dr slade

born from a lotus

[sladethescientist]

‘𝐘𝐎𝐔, 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐒𝐈𝐍, 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐍’ — 𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇

about. she/her. 8teen. i like to write (gojo centric) and yap. not spoiler free.

on my blog ⌵

rules ⋮ all works ⋮ ao3 ⋮ stop genocides

recent works ⌵

december

‎ ┈───┈──┈ㆍ⟢ ⟡ ⟣ㆍ┈──┈───┈

solitude shapes character. you are who you are when alone

[sixeyesonathiel]

diet pepsi

pairing — brother’s bsf!satoru x fem reader

synopsis : satoru always saw you as suguru’s little sister—until you came back different, and dangerous to want. fighting it should be easy, but summer has a way of breaking rules. and some mistakes feel too good to stop making.

tags — childhood friends au, mutual pining, summer romance, beach setting, forbidden romance, brother’s best friend trope, fluff, eventual smut, explicit sexual content, public sex (car), oral sex (f receiving), fingering, pussy drunk satoru, overstimulation, virgin reader if u squint, unprotected piv sex, pull out method, dirty talk, praise kink, pet names, possessive behavior, alcohol use, 13.9k wc. 18+ only, MDNI.

a/n : i tried dialogue heavy writing instead of my usual sensory and internalization on one bit and all i can say is im never doing it again it felt so icky im so sorry TvT art is not mine, i am in the middle of finding the source ><

five years vanish like smoke, curling into nothing.

summer presses heavy on the cracked asphalt, heatwaves shimmering like ghosts rising from the dunes. the pop-up ice cream stand sags under the sun’s relentless weight, its faded awning flapping lazily in the salty breeze.

satoru leans against suguru’s rusted truck, sunglasses slipping down his nose, a greasy bag of fries teetering on his knee. they’re parked beside the shack, the lull in customers letting them sink into idle chatter, cheap food, and the sticky rhythm of a beachside summer.

he’s mid-bite—salt and vinegar stinging his tongue, sweat trickling down his neck—when he hears it.

a laugh.

not just any laugh.

bright and sharp, it cuts through the cicadas’ drone and the surf’s restless crash like a blade through silk.

he looks up, annoyed first—who’s that fucking loud?—then stunned, breath punched out of him like he’s taken a fist to the chest.

you step into view like you’ve walked out of a dream he didn’t know he was having, framed by the blazing sky and the ocean’s glitter. alone, you drag a beat-up duffel bag, its strap slung over your shoulder, sneakers kicking up little clouds of sand. the sundress you wear—white, gauzy, catching the breeze—clings to your thighs, the hem flirting with every step. 

a wide-brimmed beach hat sits tilted on your head, casting dappled shadows across your face, and your hair, sun-lightened and wild, spills down your back like it’s daring the wind to tame it.

you’re older. taller. you move with a confidence that scrapes at satoru’s ribs, leaves them raw and aching. you’re gorgeous in a way that feels like a hazard, like a spark too close to dry tinder. you shine, bright and untouchable, and he’s caught, staring, helpless.

his fry drops to the pavement, forgotten.

“yo,” suguru says, elbow jabbing satoru’s side, hard enough to rattle the truck. “you good, or did the sun fry your brain?”

satoru can’t answer. his tongue’s too thick, his heart’s lodged somewhere near his ankles. all he can do is watch you, the way your dress shifts with each step, the way your hat tilts as you turn your head, scanning the beach.

then you see them.

your face splits into a grin so bright it dims the sky, and satoru feels the ground tilt beneath him.

“satoru!” you shout, waving with a reckless joy that cracks the world open.

he pushes off the truck, heart hammering like it’s trying to break free, shoving his sunglasses up to hide the way his eyes are drinking you in. he hopes suguru doesn’t notice, hopes the heat crawling up his neck doesn’t betray him.

he saunters over, all false swagger, pretending his knees aren’t loose, pretending he’s still the same satoru who used to tease you mercilessly. “long time no see, squirt,” he drawls, flicking the brim of your hat. it’s a mistake—the hat makes you look too fucking cute, the way it frames your face, the way it dares him to keep looking.

you laugh, breathless and bright, and before he can brace himself, you throw your arms around his neck.

he freezes, arms caught mid-air, your warmth slamming into him like a wave. your body presses close—soft, real, burning through the thin fabric of his shirt. your scent, something sweet and sun-warmed, wraps around him, and he’s drowning, his hands hovering before instinct takes over.

he wraps you up, too tight, too desperate, your curves fitting against him like you were made for it. your fingers fist into the back of his shirt, a brief, greedy clutch, and he feels the tremor in your grip, the way it lingers one second too long.

then you pull away, leaving him blinking, bereft, his skin tingling where you touched.

suguru joins a moment later, his lazy grin in place, oblivious to the storm raging in satoru’s chest. “didn’t know you were back today,” he says, pulling you into a quick hug. “would’ve picked you up from the station.”

he ruffles your hair, that annoying big-brother move, and you swat at him, your hat tilting precariously. “someone needs extra hands at the stand,” suguru continues, slinging an arm around your shoulders, his fondness clear in the crinkle of his eyes. “and since you’re back in town with nothing better to do…”

he’s teasing, but there’s warmth there, a quiet pride in having you close again. satoru watches, jaw tight, as you lean into suguru’s side, your ease with him sparking something sharp and ugly in his chest. it’s not jealousy—not of suguru, never that—but something else, something that claws at him, hot and restless.

