong.
one call.
no apology. no explanation. no confession. just his name on the screen for six seconds, vibrating once and then disappearing into silence.
and satoru stared at it.
he didn’t answer. not because he didn’t want to hear what suguru had to say, but because he couldn’t. because the idea of hearing his voice, confirming it was all real—that it had happened, that it wasn’t some nightmare, was too much.
so he let it ring. watched it stop. watched the screen go dark again.
fourteen years of friendship. fourteen years of sleepovers and school dances and stupid inside jokes. fourteen years of whispered secrets in the backs of classrooms and too many fights and apologies and shared dreams of getting out of their shitty hometown together—gone. just like that.
dismantled in a single night, like none of it ever mattered.
and satoru doesn’t know what stung more—what he might’ve heard if he picked up, or what he never got the chance to.
he told himself, when he got back, that he would never speak to suguru again.
he swore it, over and over, every time he felt himself wanting to understand. told himself the betrayal was too deep, too ugly, too fucking intimate to allow space for excuses. told himself that he didn’t want a reason. didn’t want to give suguru the satisfaction of explaining himself, of making it seem like there was ever a version of this where he wouldn’t be the villain. he told himself that silence was the only justice.
but satoru gojo has never been good at silence. never been good at stillness, or patience, or waiting for pain to pass without poking at it to see if it still hurt.
he couldn’t eat. couldn’t sleep. couldn’t stop thinking about your voice on the phone, or worse—his. couldn’t stop picturing what he hadn’t seen. couldn’t go ten seconds without the image of you both twisted into each other, all breath and sweat and lies, playing like some cursed reel behind his eyes.
he needed to know why.
so the day after he got home, before he even unpacked his suitcase, he drove to suguru’s house, heart in his throat, hands shaking on the steering wheel, not sure if he was going there to scream, to cry, or to hit him straight in the face.
he sat in the car for five full minutes before getting out, hands loose on the steering wheel, heart thudding behind his ribs like it was trying to warn him off. the engine ticked as it cooled, the air in the cabin thick and unmoving, and for a moment he debated turning around—pretending this visit was never an idea in the first place, pretending that he could live with the questions clawing at his chest and the betrayal ringing in his ears.
but he couldn’t. he never could.
so he shoved the door open and stepped into the cold, each footfall up to the porch feeling heavier than the last, like he was walking not into a confrontation but into something far more permanent, more sacred—like he was walking into a funeral, one where he didn’t know if he was the one being buried or the one doing the burying.
he rang the bell once, and the door opened almost immediately, as if suguru had been expecting him, or maybe just listening for something. and there he was—suguru geto, standing in the doorway like this wasn’t about to be the conversation that ended everything between them.
his hair was a mess, the usual lazy half-bun threatening to fall apart completely, and he was wearing one of those oversized hoodies that swallowed his frame, sleeves bunched around his forearms, like he had no idea or didn’t care who might be standing on the other side of that door.
his expression was unreadable, that same slow, detached calm he always wore like a second skin—but it faltered just a fraction when he realized who was there. just enough to notice.
“hey,” suguru said, voice quiet, almost neutral, like this was any other tuesday afternoon. like they weren’t standing on the edge of something irreversible. like the foundation of everything they’d ever built together hadn’t already been kicked out from underneath them.
satoru blinked, heart plummeting down to his stomach. he took a small step back before catching himself, his jaw tightening as he tried to keep the shake out of his voice, tried to steady his breathing, tried to pretend that this conversation wasn’t going to haunt him for the rest of his life.
“you slept with her,” he said, and even though he’d rehearsed the words in his head a thousand times, they still didn’t sound right coming out of his mouth.
suguru didn’t flinch. didn’t deny it. didn’t apologize.
his eyes flickered down for barely half a second, almost imperceptible, before meeting satoru’s again, and in them, there was nothing. no shame. no anger. no defense.
he just nodded once. “yeah.”
that single word knocked something loose inside satoru—something he’d been clinging to, something fragile and impossible, and he let out a laugh that was anything but amused. it was sharp, breathless, hollow, scraped out of the pit of his stomach like a wound.
“what the fuck is wrong with you?” he asked, voice climbing, cracking under the weight of it all.
suguru’s face twitched, his brow creasing just slightly, as if he were considering whether or not to respond at all. he lifted one shoulder in a lazy, infuriating shrug and said, calmly, “i don’t know. it wasn’t planned.”
satoru took a step forward, shoulders squared, hands rising slightly like he might grab him by the collar, like his body was reacting faster than his brain could. his voice rose with him, louder now, hoarse from the sheer pressure of everything he’d been holding in.
“that’s all you’ve got?” he snapped. “you ruin a fourteen-year friendship over a fuck and all you’ve got is ‘it wasn’t planned’?”
suguru’s jaw clenched. his mouth opened, then closed again, like the words were fighting each other in his throat before he finally managed to say something.
“you weren’t here.”
the silence that followed was brutal, and satoru’s hands curled into fists at his sides. his eyes went wide, stunned by the audacity of that answer, by how casually suguru said it, like it was a fact and not a betrayal.
“oh, fuck you, man—”
“i’m not saying it’s your fault,” suguru interrupted, his voice rising just slightly, finally showing a crack in that calm. “i’m not. but you weren’t here, and we were drunk, and i—” he broke off with an exhale, looking off to the side as if the wall might have a better answer than he did. “i don’t know. it happened. i didn’t mean for it to.”
satoru just stared at him, frozen, barely breathing. his entire body ached with the urge to lash out, to hit, to scream, to demand that the friend he’d trusted more than anyone in the world be someone else for just five goddamn minutes.
but what came out instead was quieter.
“you didn’t even tell me,” he said, his voice flat now, bitter like old coffee. “you didn’t say anything. you let her do it.”
suguru looked away, not with guilt, not even with regret—just resignation. like he’d known this was coming. like he’d accepted it before satoru ever rang the bell.
“i figured you’d hate me either way.”
satoru stood there for a beat, feeling everything crash into him at once—every memory, every version of their friendship, every moment he thought he knew this person in front of him. then he nodded once, slow and full of venom.
“you were right.”
he turned without another word, walked back down the steps without looking back, and got into his car. his hands were shaking so badly that he had to sit there for a second, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white, trying to breathe through the fire in his chest and the sting in his eyes.
he drove home in silence, fists clenched, jaw locked, vision blurred with the kind of tears he refused to let fall, not for him.
he didn’t look back, but it didn’t make him feel any better. not even close.
and now?
now it’s the day before school starts again.
winter break has ended, the new year ticking forward like it was supposed to bring relief, like the calendar changing could do anything to fix what was broken. your betrayal has already become hallway gossip, already faded from everyone’s mouth but his. to the rest of the world, it’s just old news. but to satoru, it’s still bleeding.
he stands in front of the bathroom mirror, gripping the sink with both hands like the porcelain might crack before he does. his reflection looks tired—more tired than he’s used to seeing. there’s a tightness around his eyes that wasn’t there before, something raw about the set of his jaw, like he hasn’t stopped biting down since he got back. his hair’s still damp from the shower, curling around his temples, and he tries to breathe through his nose, to inhale something steady, but it’s all too loud inside his head.
how the hell is he supposed to walk back into that building?
how is he supposed to sit through math class with people who know what happened to him, who look at him like he’s the main character in someone else’s heartbreak story, like they’re just waiting to see if he breaks down in the hallway?
how is he supposed to pass you in the halls—you, with your lowered eyes and trembling hands, and not fall apart?
so he does the only thing he knows how to do: he plays the role they all expect from him.
he flirts. effortlessly, recklessly, with girls he doesn’t care about, who laugh too loudly at things that aren’t funny and cling to his arm like he asked them to. he jokes. he makes a show of it, walking through the hallways with a swagger he doesn’t feel, with a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. he slips his hands into pockets, tilts his head just right, makes himself appear untouchable, even if he’s falling apart inside. he pretends the whispering doesn’t get to him, pretends the stares don’t crawl across his skin like ants.
and when he passes you, he doesn’t even blink. not outwardly, at least. his face doesn’t shift. he doesn’t acknowledge you. but his eyes linger, just slightly, just enough to catch the flicker of your smile dying the moment you see him with someone else.
he notices everything.
he sees the way your gaze drops immediately to the floor when he walks by holding another girl’s hand. he sees the panic in your fingers when they reach for your locker and find it full of what he returned—your old hoodie, still a little stretched from the times he’d pulled it over your head in a rush; the polaroid of the two of you on his bed, your cheek squished against his, his grin wide enough to blind; the little pink stuffed bear you gave him last valentine’s, the one that says “i love you, toru” when you squeeze its paw.
you don’t throw it out. you just stare at it like it hurts to breathe.
he sees how you duck out of class early sometimes, eyes red, sleeve pulled up to wipe your face when you think no one’s looking. he sees the way your friends try to coax you back to yourself and how you shake your head, like there’s nothing left in you to return to. he sees the way your shoulders shrink when his laugh echoes across the hallway, when his new company presses into his side and he lets it happen, lets them drape over him like something casual, something easy.
he sees all of it.
and he tells himself—again and again, that you deserve it.
he reminds himself of the call, of the way you cried before you even said hello, of the words “please don’t be mad”, and the way his stomach dropped like the floor had given out beneath him. he reminds himself of how sick he felt, how he couldn’t eat for two days, how he threw up bile into a hotel sink while you and suguru were probably pretending nothing ever happened. he reminds himself of the silence that followed, the ache, the one missed call from suguru that he never answered.
he tells himself you should be the one haunted now.
but the thing is—watching you crumble doesn’t make him feel victorious. it doesn’t feel like justice. it doesn’t even feel satisfying. it just makes the ache worse. it makes everything louder. it makes the memories hit harder, like every time you cry is just a mirror of the nights he spent choking on yours.
because hurting you might look like revenge, but it doesn’t make him feel whole. it only reminds him of what he used to hold, what he used to come home to, what he used to laugh with. what he used to love.
and no amount of attention from anyone else can make that kind of ache go away.
so when you show up that night, two full months after the call, after new year’s, after your voice cracked and told him something that broke the center of his chest—he doesn’t tell you to leave.
he hears you on the stairs. slow, hesitant steps, socked feet dragging like maybe you’ll stop halfway up and think better of it. but you don’t. you reach the top. you open his door. you don’t knock, like you haven’t in over a year.
you stand there, blinking at him in the soft dark of his bedroom like the air is too heavy to breathe. your face looks thinner. your eyes look tired. and he swears the hoodie you’re wearing is one of his, frayed sleeves, collar stretched, swallowed whole around your body like armor.
you don’t say anything for awhile once you’re on your knees. you just wait, and when he doesn’t tell you to leave, doesn’t move, doesn’t say no—you rise and you kiss him.
it’s soft, searching. like your lips are asking for permission he never gave you. like if you’re gentle enough, it’ll undo the last eight weeks.
and he kisses you back.
not because he wants to hold you. not because he forgives you. not because he still loves you—though he probably does.
but because something in him still aches to be wanted by you. still aches to believe that having you here means something, even if it doesn’t.
it’s not passion, it’s punishment.
you kiss him like you’re trying to say i’m sorry with your mouth. like maybe he’ll believe you if you just press hard enough, slow enough, familiar enough. you smell like his house. you taste like heartbreak. your hands shake when they touch his jaw.
and he kisses you like he’s trying to bury everything: the rage, the grief, the fucking image of you and suguru.
he kisses you like if he just closes his eyes tight enough, holds his breath long enough, presses hard enough—you’ll be his again, the version of you that laughed into his mouth and pulled him into your bedroom without thinking, the girl who used to fall asleep tangled in his shirts and wake him up with kisses that tasted like sleep and vanilla lip balm. he kisses you like you’re still that girl, like this is still that time, like nothing’s broken and he isn’t angry, like he doesn’t wake up some nights with your voice still echoing in his head telling him not to be mad.
but when you whisper his name, soft, breathless, a quiet plea like it still belongs to you. and when your fingers start to inch beneath his shirt, brushing tentative across his skin like you’re reaching for something you think might still be there, something familiar and warm and whole—
he breaks the kiss.
his lips pull back slowly, not with force but with a kind of finality that makes the air between you still and cold, and you blink up at him, confused at first, lips parted and eyes wide. he watches the flicker of disappointment cross your face like a cloud over the sun, subtle but there, like you were expecting this to go differently, like you thought maybe this would be tender. maybe he did too.
but satoru can’t afford to be tender. not now. not with you.
he says nothing as he stands, jaw tight, expression unreadable, though if you were really looking, you’d probably catch it in the tension around his eyes, in the set of his mouth, in the breath he swallows before turning you around.
his hands find your waist with ease, with memory, guiding you like muscle remembers what the heart wants to forget. his fingers settle there instinctively, gripping tight like he used to, like he had a right to. he misses the way he used to run his hands up and down your sides without thinking, just because he could—just because you were his.
he doesn’t give himself time to think.
“bend over,” he says, voice low, rough with restraint, flat like it’s just a command, just a thing to do, just a way to keep breathing without falling apart.
but he knows deep in his gut, that if you turned around, if you looked at his face right now, you’d see it all. you’d see the grief, the hurt, the love he’s still too stupid to burn out. you’d see how even now, even with everything, he’s holding back.
so when you move, you do it without a word.
you bend over like you were waiting for it, like you came here knowing this would happen, like you need it just as badly as he does—this warped imitation of closeness, this last flicker of something that used to mean love and now only feels like desperation. your spine curves, breath hitching, and for a second he just stares, hands still planted on your hips, eyes running down the length of your back like he’s memorizing it all over again.
and for a moment, he lets himself believe you’re still his, just long enough to feel it split him open again.
your hands grip the mattress. your knees press into it as well. the room stays quiet, tense, heavy with everything neither of you says.
and satoru—he stares down at you for a second, silent and unreadable, eyes dragging over the curve of your spine, the twitch in your thighs, the slight catch in your breath when he steps in behind you and fills the space he’s been trying not to think about for weeks.
he doesn’t kiss your shoulders. doesn’t murmur your name. doesn’t trail soft fingers down your back like he used to.
he just hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your shorts, pulls them down without ceremony, your underwear dragged with them in one motion until both are bunched at your knees, hanging like a reminder of how easy it is to peel you open.
his hand, broad, familiar, impersonal, cups between your legs briefly, just enough to run his fingers through your folds, slick and warm and already wet for him despite everything, and he doesn’t linger, doesn’t tease, just lets his fingertips glide over your entrance once, maybe twice, like it’s only functional, like it’s not your body he’s touching but just a body, something that belongs to him even if you don’t anymore.
and then he spits in his palm, rubs it over himself without grace, just enough to ease the way, and grabs your hips like he means to anchor you there forever, thick and hard and silent—and for one moment, he pauses.