“figured you’d be perfect,” suguru adds, smirking at satoru now, like he knows something’s off. “plus, toru here was whining about being bored.”

“was not,” satoru mutters, kicking at the sand, heat climbing his neck. he’s lying, and suguru knows it—satoru’s been restless all summer, chasing distractions to fill the hollow in his gut.

you laugh again, sweet and effortless, sweeter than the cotton candy sold at the stand. it’s a sound that hooks into satoru’s ribs, pulls tight, leaves him aching.

“c’mon,” suguru says, already turning toward the road. “my treat. diner time?”

it’s tradition.

that shitty little diner down the road, with its cracked vinyl booths and milkshakes so thick you need a spoon. the three of you used to haunt it every summer, sprawled across a booth, stealing fries, laughing until your sides hurt. nostalgia hits satoru like a fist, sharp and sudden. he’s fourteen again, all knees and elbows, stomach hollow with a hunger he couldn’t name.

“last one there buys dessert,” you chirp, already jogging ahead, duffel bag bouncing against your hip, sneakers flashing white against the sand. your sundress flutters, catching the light, and satoru’s eyes linger too long on the curve of your calves, the sway of your hips.

he tells himself you’re off-limits, a mantra he’s worn thin over the years. you’re suguru’s little sister, untouchable, a line he’d never cross. but the air smells like salt and possibility, and you feel like a second chance he didn’t know he needed.

he’s marching after you before he can stop himself, pretending he’s still just satoru—your brother’s idiot friend, the guy who used to pull your pigtails and sneak you extra ice cream. pretending he’s not burning up inside, pretending the rules still hold when you’re close enough to touch, close enough to taste.

pretending he’s not already, irreversibly, fucked.

the diner sits like a time capsule at the edge of town, neon sign buzzing like a trapped firefly, its pink and blue glow flickering against the dusk. same warped menu boards, same cracked vinyl booths, same sticky linoleum floor that clings to your sneakers.

nothing ever changes here, and satoru both loves and hates it—loves the way it holds you in its amber, hates how it reminds him of everything he’s tried to outrun. it’s the backdrop to a thousand memories, all of them sharp with you and suguru.

you slide into the booth across from him, your sundress whispering against your thighs, beach hat tossed beside you like an afterthought. satoru’s hyperaware of his knees brushing the air just shy of yours under the chipped formica table, the space between you electric, too small.

suguru slips in next to you, casual as ever, but there’s a protective edge in the way his arm drapes across the booth’s back, fingers grazing the vinyl an inch from your shoulder.

“so,” suguru says, sliding a laminated menu your way, its edges curling like old paper, “college treating you okay?”

you shrug, lips curving into a half-smile that catches the diner’s dim light. “it’s just school. nothing as exciting as the beach.”

“she’s being modest,” satoru teases, forcing his voice to stay light while his pulse hammers, your nearness a live wire under his skin. “probably acing everything.”

your eyes flick to his, a hint of pink blooming high on your cheeks, soft and fleeting like a sunset. “hardly. nearly failed calculus last semester.”

“you? fail math?” satoru grins, leaning forward, the memory of you hunched over graph paper, explaining equations to him and suguru, vivid as yesterday. “impossible.”

“college math is different,” you protest, but you’re smiling, holding his gaze a second too long, your lashes casting faint shadows.

suguru glances between you, eyebrow twitching upward before he grabs a menu, oblivious to the way satoru’s heart stumbles. “food’s still exactly the same here. bet they haven’t cleaned the grill since we were kids.”

“that’s what makes it good,” you say, laughing, the sound bright and warm, like the clink of sea glass against the shore. “nothing beats greasy diner food after a day at the beach.”

the waitress appears, pen poised, her gaze lingering on satoru, lips curving in a way that’s too sweet, too practiced. “what can i get for you folks?” she asks, voice syrupy when it lands on him.

you straighten in your seat, fingers tightening on the menu’s edge, a flicker of something sharp in your eyes. “i’ll have a chocolate shake and fries,” you say, voice clear, pulling her attention like you meant to.

“double cheeseburger, extra fries, chocolate shake thick enough for a spoon,” satoru orders, not glancing at the menu or the waitress. some things never change—his order, this booth, the way his chest tightens when you’re close.

“you still get the same thing?” you ask, smile soft with nostalgia, like you’re seeing him for the first time in years. “you used to make such a mess with those shakes.”

“remember when he got chocolate all over your new white shirt?” suguru chimes in, grinning, leaning back with an ease satoru envies. “you cried for like an hour.”

“i did not cry for an hour,” you protest, cheeks flushing, a spark of indignation in your eyes. “maybe ten minutes. tops.”

“and then satoru gave you his hoodie,” suguru continues, smirk sharp now, “and suddenly the tears magically stopped.”

“shut up,” you mutter, kicking suguru under the table, your gaze skittering away from satoru’s.

he remembers that day like it’s burned into him—you, twelve, small and devastated, tears streaking your face over a ruined shirt. him, awkward and too tall, draping his oversized hoodie around your shoulders, your eyes lighting up like he’d given you something precious. the memory sits heavy in his chest, warm and aching.

“you kept that hoodie for years,” suguru adds, ignoring your glare, voice teasing but fond. “pretty sure i saw you packing it for college.”