“you okay?”
the words feel foreign coming from his mouth, flat and heavy, like muscle memory forced him to say it but he doesn’t even recognize the shape of the question anymore, like he already knows you’ll nod because you always do.
your breath stutters. “y-yeah.”
and he pushes in all at once—no slow build, no easing you open, just one long, brutal thrust that knocks the air from your lungs and sends your hands scrabbling for the edge of the bed, desperate to stay grounded as he fills you completely, painfully, perfectly.
you gasp. arch. bite the sheets as he groans under his breath, more like a growl than anything human.
you’re wet—so wet he can hear it when he sinks in again, the slick sound obscene in the silence. you’re warm and tight and he hates how easy it is to fall right back into you.
how natural this feels. how his body still remembers yours like no time has passed at all.
his fingers dig into your hips, hard enough to bruise, the pads of his thumbs pressing into soft skin like he wants to leave something permanent behind—not tenderness, not a reminder of closeness, but a mark of possession, of anger, of something bitter and buried too deep for words, his hips slamming into yours with a force that borders on desperate, like he’s trying to chase some kind of feeling out of you, or maybe out of himself.
because he doesn’t want to make love. god, no, he couldn’t if he tried. he he wants friction and weight and the quiet comfort of losing himself in something that used to feel like home.
satoru doesn’t want to see your face.
can’t risk it. can’t look into your eyes and see what he lost. can’t see that same look you might’ve given suguru—those soft lips parted, those lashes fluttering, that needy little tilt of your head when you moan for someone else.
so he takes you like this on purpose, with your back arched and your cheek pressed into the bedspread, your face turned away from him so he doesn’t have to see the parts of you that still make his heart ache, doesn’t have to look into the eyes that once held nothing but soft promises and now only remind him of everything he wasn’t enough to stop.
your moans come in staggered little bursts, ragged and raw, broken by the relentless pace of his thrusts, and you try to hold onto the sheets, fingers curled tight into the fabric like it’ll ground you, like it’ll give you something to focus on besides the stretch and the heat and the sound of your own body taking him.
but every thrust knocks you forward an inch, and he just hauls you right back, one hand fisted in the curve of your waist, the other digging bruises into your thigh, dragging you into every snap of his hips like he wants to bury himself as deep as he can and still not touch whatever part of you he used to know.
he fucks you like he’s trying to forget. like he’s trying to wipe the memory of you off his skin, off his tongue, out of his fucking bloodstream—like if he slams into you hard enough, fast enough, he might be able to dull the sting of your voice saying someone else’s name.
like he might be able to punish himself and punish you in the same breath.
you gasp his name again, voice shaking, broken and muffled in the mattress, like even now, even after everything—
he’s still the only one you want.
but it doesn’t make him soften. it doesn’t make him slow down. it only makes him thrust harder, rougher, until the sound of your skin meeting his fills the room like static, until his jaw clenches and his eyes squeeze shut and he tells himself not to care, not to feel, not to want you still.
his hands slide lower, down your sides, fingers spreading wide across your waist, gripping so tight it feels like he’s trying to hold you in place, trying to feel everything. every inch, every shiver, every twitch, every pulse of your body around him—because if he feels it, if he owns it, maybe it’ll mean you’re still his in some fucked-up, half-broken way.
he pulls you back into him again, hard, until your ass meets his hips and your back arches even deeper, and he holds you there, just for a second, just to feel how deep he is, how tight, how wet, how good you still are for him.
and all the while, in the part of him he can’t shut off, the part that still aches despite everything, he’s begging himself not to picture your face. to not wonder if you looked like this for suguru too.
and for a moment, just a second, just long enough to hate himself for it—he lets his eyes slip closed and pretends you never left, pretends your body beneath him is still untouched, still his, still safe, like time didn’t fracture everything the way it did, like love didn’t rot into something ugly and sharp the minute you opened your mouth and said “it didn’t mean anything”.
but he can’t pretend when you cry out, voice pitching too sweet, too pretty, too familiar in a way that guts him now, can’t pretend when he remembers whose mouth you kissed after his, whose hands traced the same lines he once called sacred, whose voice you whispered to in the dark when you should’ve been curled up beside him, laughing over nothing, whispering half-drunk promises you never meant to break.
he can’t forget how you sounded, shaking, crying, saying it didn’t mean anything—and now all he can think about is whether you came, whether he made you finish, whether it was easier, better, louder with him.
his stomach twists. his rhythm falters, just slightly. a breath catches in his throat, and the rage and the grief collide in his chest like lightning behind his ribs.
and then, with a sharp grunt through his clenched teeth and a muttered curse that sounds more like a plea—he pulls out fast, brutal, fisting his cock with one tight, furious hand, and finishes across your back, hot and fast and angry, the sound of his own breath ragged and ugly as it punches out of him.
his chest heaves. his blood roars in his ears. and when the sharp edge of it fades, when his heartbeat starts to slow, when the high evaporates into nothing, all that’s left is the nausea curling up his spine and the disgust settling heavy in his lungs.
you’re still on your hands and knees in front of him, head bowed, hair sticking to the sweat on your neck, your thighs trembling just enough to betray how much it took from you, how much you still gave him anyway—
but he doesn’t reach for you. doesn’t offer a word. doesn’t even look at you.
because he could’ve finished inside you, could’ve buried himself deep and let the illusion last a little longer, could’ve let his body do what it always used to without thought, without fear.
he knows you’re still on the pill. he knows you wouldn’t have stopped him, either.
but it felt too intimate. too much like trust. too much like love.
afterward, the room settles into a silence so thick it feels like dust in the lungs, heavy and dry and suffocating in its finality. there’s no warmth lingering between your bodies, no post-coital hush that carries the promise of comfort or care. it’s just air, still and stale and full of everything that’s gone unsaid.
satoru doesn’t clean you up.
he doesn’t brush your hair out of your face or trail soft fingers down your arm like he used to. he doesn’t press a kiss to your shoulder, doesn’t murmur your name in that low rasp that once meant i’m here, i’ve got you, you’re safe, you’re mine. he doesn’t even pretend this was anything more than what it was.
he just stands, slow, quiet, the sound of fabric shifting the only indication that he’s moved—and walks into the bathroom with a kind of mechanical grace, as if his body is running on reflex alone, as if this moment has played out before in his head, but without the part where it ever made him feel better. the sink hisses when he turns the faucet on, and the only light in the room is the pale, gold glow from the hallway lamp spilling through the half-open door.
he wets a rag under the tap, holding it under the stream for a little longer than necessary, fingers curling into the cloth like he’s anchoring himself to the task, like he needs to be doing something, anything, that doesn’t involve looking at you again. he folds it in half, still dripping slightly, and walks back toward the bed with the same stiff movements, the same silent tension pulling at the set of his shoulders.
when he tosses the cloth toward you, damp and rough and smelling faintly of lavender soap, it lands near your thigh without ceremony. he doesn’t say a word. not a glance. not a nod of acknowledgment. nothing.
no aftercare. no gentle touches. no quiet you okay? whispered into your skin like a secret he means to keep.
just the weight of his silence hanging in the space between you, thick and cold, stretched like a fault line across a bed that once held every version of your closeness—now reduced to strangers sharing the same air and not a single truth between them.
you wipe yourself off in silence, and he turns his back to you, sitting on the edge of the mattress like he’s balancing between sleep and flight, like if he stays still enough, maybe you’ll disappear before he has to ask you to. maybe this time, you’ll understand that there’s nothing left here worth pretending for.
and then later, because you didn’t leave, because neither of you spoke, because the silence between you stretched long and bitter and unbearable, heavy with things neither of you could admit out loud—it happened again.
not because it should have. not because it meant anything. but because it was easier than speaking.
because satoru gojo, for all his pride and arrogance and self-preservation, seems to be something of a masochist when it comes to you. because even now, with the hurt lodged in his chest like a dull blade, with every part of him telling him not to touch you again, he still lets it happen. he lets you crawl back into his lap like you’re allowed to, like your body can still fit against his without consequence. he lets you kiss down the curve of his throat, soft and desperate, and doesn’t push you away. he doesn’t ask you why you’re still here. he doesn’t tell you to stop. he doesn’t say a word.