“oh my god, can we talk about anything else?” you plead, face scarlet, fingers twisting the straw wrapper into a knot.

satoru’s heart lurches. you kept his hoodie? all these years? the thought blooms inside him, dangerous and warm, like a spark he can’t smother. he wants to ask, wants to know if it still smells like him, if you ever wore it and thought of him, but he swallows it down, terrified of what his face might give away.

“what brought you back this summer?” he asks, voice steadier than he feels, desperate to shift the focus before he betrays himself. “just break, or…?”

“internship fell through,” you admit, shrugging, the motion small, almost apologetic. “figured i’d come home, make some money at the stand if you guys needed help.”

“always need help,” suguru nods, stealing a sugar packet from the caddy, spinning it between his fingers. “tourist season’s crazy this year.”

“plus satoru’s been whining about needing days off,” he adds, smirking, tossing the packet at satoru.

“i have not been whining,” satoru protests, catching the packet mid-air, his grin masking the way his pulse spikes at your laugh.

“you literally said yesterday that if one more kid dropped their ice cream and cried, you were going to walk straight into the ocean,” suguru deadpans, folding his arms.

you laugh, bright and clear, and satoru’s heart does a stupid, reckless flip. god, he missed that sound—missed it like air, like something vital he didn’t know he’d lost until it’s here again, filling the hollow in his chest.

“sounds like you need me to save you,” you tease, eyes locking with his across the table, a flicker of softness there, warm and unguarded.

“maybe i do,” he says, too honest, voice low, watching the pink deepen on your cheeks, the way your lips part just slightly.

the food arrives, breaking the moment like a wave against the shore. you take a bite of a fry, eyes fluttering shut, a small hum of contentment slipping out that has satoru gripping his glass so tight he’s surprised it doesn’t crack. the sound’s innocent, but it lands like a spark, igniting something restless in him.

“god, i missed real food,” you sigh, dipping another fry in ketchup, the motion careless, perfect. “dining hall stuff is awful.”

“that fancy school doesn’t feed you right?” suguru teases, stealing a fry from your plate, dodging your swat with a grin.

“hey!” you protest, brandishing your fork like a weapon. “and no, it’s all kale and quinoa and weird vegan options.”

“poor baby,” satoru mocks, but his voice is soft, and when suguru’s not looking, he slides a few of his fries onto your plate, a quiet offering.

you catch it, eyes warming, lips curving into a private smile that feels like a secret stitched between you. your fingers brush the table’s edge, inches from his, and he wonders what it’d be like to close that gap, to feel your skin against his.

“remember that summer we practically lived here?” you ask, stirring your shake, the spoon clinking softly against the glass. “after suguru got his license?”

“and dad’s old pickup,” suguru adds, nodding, his eyes distant with memory. “we’d come every day after the beach.”

“you two would eat your weight in fries,” you laugh, the sound wrapping around satoru like a tide, pulling him under. “and then race each other back to the water like idiots.”

“while you timed us,” satoru recalls, grin tugging at his lips, the memory vivid—your small hands clutching a cheap stopwatch, shouting times as he and suguru sprinted, sand flying. “always the competitive one.”

“says the guy who insisted on best of three every single time he lost,” you counter, eyebrow raised, a challenge in your gaze.

“which was most times,” suguru adds, smirking.

“i let you win,” satoru protests, clutching his chest like he’s wounded, but his eyes are on you, drinking in the way you laugh.

“sure you did,” you say, not buying it, your eyes bright with that old, familiar spark.

suguru’s phone buzzes, shattering the moment. he checks it, sighs, and pushes his plate aside. “dad needs me to pick up stuff from the hardware store. you two good here? i can come back.”

“we’re fine,” you say quickly, waving him off, your hat slipping slightly as you turn. “i remember the way home.”

suguru hesitates, eyes narrowing as he glances between you, like he senses the shift in the air. “behave yourselves.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?” you ask, voice too innocent, lips twitching.

“it means don’t let satoru convince you to do something stupid like that time he talked you into jumping off the pier,” suguru says, sliding out of the booth, his sneakers scuffing the floor.

“that was one time,” satoru defends, spreading his hands. “and she wanted to do it!”

“i was twelve and you told me it was totally safe,” you remind him, but you’re smiling, no bite behind it, just warmth.

“and it was safe,” he insists, leaning back. “you just can’t dive.”

suguru rolls his eyes, already halfway to the door. “i’ll be back in twenty. try not to burn the place down.”

the door jingles as he leaves, and the air shifts, charged, heavy with the weight of being alone with you for the first time in five years. the diner feels smaller, the hum of the neon sign louder, the space between you crackling like static.

“so,” you say, twirling your straw in your shake, eyes meeting his through your lashes, a hint of vulnerability beneath the tease. “did you miss me at all while i was gone?”

the question lands like a stone in still water, ripples spreading through him. he wants to say everything—how the stand felt empty, how summers dragged without your laugh, how he’s been chasing pieces of you in every distraction. but he can’t, not when you’re looking at him like that, soft and expectant.

“nah,” he says, breezy, then grins at your mock outrage, the way you puff out your cheeks. “maybe a little. the stand was too quiet without you dropping things.”

“i was not that clumsy!” you protest, laughing, the sound bright enough to drown out the diner’s hum.

“you knocked over an entire display of sunglasses trying to reach the top shelf,” he reminds you, smirking, the memory sharp—you, sixteen, stretching on tiptoes, cursing under your breath as plastic frames clattered to the ground. “twice.”

“because you and suguru kept putting things where i couldn’t reach them,” you counter, pointing a fry at him, your eyes narrowing playfully.

“it was funny watching you try,” he admits, smile softening, remembering the determined set of your jaw, the little huff you’d let out. “you’d get this wrinkle right here.” he taps between his brows, his finger lingering in the air too long.

your cheeks color, and you drop your gaze to your plate, lips twitching. “i can reach the top shelf now,” you say quietly, almost a challenge.

“i noticed,” he replies, the words slipping out, low and warm. too much, he thinks, but your smile—pleased, a little shy—makes it worth the risk.

“college has some perks,” you say, glancing up, your eyes catching his, holding them.

“like sukuna?” he asks, the name sour on his tongue, suguru’s earlier comment gnawing at him. he hates himself for it, for the way it slips out, sharp and unfiltered.

your smile falters, just for a second. “sukuna was just a friend.”

“a persistent friend,” satoru presses, leaning forward, unable to stop the edge in his voice.

“jealous?” you challenge, but there’s a hopeful spark in your eyes, a crack in your teasing that makes his pulse race.

“maybe,” he admits, surprising himself, the honesty raw, reckless. “or just protective. like suguru.”

“you’re not my brother,” you say softly, holding his gaze, the words heavy, deliberate.

“no,” he agrees, throat dry, heart pounding like it’s trying to break free. “i’m not.”

something shifts, a dangerous possibility curling in the air like smoke. you look away first, tucking hair behind your ear, your fingers trembling just enough for him to notice. your smile stays, small and secret, like you’re holding onto something fragile.

“anyway,” you say, voice lighter, “suguru mentioned you’ve been working on games?”

he grabs the lifeline, grateful for the shift. “yeah, indie stuff. nothing major yet, but i’ve got a few things published.”

“that’s amazing!” you say, eyes lighting up, genuine excitement in your voice. “you always were crazy talented with that stuff.”

“says the college girl,” he teases, but your praise sinks into him, warm and heavy, like a touch he can still feel.

“it’s just school,” you shrug, stirring your shake again, the spoon clinking softly. “nothing special.”

“it is special,” he insists, leaning forward, needing you to hear it. “you always were the smart one.”

you roll your eyes, but your smile’s pleased, soft. “says the guy who helped me pass physics senior year.”

“only because you helped me through lit,” he counters, grinning, the memory of late-night study sessions—your patience, your quiet focus—stirring something tender in him.

you laugh, the sound wrapping around him like the sun’s warmth. “we made a good team.”

“we still could,” he says, the words escaping before he can catch them, heavy with meaning he didn’t intend.

your eyes widen, lips parting, a flicker of hope crossing your face before you mask it with a laugh. “well, we’ll see how we do at the stand first,” you say lightly. “might get sick of me.”

“not possible,” he replies, too quick, too honest, his voice low enough to feel like a confession.

your smile turns shy, fingers fidgeting with your straw, twisting it into a knot. “you might be surprised. i sing in the mornings now,” you admit. “really loud, really off-key.”

“that’s not new,” he teases, leaning back, grateful for the lighter ground. “you used to screech taylor swift at the top of your lungs while restocking.”

“i did not screech,” you protest, laughing, your indignation bright and perfect.

“you absolutely did,” he insists, smirking. “scared away customers.”

“you’re such a liar,” you accuse, grinning, eyes sparkling like the ocean at noon. “you told me i had a nice voice.”

“maybe i lied then,” he suggests, voice dropping, playful but edged with something softer.

“or maybe you’re lying now,” you counter, leaning forward, your elbows on the table, closing the distance between you.

“guess you’ll have to sing for me again so i can decide,” he says, voice low, the words a dare, a pull.

your cheeks flush, but you hold his gaze, challenge sparking in your eyes. “maybe i will.”

the air crackles, five years of distance collapsing into this moment, this booth, this look. you’re not a kid anymore, and satoru can’t pretend he doesn’t see it—the way you’ve grown into yourself, confident, bright, a fire he can’t look away from.

“we should probably head back,” you say finally, glancing at your phone, your voice softer, like you’re reluctant to break the spell. “before suguru sends out a search party.”

“race you to the truck?” satoru suggests, grinning, a callback to countless summer days, his heart lighter than it’s been in years.

your eyes light up, competitive spark flaring. “loser buys ice cream tomorrow?”

“deal,” he says, already sliding out of the booth, his pulse racing for reasons that have nothing to do with running.

you grab your hat, fingers brushing the brim, eyes gleaming with mischief. “ready?”

and then you’re off, dashing through the diner, sundress fluttering like a sail, laughter trailing behind you like a melody. satoru follows, heart pounding, knowing suguru might kill him for the thoughts burning through his mind—your smile, your voice, the way you feel like home—but right now, watching you run ahead, he thinks it might just be worth it.

summer melts over the beach in thick, sticky waves, clinging to the chipped paint of the pop-up stand, to the sweat-damp curls at the nape of your neck.

you work the stand with suguru and satoru, slinging snow cones that bleed syrup, fries that glisten with grease, and cheap sunglasses that tourists snap up despite their complaints about the prices. they wilt under the sun’s brutal glare, faces flushed and shiny, while you move through the chaos with an ease that twists something in satoru’s chest.

it’s only been a week since you started helping out.

satoru tries to be normal. he swears he does.