when he lies back, he does it without looking at you, eyes locked on the ceiling, lips parted around shallow breaths, jaw tight with restraint. he doesn’t reach for you like he used to—doesn’t guide you, doesn’t touch your waist, doesn’t murmur that you’re beautiful through half-lidded eyes.
you mount him slow, legs folding around his hips like you remember the exact shape of him, like this is muscle memory and not emotional ruin. you settle onto him with a quiet sigh, facing away now, knees pressing into the mattress as your hands find balance against his thighs.
reverse cowgirl.
detached. impersonal. as far from intimacy as you can possibly get without leaving the room.
he watches your silhouette in the dark, head tilted back, spine arching slightly with every slow grind of your hips. he keeps his hands to himself for a while, knuckles white against the sheets, breathing hard through his nose, trying not to think about how good you feel, how warm you are, how familiar. trying not to think about how this was once love. how this was once his.
but eventually, because once again he’s reminded how he can’t seem to stay away from you, his palms slide up your thighs, just enough to ground himself. he doesn’t squeeze. doesn’t guide. just touches.
he watches the way you move over him like it was second nature, like your body still remembers him, like there hadn’t been a single day of distance between you, like you hadn’t shattered him and buried the pieces in silence. the rhythm of your hips, the soft flex of your back, the curve of your spine catching light from the hallway—all of it familiar, all of it cruel.
and for one agonizing second, he wanted nothing more than to reach up, to grab your chin with the same hands that used to hold your face like it was something delicate, to pull you around, make you look at him, make you see him. he wanted to kiss you.
god, he wanted to kiss you.
not out of lust, not out of habit, not because of the way you felt around him—but because part of him still clung to the lie that maybe if he kissed you again, just once, just right, you’d remember what it meant. maybe he’d remember what it meant. maybe the weight in his chest would lift, or the rage in his blood would cool, or the ache would settle into something he could survive.
he wanted to kiss you like it still mattered. like it could undo everything. like it could make him yours again.
but he didn’t.
he stayed exactly where he was, hands heavy on your thighs, eyes fixed on the spot between your shoulder blades, jaw clenched tight enough to splinter. because he’d already fallen far enough. he’d already let you back into his bed, into his body, into his head.
he didn’t need to hand over his heart again just to watch you ruin it, too.
and when you whimper his name again, low and wrecked and aching, that soft little breath that used to unravel him in ways he never admitted, even to himself—he closes his eyes so tightly it almost hurts, lashes pinched together like the darkness behind his lids might spare him from the truth of what’s happening, from the sound of you still knowing how to say his name like it means something. he lets it hit him, that sound, lets it sink into the space beneath his ribs like it always does, lets it curl tight inside his chest, claws digging in like it belongs there, like it never left, like you never left—like this is still yours to touch.
and he hates himself for how much he wants to respond to it. hates how his body reacts before his mind catches up. hates that no matter how hard he’s tried to cauterize the part of himself that belongs to you, it still bleeds the moment you touch it.
he hates it. but not enough to stop.
clearly.
because now you’re curled up beside him again, breath warm and uneven against the fabric of his shirt, your face tucked into the crook of his shoulder like that’s where it still belongs, like you haven’t forfeited the right to be there, like you didn’t break him and then walk back in like nothing had changed.
your lashes are still wet.
he doesn’t have to look to know. he can feel the way your hands twitch near his chest, hesitant, like you want to reach for him, like you might still be testing the distance, wondering if you can close it—but you don’t. not really. not anymore. not in the way that counts.
and he lies there, stiff and unmoving, arms at his sides, gaze fixed on the ceiling like it’s the only safe place in the room. he doesn’t look at you. doesn’t speak. doesn’t touch you. he doesn’t pull you in the way he used to, doesn’t trace your back or rub slow circles into your spine or whisper your name like a promise, like a prayer. he just breathes through his nose, jaw tight, every inch of him locked down like the only thing keeping him from breaking is stillness.
because everything in him is screaming—what are you doing? why did you let her back in? why is this happening again? but he doesn’t have an answer.
maybe he thought this would help. maybe he thought letting you fuck the grief out of both of you would soften it. maybe he thought this would finally burn the want out of his system. maybe he just wanted to feel something that didn’t hurt.
but as you lie there next to him, quiet, close, warm, wrong—he feels the ache return with twice the weight, like the absence of love is louder when you’re this close. the hollow in his chest, the one he’s been trying to fill with anger and other girls and silence, only stretches wider.
and all he can think, over and over again, is this should feel good.
this should feel like revenge. this should feel like power. this should feel like healing.
but it doesn’t. it just feels like drowning in a memory—one that won’t let go, one that still smells like your shampoo and sounds like your laughter from last fall, one that has claws and teeth and still knows exactly where to bite.
he stares at the ceiling, eyes wide and dry, blinking slowly in the dark, and all he can think, on loop, like a steady pulse beneath his skin, is that he should’ve asked.
should’ve asked if suguru kissed you the way satoru used to, slow and breathless and smiling into your lips. should’ve asked if he touched your face— if you leaned into it, if you came first, if you cried out his name the way you cry out satoru’s when you fall apart, if he held you after, if you stayed the night, if it felt different. if it felt better.
his jaw clenches so tight his teeth ache. his chest rises too fast, lungs working like they’re fighting the weight of everything he hasn’t said. his eyes sting, but he refuses to blink. he won’t cry. not here. not now. not beside you.
he wants to shove you away. wants to roll you off him like you’re poison. wants to stop letting his body betray him every time your skin brushes his.
but he doesn’t. because you’re here, soft, warm, and all wrong. and he’s still letting you stay.
and he wishes he could forget you.
wishes he could reach into his own mind and pull the memories out one by one, like weeds from the root, like glass from a wound, until nothing’s left but clean, bloodless space, until he could look at your face without remembering every version of it that used to make him weak. but he can’t. he still remembers the first time you kissed him, clumsy and sun-dazed behind the gym, your lip balm tasting like vanilla and sugar, your fingers in his hair like you already knew where they belonged. he remembers the first time he realized he was in love, sitting across from you in a booth at that shitty diner you always insisted on, watching you dip your fries in milkshake and talk with your hands, and thinking, fuck, i’m not walking away from this. and he remembers the last time you looked at him without guilt—before the lies, before the apologies, before your voice broke his name on a phone line at 1 a.m. and everything after became something he couldn’t survive without flinching.
he closes his eyes.
he doesn’t kiss your forehead. doesn’t pull you closer. doesn’t reach for your hand or run his fingers along your spine or tuck you under his chin like he used to when he meant it.
he just lets you sleep. because if he touches you now, he might not survive it.
he doesn’t say a word when your breathing evens out beside him, when your arm drapes across his stomach like you still have the right to be there, like nothing happened, like you’re still the girl he used to joke about marrying someday just to shut everyone up. your fingers twitch once, then settle, and he stares up at the ceiling, eyes wide open in the dark, counting the uneven lines in the plaster like maybe they’ll distract him from the smell of your shampoo clinging to his sheets, or the way his chest tightens every time your breath catches on an inhale, soft and warm against his side, like it still belongs to him.
he should feel better.
you’re here, aren’t you? you came when he called. you always do.
but it doesn’t feel like winning. doesn’t feel like power. doesn’t feel like anything except a hollow kind of ache, a sickness that sits low in his stomach, curdling every time you move too close. it just feels used. used and discarded and stupid for still wanting something that doesn’t want him back the way he deserves.