but then there’s you, stretching on tiptoes to grab a stack of napkins from the top shelf, your tank top riding up to reveal a sliver of soft stomach, a tiny mole just above your hip that he’s never seen before. it’s a punch to the gut, that small mark, and he ducks behind the register, fumbling with keychains, pretending to sort them while his pulse hammers.

he’s not staring, he tells himself, but his eyes keep dragging back to you, to the way your skin catches the light, warm and alive.

there’s you, perched on a stool, slurping a cherry popsicle that’s melting faster than you can keep up with, your tongue darting out to catch the drips, lips stained red.

your eyes are half-lidded, lazy with heat, and your sandal taps a restless rhythm against the counter’s edge. every tap is a countdown, every slick of your tongue a slow execution, and satoru’s dying, his hands gripping the counter to keep from reaching out, from doing something stupid.

he’s fucking dying.

“dude,” suguru says one afternoon, lobbing a wadded-up receipt at satoru’s head, the paper bouncing off his temple. “your math is shit today.”

satoru startles, blinking at the till where he’s been staring for god knows how long, a customer’s change still clutched in his fist, coins biting into his palm. the tourist in front of him shifts impatiently, fanning herself with a crumpled map.

“whatever,” he mutters, shoving the coins across the counter, his voice rough. “it’s hot. i’m fried.”

“sure,” suguru drawls, slow and amused, leaning against the freezer, his dark hair sticking to his forehead. not suspicious, thank god, just teasing.

you laugh, swinging your legs where you’re perched on the counter, your denim shorts riding up to show the smooth expanse of your thighs, gleaming under the flickering neon “open” sign. you’re flipping through a gossip magazine, the pages crinkling under your fingers, your nails painted a chipped sky blue.

satoru nearly trips over his own feet grabbing a water bottle from the cooler, the cold glass slipping in his sweaty grip.

“earth to satoru,” you tease, crumpling a napkin into a ball and tossing it at his head, your aim perfect.

he catches it one-handed, tosses it back with a grin that feels too tight, too sharp, because you’re a fucking hazard, a loaded gun with your finger brushing the trigger, and you don’t even know it. your smile is lazy, your eyes bright with mischief, and he’s drowning in the heat of you, in the way you’re everywhere—your laugh, your scent, your warmth.

suguru cackles from the back room, sorting straws, oblivious to the storm in satoru’s chest.

“bet you can’t make another shot,” you taunt, grin wicked, leaning forward so your tank top dips just enough to make his throat dry.

“bet you i can,” he fires back, because it’s you, and he’s an idiot who can’t say no to you, not ever.

he grabs a plastic spoon, flicks it with a practiced snap of his wrist—it arcs across the stand, bounces off the freezer’s handle, and lands neatly in the trash can with a soft thud.

you whistle low, impressed, your lips pursing in a way that’s entirely too distracting. “show-off,” you say, but your smile softens, warm around the edges, like you’re proud of him.

later, you’re all sprawled in the sand behind the stand after closing, the air cooler but still thick, heavy with the day’s lingering heat. suguru strums a beat-up guitar he dug out of his garage, the strings twanging softly, his voice humming off-key to some old song.

you and satoru lie side by side, close enough that your arm brushes his when you shift, the contact sending sparks skittering across his skin. the sand is cool under his back, but he’s burning, every nerve attuned to you.

you doodle nonsense shapes into the sand with a stick, biting your lip in concentration, your brows furrowing just slightly. satoru watches from the corner of his eye, heart aching like it’s been bruised, the sight of you so close and so untouchable carving something raw inside him.

“wanna play chicken fights in the water tomorrow?” you ask suddenly, looking up at him, your eyes catching the last of the sunset, bright and alive.

“only if i get to be your ride,” he says without thinking, voice rougher than he means, the words heavy with want he can’t voice.

you grin, wide and blinding, and it’s like the sun never set, like you’re carrying it inside you. he almost blacks out, his breath catching, his world narrowing to the curve of your mouth.

“deal,” you say, offering your pinky, the gesture so familiar it hurts. he hooks his around yours, the brief press of your skin a vow he feels in his bones, sacred and binding.

he starts inventing excuses to stay after closing. restocking chips that don’t need restocking. double-checking the cash register he balanced hours ago. making sure you get home safe, as if the quiet streets of this town could ever hurt you. and you let him, every single time, your presence pulling him like gravity.

you let him linger, let him stand too close when you count the till, your fingers brushing his as you pass a bill, the contact fleeting but electric. you bump shoulders when you sweep sand off the counters, your laughter spilling into the night, loud and easy, hooking into his ribs and tugging until he aches. the string lights above buzz faintly, casting a soft glow over your face, tangling in your hair like a halo.

sometimes suguru’s there, tossing keys, joking about “kids these days” before bailing early to meet some girl at the pier, his footsteps fading into the dark. sometimes it’s just you and satoru, alone under the lights, the salty breeze stirring your hair, the beach stretching out endless and shadowed behind you, waves whispering secrets to the shore.

one night, after suguru ditches early, you and satoru ride home together. you slide into the cab of his truck, knees knocking against his in the cramped space, the scent of your sunscreen—coconut and sea salt—and the faint sweetness of sugar from the snow cones you snuck filling the air.

it’s suffocating, intoxicating, and he grips the steering wheel to keep his hands from shaking.

the windows are down, the radio humming a low, dreamy song, its melody weaving through the warm night. the wind whips your hair across your face, and you laugh, batting it away with a careless hand, your fingers catching the light from passing streetlamps.

he thinks about crashing the truck just to have an excuse to feel your hands on him, to pull you close and never let go.

at a red light, you turn to him, voice soft, lilting, like you’re sharing a secret. “you’re staring.”

he jerks his eyes back to the road, ears burning scarlet, heart thudding so loud he’s sure you can hear it. “am not,” he says, voice cracking, betraying him.

you hum, unconvinced, leaning your head against the window, a small, knowing smile curling your lips. “liar,” you murmur, so soft it’s almost lost to the music, but it lands like a dart, sharp and precise.