you’d cried, sure. you said you were sorry. you said you didn’t mean it. said it wasn’t you. said you didn’t know why it happened. said you’d do anything to fix it.
but you still did it.
you still made the choice. you still went to him.
and what pisses him off most—what sticks in his throat like a splinter, sharp and impossible to swallow, is the way you look at him now, with that same broken expression you wore when he opened the door tonight, like he’s the one who left you, like he’s the one who shattered something and walked away clean. like the grief carved across your face is something he caused.
you’ve got a lot of fucking nerve.
you say it wasn’t supposed to happen. say you were drunk. say you were hurting.
but you didn’t text him once before it happened.
you didn’t call, you didn’t ask for help.
and then you sent three texts, left four voicemails, cried through dozens of phone calls after the damage was already done—after it was too late, too loud, too fucking bad.
he presses a hand over his face and exhales, slow and shallow, like if he just holds the breath in long enough, if he just waits, the ache in his ribs will loosen its grip. it doesn’t. of course it doesn’t.
because the truth is, he knows you.
he knows you the way people only know someone when they’ve loved them through every version of themselves. he knows the softness and the selfishness. he knows the way you cry over failed quizzes and over sad commercials. he knows the way you make playlists for every milestone, even the small ones, and how you kiss like you're always a little afraid of being kissed back. he knows the manipulative tilt to your voice when you want something and the innocent look you use to get out of trouble. he knows how you apologize—how you make yourself small, how you say please like it’s a weapon, how you cry like it’s his job to clean it up.
you’re the type of girl who texts all day and talks all night, who says she doesn’t know what she wants but still manages to take everything in reach. you’re the type who says i love you with your eyes closed and your fingers crossed behind your back. you’re the type who wants to be loved so badly you ruin everyone who tries.
and yeah, he knows you’re sad.
he can see it all over your face, in the way your hands tremble when you think he’s not looking, in the way you can’t meet his eyes for longer than a second, in the way you curl into him like you’re still trying to pretend this is safety and not penance.
but he doesn’t feel bad.
because even after all the tears, after all the apologies, after all the silence and space and time, after every moment where you could have chosen him and didn’t—
you still slept with his best friend.
and that’s the kind of thing he’ll never un-know.
not even if you cry a hundred more times in his arms. not even if you fall asleep in his bed every night for the rest of the year. not even if he still loves you. and not even if he hates that he does.
You stare blankly at where his hand was just seconds ago, gaze zeroing on the engagement ring and white gold band. His warmth is still on your skin. But his love for you apparently has been long gone
Pairing: Todoroki Shoto x Reader
Warnings: Has mature content, mentions of cheating and divorce
Summary: The Number One hero forgets his Number One's birthday and has to face the consequences.
Midoriya Izuku x fem!reader
Words: 2.5k
You woke up with an excited mood, cause it wasn’t an ordinary day. It was your birthday! You were so excited! You don’t really like big celebrations but your birthday is really special to you. You always celebrate it with your parents in your hometown in Shibuya but this time, you had a different day planned for you and Izuku. You had taken a day off work, being the number 3 hero, it wasn’t easy but they let you go since it was your birthday. You had reminded Izuku to take off work too, but it seems that he forgot. You woke up to a note on your bedside table, “Sorry hun, I know you told me to take a day off but i can’t. I promise I’ll make it up to you puppy. Have a good day! I love you <3” You mouth sets into a deep frown after reading the note, he didn’t even wish you a happy birthday.
You turn on your phone when you notice it has been flooded with messages. You smile when you see that all your friends have wished you a happy birthday. After you get off the phone with your best friends Ochako and Momo, you head over to the kitchen to make yourself some breakfast. As you start preparing your breakfast, you turn on the news. “Pro hero Deku saves Japan again! With his smashes and-“ You change the channel as your eyes well up with tears. He forgot about you, again. This had become a routine. You guys plan dates, he blows you off for work, tries to make up with another date but fails to show up at that too. But today was different, it was your birthday goddamnit!
But you made up your mind that you were not gonna let his absence ruin your day. You went to your favourite bakery and bought a customised (favourite flavour) cake, with a picture of your and izuku’s first date. Then you decided to pay Inko a visit. She was delighted to see you! She baked your favourite cookies as an apology for not getting anything for your birthday as she was not expecting your visit. You ate the delicious cookies and chatted with her. After a scrumptious lunch prepared by mama Inko, she decided to ask you about your relationship with Izuku. As you both were washing the dishes, she asked, “Has my Izu been treating you well? I’ll let you know that he loves you more than anything, even more than being a hero.” Your mouth sets into a frown as you answer her question. “Well, he is the best boyfriend but I don’t really think he loves me more than being a hero. He’s been blowing me off more and more lately I know being the new symbol of peace has made him really busy but he could at least make out a little bit of time for me. He could’ve atleast wished me a happy birthday….” You trail off as your eyes begin to well up with tears again. Inko feels heartbroken and pulls you into her chest as sobs rake your body. After an hour of consolidation from Mama Inko, you head home as the sun has started to set. You bid inko farewell as you walk out her door and towards the confines of your empty home.
Just as you are about to enter through the door of your house, your phone rings. You Press ‘Accept’ when you see ‘Izu ❤️’ on the screen. “Hello?” “Hey puppy! Im sorry for bailing on you today. I’m getting off work early today and I was wondering if you wanted to go out with me?” Your eyes lighted up and a smile made its way onto your face when you replied, “Really?! You sure you won’t bail again?” “Of course not” “Promise me please?” “I promise Puppy! Now get ready. I’ll meet you at (favourite restaurant) at 7pm.” “Okiee! I love you Izu!” He chuckles while filling out paperwork, “I love you too Puppy” You squeal in excitement, you ere sure that he hasn’t forgotten your birthday and is planning a surprise for you. You looked at the clock and saw that it read 4:30pm.
You had plenty of time. After replying to a couple of birthday wishes, you ran ourself a nice bath with baths bombs and scented candles. After getting out of the bath, you started getting dolled up. You did your makeup and wore that beautiful green dress that izuku had bought you last Sunday. It hugged your body at all the right places. By the time you were done, you looked drop dead gorgeous. (Not that you already aren’t. All you readers are beautiful no matter your body size and shape. I love y’all <3. Anyways-) By the time you were done it was already 6:30pm. You hurriedly grabbed a purse and wore your heels. You drove to the restaurant and sighed in relief when you realised you were there right on time. You made your way into the restaurant, as all eyes started following you, the receptionist was flustered when he saw you but managed to composed him as he led you to a table. You smiled politely and thanked him.
You waited happily, excited to meet him. Seconds turned into minutes and minutes turned into hours. The restaurant was kind enough to offer you a birthday cake as all the customers and employees wished you (They knew it was your birthday cause you’re the number 3 hero). Your phone ringed at 9:30pm. It was Izuku. You picked up the call and before you could say anything Izuku started pouring apologies but you already knew what was about to happen, “I’m so so sorry Puppy. I won’t be able to make it. There was a big villain in Mustafu and they said I was the only one who could-“ “It's ok. I understand. See you at home.” “Thanks a lot honey. I love you-“ Izuku was left dumbfounded when you cut off the call. He sighed and continued his paperwork, not realising what the weight of is words were.
When Izuku told you he couldn’t make it, again, you broke down into sobs then and there. You exited the restaurant after mumbling a small ‘thank you’ to the waiter who nodded and places a 2000 yen on the table even though you didn’t order anything. The paparazzi flooded the exit as they caught shots of you exiting the restaurant as a mess. You made your way home and kicked off your heels in the middle of the living room, throwing your purse on the couch as you made a beeline for the bedroom. Putting on one of Izuku’s hoodies, you fell on the bed, sobbing like you have never before. After an hour, you finally fell asleep.
When the top heroes were finishing filling out the last of their paperwork about the latest villain at about 11:45pm , Bakugo started a conversation. “Deku. Didn’t you plan out something for Teddy Bear? You’ve been here the whole day. Don’t fucking tell me you forgot!” “Forgot what Kacchan?” Asked Izuku innocently. “Teddy bear’s birthday of course” When Izuku abruptly shot out of his seat, it confirmed all of their suspicions. “Ah shit- He’s dead-” Kirishima was saying when Todoroki pointed out the news on the screen in front of them. Midoriya felt like killing himself when he saw the news. “Pro hero (H/N) spotted exiting (F/R), wait is she crying?! What?! What happened that made our beloved hero cry on her birthday. To find out more keep watching-“ They were all interrupted when Midoriya finished packing up and said, “I don’t fucking care about this stupid fucking paperwork! Im going home to my girlfriend! Fucking bitchass villains!” The heroes were surprised at the number of profanities coming out of his mouth but didn’t have time to comprehend when he was already out the door. Bakugo chuckled as he continued his paperwork, “This ought to be good. He’s royally fucked.”
By the time Izuku reached your doorstep, It was already 12:10am. He had missed your birthday. Izuku’s heart broke when he entered the house and saw the mess. Broken vases, broken frames, plates scattered all over the floor and some blood on the counter. A packed birthday cake lay on the counter, a piece of it wistfully eaten by you. The final straw was when he saw you curled up on your bed, dried blood on your knuckles, and tear streaks on your face. His sobs were what woke you up from your slumber. “Izuku? Wha-“ You were interrupted when he engulfed you in a bone crushing hug. “I’m sorry Puppy-“ “Cut it out Deku. Im tired of your bullshit.” “Baby I swear. I took a day off work tomorrow. We’ll celebrate your birthday tomorrow, I’ll take you anywhere you wanna go-“ “I have work tomorrow. Besides it’ll not be my birthday tomorrow.” “Baby I’m so sorry- Please don’t be this way- I love y-“ “No you don’t” The sharpnesss of your voice sucked all the air out of his lungs. “If you would’ve, you would’ve not blown off every plan that we made the last few months, would’ve not forgotten my fucking birthday Midoriya!” He froze as the reality of his past actions finally dawned on him. Izuku breathed a sigh of relief only when you said, “It’s fine. I’ll suck it up. Now go to sleep.” He hugged you from behind as he fell into a deep slumber. At least you weren’t mad at him anymore, or so he thought.
The next morning, Izuku woke up, with a new sense of determination in his mind. He was going to make things right today! He had taken a day off and wanted to take you out for a picnic. But his hope crumbled when he woke up to an empty bed, there was a note on his pillow, “I’ve got work. I’ll be home late. Breakfast is in the fridge.” He then realised that this was what you must’ve felt like everytime he bailed on you. He decided that he was going to make you (f/d) for lunch and would take it to your office himself. That would give him a chance to see you too. So like a good boyfriend, he cleaned up the house and prepared your lunch.
On his way to your agency, he signed a couple of autographs for his fans and clicked a few pictures with them too. His smile seemed brighter than the other days since he was going to see you today. Stepping inside your agency, Izuku approached your receptionist with a bento box in hand and said, ‘Hi! I’m here to give Y/N her lunch.” “Sorry sir but she’s not here. Dynamight had dropped by earlier and took her out for lunch.” To say he was shocked was an understatement. Since when did Bakugo become so caring? Right on cue, you appeared running inside the agency feigning fear, a massive smile evident on your face. You turned back to look at Katsuki when you bumped into your boyfriend. Your smile dropped when you saw him but you quickly put on a tight lipped smile when you greeted him. The transition of the smile on your face broke Izuku’s heart but he didn’t have time to comprehend when you were picked up bridal style by someone when he announced cockily, “I win again, Teddy Bear~”
Everyone was shocked to hear the malice in their beloved hero Deku’s voice when he said, “Get your filthy hands off my girlfriend, Kacchan.” “What’s your deal Deku? Why play Prince Charming now when you weren’t even able to remember her-“ “Thats enough ’Suki.” You get down from his arms, and peck his cheek lightly, “Thank you for the lunch ’Suki. You should head out now. Got work to do, don’t you?” Katsuki read the room and without any retaliation, left your agency. You turned around and walked past your boyfriend towards the elevator, “C’mon Midoriya. Let’s discuss whatever case you’ve brought now.”
The ride in the elevator was awkward, Izuku trying to make small talk and you with your short replies. Izuku noticed that you look unusually tired today. He finally asked, “Are you okay? You look tired. Did you get enough sleep yesterday? And why did you think that I brought a case-“ He was interrupted when cut him off, “Calm down Izuku. I’m alright, why do you suddenly care about me? And I have a headache since I fell asleep after crying for an hour straight. And I said that cause you never visit my agency, except when you have something really important cause you always go to Shoto or Ochako first.” The last parts of your sentence came out as a soft mumble as Izuku held your hands in his. Izuku’s eyes widened when you said, “Am I not good enough Izu? Do you love your hero work more than m-me? Do I just get in your w-way? Do you even remember when you last k-kissed me? When we last went on a date? I can’t do this anymore Izuku……If you want to get rid of me then just tell- mmph” Your sentence was cut short when Izuku pulled you in by your waist and kissed you more tenderly than he had ever before. So many feelings were conveyed through that kiss. Love, Affection and most prominently, Fear.
He fell on his knees before you as he wept into your abdomen. You stroked his hair tenderly as tears fell from your eyes. “Please d-don’t leave me. You’re my everything. I don’t know what I’ll do without you. Im sorry I didn’t realise earlier that you were hurting so much. You are more than enough Puppy. I’m sorry I made you feel like you weren’t. I’ll even leave hero work if you tell me to. Just please don’t leave me…..” “Izu, baby, I love you. Just this time promise me you’ll be better. And you better not break your promise this time.” He starts peppering kisses all over your face as he says, “I promise. And if I break it, then you can have my head.”
Bonus: You both were oblivious to the fact that the elevator doors were open and you had gathered quite an audience. When you both shared a last kiss, you turned your head towards the crowd when you herd a bunch of ‘Aww’s and ’They’re so cute’. You blushed and hid your head into Izuku’s chest. He chuckled fondly at your cuteness and lightly kissed your forehead, eliciting another wave of ‘Aww’s from your staff, leaving him flustered too.
Trapped in a cabin with her ex and his new flame, Y/N endures a painful 5 days filled with fake smiles, sharp words, and lingering eye contact that reignites old wounds.
Warnings: Emotional tension between exes, jealousy, past relationship drama, mention of infidelity and heartbreak, suggestive themes, strong language, alcohol reference, and heated arguments. Contains angst.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7
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Y/n’s POV
Fully clothed now — thank god — I sat on a rough piece of wood beside him. My ex.
The flickering light from the fire cast shadows on the icy walls, and for a moment, I wondered if fate was just playing one long, cruel joke.
Across from us, Yuji was busy trying to feed the fire while Satoru guided him, like some smug, one-armed survival expert.
“Careful, kid. Don’t smother it — give it air. Fire needs space,” he said, voice low but annoyingly confident, even with a broken leg and arm.
I watched him for a bit — how calm he looked despite everything. Typical Gojo. Too good at everything, even at looking good while injured.
“I’m starving,” I finally muttered, rubbing my cold hands together. My stomach growled in protest as dizziness from exhaustion began to creep in.
Yuji immediately looked up, rummaging through what little we had in our bags before tossing something my way. “Here.”
A small biscuit — two bites at best. Still, I smiled. “Thanks, Yuji.”