“whatever,” he mutters, flustered, his usual swagger crumbling under the weight of your gaze.

the drive stretches on, every stoplight a torture, every bump in the road vibrating through the cab, tightening the tension until it’s a living thing, thick and heavy.

you hum along to the radio, voice low and sweet, your fingers tapping the dashboard in time, a rhythm that syncs with his pulse. every so often, you sneak glances at him, quick flicks of your eyes that burn, that make him want to pull over and confess everything.

you point out a diner glowing neon against the dark, its sign buzzing faintly. “we should go sometime,” you say, casual, but there’s a thread of hope woven into your voice, delicate and bright.

“yeah,” he says, too fast, too eager. “yeah, totally.”

your smile breaks over him like dawn, warm and inevitable, and he’s helpless, caught in its light.

when he drops you off, you linger by the truck’s door, backpack slung loose over one shoulder, fingers twisting the strap. “thanks for the ride,” you say, voice feather-light, your eyes catching the moonlight.

he nods, swallowing hard, his throat tight with everything he can’t say.

you lean in, close enough that he can see the faint freckles dusting your nose, smell the sweet trace of your lip balm—strawberry, he thinks, dizzy with it. for one wild, reckless second, he thinks you’re going to kiss him, and his heart stops, his world narrowing to you.

but you just tap his chest with two fingers, right over his racing heart, the touch light but searing, like a brand. “see you tomorrow, toru.”

you bounce up the porch steps, pausing to throw him a wink over your shoulder, quick and playful, before slipping inside. the door clicks shut, and he’s left staring after you, the engine ticking softly in the warm night air, the ghost of your touch burning against his skin.

he slumps back in the seat, groaning into his hands, the sound raw and desperate. “off-limits,” he mutters, thudding his head against the steering wheel, each word a knife. “off. fucking. limits.”

he drives home on autopilot, your laugh echoing in his ears, the memory of your fingers against his chest a pulse he can’t shake. he dreams of you that night—soft, warm, impossibly close, your breath against his skin—and wakes up aching, the line between want and need blurred beyond recognition.

the next evening, satoru offers you a ride home again, his voice casual but his pulse anything but. suguru waves you off, barely glancing up from his phone, thumbs flying as he texts his latest fling about meeting at the bonfire later.

“don’t wait up,” he calls, a smirk in his voice, and satoru nearly stumbles, cheeks flushing despite the evening’s cool bite, the implication landing like a spark in dry grass.

outside, the sky bleeds watercolor—orange and gold streaking into deep lavender, fading to dusky indigo at the horizon. the air carries salt, the smoky tang of distant bonfires, the faint sweetness of wildflowers clinging to the dunes.

you slide into the passenger seat, kicking off your flip-flops with a clatter, the soles dusted with sand. you prop your bare feet on the dashboard, toes flexing, a silver anklet glinting in the fading light, and satoru’s chest tightens at how easily you claim the space, like the truck’s always been yours.

“air conditioning’s broken,” he says, wrestling with the crank windows, the handle sticking under his grip.

“who needs it?” you shrug, a carefree grin spreading across your face, bright as the last sliver of sun. you lean your head out the window, letting the sea breeze whip your hair into a wild halo, strands dancing like they’re alive.

the truck rattles down the coastal road, tires kicking up clouds of sand that drift in the orange glow. you fiddle with the radio, twisting the dial past static until a slow, dreamy track hums through the speakers, its bass vibrating deep in satoru’s bones, syncing with the thud of his heart.

your fingers tap a lazy rhythm against your bare thigh, the hem of your shorts frayed and soft, and he’s dangerously distracted, his eyes flicking to you when he should be watching the road.

“pull over,” you say suddenly, sitting bolt upright, pointing to a dirt path half-hidden by seagrass.

“what?” he blinks, hands tightening on the wheel.

“there. pull over. trust me.”

your excitement is a current, electric and contagious, and he’s turning the truck before he can think, tires bumping over the uneven path. the clearing opens to a view that steals his breath—an endless ocean, molten and shimmering, the sun sinking into it like a dying ember. the horizon burns, fierce and fleeting.

before he can ask what’s next, you’re halfway out the door, tugging your tank top over your head, the motion fluid, careless. “swimming, obviously,” you call over your shoulder, voice bright with mischief.

he stares, heart slamming against his ribs, the air in his lungs gone. you shimmy out of your shorts, revealing a plain black bikini—simple, unadorned, but devastating, the fabric hugging your curves like it was made for you. his throat goes dry, words dissolving on his tongue.

“we don’t have—” he starts, but you cut him off, flashing a cheeky grin.

“i always wear it under my clothes,” you say, winking. “just in case.”

just in case you decide to unravel him, to turn his world inside out with a smile and a strip of fabric.