He smiled back sheepishly. “No, thank you. You didn’t let go when you could’ve. Honestly, if you hadn’t grabbed me, I’d probably be decorating the bottom of that cliff right now.”
“Don’t say that,” I frowned. “Anyone else from our group would’ve done the same.”
Satoru scoffed from beside me, leaning back against the cold wall, arms crossed with that half-smile of his. “Not me though. I’d say ‘fly high, little bird’ and wave goodbye.”
“Real funny,” I muttered, glancing at him. The corners of his lips quirked up like he was proud of that.
Yuji blinked between us, clearly catching the awkward current in the air. “So… you jumped ‘cause Y/N fell with me?” he asked innocently.
The cave went quiet for a beat. I stared at the fire, waiting — half afraid, half desperate — for Satoru’s answer.
But of course, he brushed it off with a smirk. “Nah, rope snapped. Bad luck, I guess. Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Eh? But you were almost at the top!” Yuji pressed, eyes narrowing. “You literally could’ve saved yourself—”
Before he could finish, Satoru lightly punched his shoulder with his good hand. “Ow!” Yuji yelped.
“You talk too much, kid. Focus on keeping that fire alive. You’ll freeze faster than my heart did,” Satoru said, grinning — but there was something in his tone that didn’t match his expression.
Yuji grumbled under his breath and turned back to the fire.
I pretended to look away, but I could feel Satoru’s gaze on me. Maybe it was just the firelight, or maybe it was the fact that he always looked at me like he was memorizing every inch, every reaction.
“So…” I said quietly, without looking at him, “you really didn’t jump?”
There was a pause — one too long for comfort. Then came his answer, soft and half-teasing:
“Would it make a difference if I said I did?”
My breath hitched before I could stop it.
Yuji, completely unaware of the tension that filled the small cave, groaned and rubbed his arm. “Man, you two are weird. Can’t tell if I’m third-wheeling or babysitting right now.”
Satoru chuckled lowly.
I rolled my eyes, trying to laugh it off, but my chest felt tight — painfully tight.
Whether he jumped or not didn’t matter… right?
─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───
Being with Satoru had always been… intense. We were reckless, impulsive teenagers who thought the world revolved around the two of us. Everything back then burned too bright—his touch, his laughter, even our fights. It started small—his fingers brushing against my thigh under the desk, a teasing smirk when I’d glare at him, the kind of silent dares that left my skin tingling. It never took much for us to lose control after that. One minute, we’d be pretending to study; the next, we were skipping class to make out in the janitor’s room like we owned the place.
Of course, fate had a twisted sense of humor. We got caught once—by Sukuna, of all people. I can still remember that smug, knowing grin on his face, the way Satoru froze yet smirked at him, and me trying to hide behind a mop. Tragic, really. Or hilarious, depending on how you look at it. The irony? A few months later, I ended up in that same janitor’s closet—with Sukuna this time. Don’t ask. Life had a funny way of reminding me I was just as reckless as the men I fell for.
I tell myself to stop thinking about all that—to stop dragging my mind back to a time when everything was simpler, messier, but alive. But how could I, when I’m pressed so close to Satoru now, trapped inside a freezing cave, my breath mingling with his in the dim glow of a fire Yuji managed to keep alive? He sits between us, his coat pulled tight, his leg still injured. Yuji’s shivering beside him, looking like a lost puppy trying to act brave.
Satoru’s quiet for once, his usual arrogance replaced by something I can’t quite name. His hair’s a mess, and I can see the faint bruise along his jaw—the kind that reminds me he’s still painfully human. The storm outside howls against the ice, the sound of wind so loud it feels like it’s screaming through my bones.
I tell myself it’s just the cold that makes my heart race, but it’s not. It’s the way he keeps glancing at me from the corner of his eye, like he’s remembering too. The way his hand brushes mine when he shifts, deliberate or not, and I hate that part of me still wants to reach back.
Yuji tries to crack a joke, bless him, something about how he’d rather fight Sukuna in a drawl he knew he’d lose than spend another night in a frozen cave. I smiled—too quickly—and Satoru chuckles low under his breath. That sound alone makes my chest ache.
It’s dark now. The snow outside’s turned into a full-blown blizzard, and though we’re wrapped in layers, the cold still seeps into our bones. But in this tiny cave, between the flicker of the firelight and the quiet sound of his breathing, everything feels suffocating.
The lack of warmth and food was starting to eat at me, but I couldn’t complain. We were stuck in a snowed-in cave after that stupid hike gone wrong, and these two had it worse. Satoru’s leg was wrapped up in a makeshift bandage, Yuji’s arm was swollen, and me… well, I was just cold, dizzy, and awkwardly sitting between my ex and our overly chatty dense friend.
“Y/n, from how much you drank last night, I’m surprised you’re not worse off!” he said brightly, grinning through the chill.
I just hummed, praying to every higher being that the conversation died right there. Of course, it didn’t.
“Uh huh,” Satoru’s voice came, low and amused, “I still remember every detail last night and how cute you were.”
My breath hitched. Cute. He said it too easily, like it wasn’t a word loaded with years of memories and ache. My chest tightened—Utahime’s cruel little words still echoing in my head. I wanted to say something sharp back, but before I could—
“Oh! You mean when Y/n made out with my brother, Choso?”
Silence.
Not the casual kind. The kind that could murder you on the spot.
I turned slowly, blinking, trying to process what he just said. Out of the corner of my eye, Satoru’s face fell from his usual smirk to a flat, unreadable expression.
“W-what?” I managed.
“Yeah!” Yuji nodded, oblivious. “He was so shy about it! I think it was after the game last night? Oh wait—does that make things weird for you guys? Since, y’know, you two used to date and all, and now—”
“Yuji!” I practically shouted, my cheeks burning.
He froze, eyes wide. “Oh. Uh. why?”
I could feel Satoru’s stare burning into me, the kind of stare that demanded an explanation.
And my mouth—traitor that it was—started spilling words before my brain caught up.
“W–wait! I thought that was you, Satoru! Or—or Sukuna or— I don’t even remember, I was half-conscious and—”
“Oh?” His voice came out lower than I expected, smooth but tight. “You thought it was me?”
He leaned back against the wall, eyes narrowing just slightly. His usual teasing tone was still there—but sharper, more like a knife than a joke.
“I carried you upstairs with Yuki,” he said, poking at the fire with a stick, his jaw flexing. “You kept mumbling my name, though. Over and over. Guess you just like saying it. But hey,” he added, that bitter smirk curling back into place, “seems like you’ve got a thing for guys with darker hair now.”
My stomach dropped. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Yuji blinked between us, slowly connecting dots he absolutely shouldn’t.
“Oh yeah!” he said, as if remembering a fun fact. “That’s right—Satoru-senpai took you upstairs before me and Sukuna went outside. We were messing around and then got stung by bees.” He snorted. “Man, Sukuna was so dramatic about it. He had, like, three red spots on his neck.”
I froze.
My brain short-circuited.
“Wait.” I blinked, once. Twice. Then a slow, dawning horror crept over me.
“Those weren’t hickeys?”
Satoru turned to me with the slowest, most devastating grin I’d ever seen. “Oh my god,” he said, a soft laugh slipping through. “You actually thought you gave Sukuna-”
My face burned. “Shut up—”
He leaned in just enough for the firelight to hit his cheekbones, his eyes glinting like he was enjoying every ounce of my humiliation. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Feeling embarrassed? Or just disappointed they weren’t from you?”
I threw a glove at him, but it only made him chuckle. A low, quiet, infuriating sound.
“Guess you’ve always had a wild imagination,” he said, his tone shifting—less teasing, more… something else. “Too bad it only works when I’m not around.”