“well?” you challenge, standing in the sand, barefoot and fearless, like a siren born from the waves. “you coming or what?”

common sense is a faint echo, drowned out by the roar of his pulse. he yanks his shirt over his head, the cotton catching on his hair, and follows you, helpless.

the water is warm, lapping at his skin, the tide playful, salt stinging his lips. you dive under a wave, your body sleek and sure, cutting through the current like you belong to it. you surface with a triumphant laugh, hair plastered to your forehead, water streaming down your face, and satoru’s caught, staring, the world narrowing to you.

“chicken?” you tease, flicking water at him, your grin sharp and daring.

he pushes deeper into the surf, muscles burning, fighting the urge to just float there, to watch you move. “race you to the buoy,” you say, pointing to a marker bobbing in the distance, its silhouette dark against the fiery sky.

“you’re on,” he grins, teeth flashing, adrenaline spiking.

you take off, a blur of motion, and he has to push to keep up, slicing through the water with long, powerful strokes, the ocean dragging at his limbs. by the time he reaches the buoy, you’re there, clinging to it, laughing breathless, your chest heaving. “not bad,” you concede, splashing water in his face, the droplets cool against his flushed skin. “for an old man.”

“old?” he splutters, feigning outrage, lunging for you.

you shriek, twisting away, but he’s faster, catching you around the waist, his fingers slipping against your slick skin. he dunks you under, the water swallowing your laughter, and you surface, sputtering, eyes blazing with mock fury.

you launch yourself at him, crashing into his chest, and the momentum sends you both tumbling under the next wave, limbs tangling, breathless and weightless.

when you surface, you’re wrapped around him, legs locked at his hips, arms looped around his neck, your body pressed so close he can feel the heat of you through the water. the ocean rocks you gently, the sunset bathing you in fire and velvet, your faces inches apart. he can see the flecks in your eyes, the faint salt clinging to your lashes, and his heart stutters, a painful, desperate thing.

“i win,” you murmur, voice low, triumphant, your breath warm against his lips.

his hands steady you at your waist, fingers splaying over your skin, slick and warm, and he’s drowning, every nerve alight. “cheater,” he rasps, the word barely audible, his throat tight.

your smile is slow, dangerous, your eyes flickering to his mouth for a heartbeat, and satoru feels the world tilt, gravity slipping away. he leans in, instinct overriding reason, drawn to you like a tide to the shore—

a wave crashes over you, tearing you apart with a roar of laughter and salt spray. you’re both gasping, grinning, the moment shattered but still humming between you.

you beat him back to shore, stumbling through the shallows, your laughter ringing like bells. by the time he catches up, you’re shivering, arms wrapped around yourself, the first stars blinking awake overhead, faint against the deepening indigo.

without a word, he grabs his hoodie from the truck, the fabric soft and worn, and drapes it over your shoulders. it swallows you, sleeves dangling past your hands, but you tug it tight, burying your face in the collar, and the sight of you in his clothes does something vicious to his chest.

“thanks,” you whisper, voice soft, nearly lost to the wind, your eyes catching his, warm and unguarded.

neither of you moves. the moment stretches, fragile as glass, strung between the stars and the restless waves, the air thick with salt and unspoken things. satoru’s heart hammers, every beat a confession he can’t voice.

“suguru would kill me,” he blurts, the words rough, desperate, a lifeline to keep him grounded.

you tilt your head, studying him, the wind tugging at your hair. “for what?”

for wanting you. for almost kissing you. for dreaming of you every night since you came back.

“for keeping you out too late,” he lies, voice scraping, hating how weak it sounds.

you laugh, soft and knowing, like you see through him, like you always have. “i’m not a kid, toru.”

he swallows, throat burning. “you’ve always been… different. special.” the words slip out, raw and unguarded, and he regrets them instantly, but your eyes soften, something tender flickering there.

you step closer, close enough that he can smell the salt on your skin, the faint coconut of your sunscreen lingering. “maybe i’m tougher than you think,” you say, brushing sand off his shoulder with fingers so light they feel like a dream, your touch lingering a second too long.

“maybe,” he croaks, voice breaking, his hands twitching to pull you closer.

you hold his gaze, long and steady, then sigh, stepping back, the space between you cold and sudden. “we should go,” you murmur, voice laced with something heavy, something he can’t name.

he drives you home slowly, windows down, the radio murmuring a low, slow song that weaves through the night. you curl up in the passenger seat, still in his hoodie, humming softly, your voice a thread he wants to chase forever. the road stretches, quiet and dark, the ocean a shadow to your left, its rhythm steady against the chaos in his chest.

at your house, the porch light glows, a soft amber pool, but suguru’s truck is gone, the driveway empty. “thanks for the swim,” you say, lingering with your hand on the door, your fingers brushing the handle like you’re reluctant to leave.

“anytime,” he says, meaning it too much, his voice low, heavy with everything he’s holding back.

you lean across the console, and his breath catches, time slowing as you press a kiss to his cheek—soft, quick, a fleeting devastation. your lips are warm, barely there, but they burn, a spark that could set him ablaze. then you’re gone, darting up the steps, pausing to throw him a wink, bright and teasing, before slipping inside.

he sits there, hand pressed to his cheek, heart pounding like it’s trying to escape. the engine ticks, the night presses in, and he’s alone with the ghost of your kiss, the weight of it heavier than the ocean.