The words stung more than I wanted to admit.
I swallowed, forcing a tight smile. “Guess you’ve always had a big mouth.”
He smiled back, but there was no warmth in it. “You didn’t seem to mind before.”
Yuji stood up so fast he nearly tripped over the logs. “I—uh—I’m gonna… go check how deep the snow is outside!”
He vanished in record time.
Leaving just me and Satoru.
And the sound of our fire crackling against the howling storm.
“Choso, huh?” Satoru said, as casually poisonous as ever. I turned my face to hide how my fingers curled at the edge of the coat. Try as I might, I couldn’t mask the prickle in my chest.
“You really gonna bring that up?” I said, voice flat. Let him talk. Let him dig. I was tired of flinching.
He leaned his head back against the cave wall, jaw clenched. “Just funny,” he said casually. “You’re suddenly all friendly with the guy who used to start half our fights.”
I exhaled through my nose, tired already. “You done?”
He didn’t look at me. “Weird, though. I thought it was me that night, but I guess you moaned his name pretty well, huh?”
My stomach dropped. The next thing I knew, I’d accidentally nudged his injured foot, and he hissed.
“Shit—sorry,” I muttered.
He gave a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Sure you are.”
That was it. “What’s it to you if I did?” I snapped. “You’ve got someone now. So why are you even asking?”
He finally looked at me, eyes sharp even through exhaustion. “Because I don’t get it,” he said, voice low but steady. “You get drunk, say my name like you miss me, and then what? You go make out with someone else right after?”
“You’re not making sense,” I shot back, my chest tight. “You’re acting like I owe you something. You can’t just show up and—”
“I’m not acting like anything,” he cut in, tone flat. “I’m just saying what I saw.”
“Well, maybe you should stop looking,” I said quietly.
He gave a small, dry laugh. “You really did, huh?”
“What?”
“You slept with him.”
I stared at him, searching his face for any trace of humor, but there was none. Just that tired bitterness that clung to him whenever we talked about us.
“Yeah,” I said finally. “Maybe I did. Maybe I will again. What about it?”
His lips twitched like he wanted to smile but couldn’t. “Nothing. Guess I just didn’t expect it to be him.”
“It wasn’t about you,” I said, though my voice wavered. “Not everything is.”
He nodded slowly, staring into the fire. “Right. Of course.” Then, after a beat: “Still—guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You always ran when things got hard.”
That one hit deeper than I wanted it to. My throat burned, but I didn’t look away. “And you always pushed until people broke. Guess we’re both good at something.”
He hummed, quiet. “Yeah. Guess so.”
For a moment, the only sound was the crackle of the fire and the wind howling outside.
Then Satoru exhaled softly, voice barely above a whisper. “I wasn’t trying to start a fight.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” I muttered.
He glanced at me — just a flicker of something real behind the sarcasm. “I just… didn’t think you’d move on that fast.”
“I didn’t,” I said honestly. “But what am I supposed to do? Keep waiting for you to come back?”
He looked away again, jaw tightening. “Didn’t say that.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But you wanted it anyway.”
Silence again. He just sat there, staring into the fire like it might burn the conversation away.
─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───
Glimpse of the Past
There was something about Satoru Gojo’s parties.
They weren’t just parties — they were events.
The kind everyone at Jujutsu High counted down to the way normal people counted down to Christmas.
Perfect house, loud music, pool lights reflecting off glass cups — and of course, the golden circle: Satoru and his friends.
Suguru, Nanami, Yuki, Mei, Shoko — the school’s definition of untouchable.
And right at the center, the couple everyone envied —
Satoru Gojo and Y/N L/N.
He was the loud, confident troublemaker; she was the student council president with perfect grades, perfect hair, perfect smile.
Together, they looked unstoppable.
But like every teenage dream, theirs was just one good fight away from falling apart.
─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───
“Yuki, what the hell— why’d you invite that guy?”
Satoru’s voice cut through the bass-heavy music, loud enough that a few people turned their heads.
He stood near the snack table, one arm already slung around Y/N’s waist possessively, his lips brushing her shoulder as she tried — and failed — to ignore him.
Yuki rolled her eyes mid-sip of her drink. “You mean Choso? He’s my seatmate, Gojo. Chill.”
“I am chill,” Satoru said, very clearly not chill. “I just don’t want him here.”
Y/N sighed, tugging his arm off her. “He’s literally just a guest, Satoru. Why are you acting like he’s the devil?”
“He looks like one,” Satoru muttered under his breath, glaring across the room at the dark-haired boy leaning casually against the wall, talking to Suguru like he’d been part of the group for years.
“Oh my god,” Y/N groaned. “You’re impossible.”
Yuki smirked, clearly enjoying the chaos. “Too bad, Gojo. He’s staying. And he brought snacks — the good kind.”
That was that.
Even if it was Satoru’s house, no one really won against Yuki when she was in her party host era.
So the entire night, Y/N found herself glued to Satoru — literally.
His arm around her waist.
His chin resting on her shoulder.
His hand brushing hers whenever someone new came close.
It wasn’t just protective — it was territorial.
Because even for someone as confident and obnoxiously loved as Satoru Gojo, Choso Kamo was a threat he couldn’t laugh off.
And maybe he had a reason to be nervous.
Rumor had it, Y/N had gotten a bouquet of her favorite snacks that morning — a mix of chocolates and chips tied up with a single rose.
Hidden in the petals were tiny folded notes, each one spelling out her name.
No one had to say who sent it. Everyone already knew.
Even Y/N didn’t deny it — not because she was guilty, but because she couldn’t quite explain what to think when she read that stupid note that said “for the girl who deserves more than perfect.”
And that warmth — that tiny, dangerous spark — was enough to make Satoru spiral.
─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───
Hours later, when most of the guests were outside by the pool, Y/N found him leaning against the hallway wall, drink in hand, pretending to be casual.
But she could read him like a book.
His jaw was tight, his shoulders tense. He wasn’t even looking at her when she stopped beside him.
“You okay?” she asked quietly.
He snorted. “Totally. Just watching my girlfriend’s type laugh at my best friend’s jokes.”
“Seriously?” she muttered, crossing her arms. “You’re gonna do this now?”
He finally looked at her, blue eyes sharp. “You think I don’t notice how he looks at you?”
“He looks at everyone, Satoru. It’s called being polite.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not polite,” he said flatly. “Especially not when some guy starts sniffing around what’s mine.”
“That possessive now?” she repeated, voice rising.
He opened his mouth to argue, but stopped.
Because there it was again — that shift. The same one that always happened right before they fought.
Her tone going cold.
His temper getting defensive.
Two people who were supposed to be perfect together, slowly realizing they were anything but.
“Whatever,” she said finally, shaking her head. “If you’re that jealous, maybe don’t throw a party and invite half the school next time.”
He turned to walk away, but her voice caught his mid step
“You think I didn’t know about that little date you went on, Satoru?”
┊.˚🪩 ༘┊͙ 𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒 ;
↳ as a rising star in the tumultuous world of hollywood, you're handed a golden opportunity to boost your career – a fake relationship. what your manager forgot to mention? your leading man is none other than satoru gojo, hollywood's notorious fuckboy. easy? well, not exactly.
pairing: fem!reader x satoru gojo
tags: smau/partially written; actor/actress!au, fuckboy!gojo, jjk is a live-action show in this au, fluff/angst/humor
length: 1/??
note: AAAAAAAAA im a sucker for fake dating, actor au trope. enjoy besties! <3
[disclaimer: the way the reader is portrayed is just for the reason of style/posing! this is not what the reader looks like (she should look like however you’d like her to!) just wanted to clarify!! <3]