“you’re fucked,” he tells his reflection in the rearview mirror, voice rough, eyes wide and stunned.

his reflection doesn’t argue, just stares back, helpless.

the next morning at the stand, suguru’s quiet, frowning over inventory lists, his pen scratching too hard against the clipboard. “you okay?” satoru asks, dread curling in his gut, the memory of last night still burning.

“late night,” suguru mutters, scribbling a note, his voice clipped.

relief floods satoru, sharp and dizzying, nearly knocking him off balance. “the bonfire girl?” he asks, forcing a grin.

suguru smirks, a glint in his eyes. “very flexible.”

normal. it’s normal. nothing’s changed.

then you appear, hair twisted into a messy bun, strands escaping to frame your face, wearing cutoff shorts and—satoru’s breath catches, a punch to the chest—his hoodie, sleeves pushed up to your elbows, the fabric loose but claiming you in a way that makes his head spin. “morning!” you chirp, dropping your bag behind the counter, the zipper jingling softly.

“you’re late,” suguru grumbles, mock stern, tossing you an apron.

“by like, five minutes,” you protest, rolling your eyes, your lips twitching with a smile.

“still late,” he insists, but there’s no heat in it, just the easy rhythm of family.

you catch the apron one-handed, sticking your tongue out at him when he turns away. satoru pretends to fiddle with the register, fingers clumsy on the keys, trying not to stare at you, at the way his hoodie looks on you, at the way it feels like a claim he didn’t mean to make.

but when you catch his eye across the stand, your smile slows, turns secret, full of promises he’s not sure he can survive. it’s a look that says you remember last night—the swim, the almost-kiss, the kiss that was—and his heart lurches, knowing he’s lost, knowing he doesn’t want to fight it, not with the annual bonfire party looming, its heat and chaos waiting to pull him under.

the bonfire party pulses against the darkening sky, flames clawing upward, casting amber and gold across faces slick with sweat and laughter. satoru nurses a beer, the bottle cool and slick in his palm, half-listening to a friend drone on about swell patterns and reef breaks. his attention frays, eyes slicing through the crowd, searching for you, a reflex he can’t tame.

when you appear, the world collapses to a single, searing point.

you step from the beach path, a peach sundress clinging to your curves, thin straps shimmering like liquid firelight, the hem teasing high on your thighs. your hair’s loose, wild from the salt air, curling against your shoulders like it’s daring the wind to try harder. you look shy at first, eyes darting through the chaos of bodies, searching for an anchor.

then you find him.

your eyes lock across the fire, and your smile—small, devastating, a curve of lips that’s both invitation and blade—cuts through him. it steals his breath, roots him to the sand, the beer bottle nearly slipping from his grip. his heart’s a traitor, pounding loud enough to drown out the music, and he’s terrified suguru’s nearby, that his best friend’s sharp eyes will catch the way satoru’s unraveling.

“dude, you even listening?” his friend asks, waving a hand in front of his face, voice tinged with annoyance.

“what? yeah,” satoru mumbles, not hearing a damn thing, unable to tear himself from you, from the way the firelight dances across your face.

a shadow moves beside him, and suguru’s there, beer in hand, leaning back against a driftwood log. “you’re zoning out,” he says, voice neutral, taking a slow sip. his eyes flick to the crowd, casual, but satoru’s stomach lurches—suguru knows him too well, reads him like a book, and satoru’s been anything but subtle tonight.

“just hot,” satoru mutters, tipping his beer back, the bitter fizz doing nothing to cool the heat crawling up his neck. he forces his gaze to the fire, to the sparks spiraling into the night, praying suguru doesn’t push.

suguru hums, noncommittal, and says nothing more, but the silence feels heavy, like he’s waiting for satoru to crack. satoru tries to play it cool—laughs at a half-heard joke, tosses a stick into the flames, watches it catch and burn. but you’re a tide, pulling at him, relentless.

the way your dress shifts with the breeze, tracing the dip of your waist; the bare slope of your shoulders, kissed by firelight; the glint of your anklet, a silver thread against your ankle. it’s torture, and he’s burning, every nerve alight with want he’s desperate to hide.

you drift through the party, a fleeting spark, never staying long. you laugh with girls from the rival stand, their voices sharp and bright, then pause to chat with a guy satoru half-remembers from high school—tanned, smug, standing too close.

you tilt your head back, laughing, throat bared, and satoru’s grip dents his beer can, the metal creaking under his fingers. the urge to cross the sand, to shove the guy back, is a live wire in his veins, but he stays put, jaw tight, because suguru’s right there, watching the fire, and one wrong move could betray him.

“you’re gonna break that,” suguru says, voice low, nodding at the can, his tone too even to be safe.

satoru sets it down, dragging a hand through his hair, the strands damp with sweat. “i’m fine,” he says, too sharp, and regrets it instantly, the words too defensive.

suguru raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t push, just takes another sip, his gaze drifting to the crowd. satoru follows it, and there you are, catching his eye again, your stare steady, unflinching. you take a slow sip of your beer, tongue flicking out to catch a drop on your bottom lip, and desire coils in satoru’s stomach, hot and heavy, his mouth dry as the ash at his feet.

he shifts, crossing his arms, trying to ground himself, to look anywhere but at you. suguru’s too close, too perceptive, and satoru’s walking a tightrope, every glance a risk. he forces a laugh at something his friend says, but it’s hollow, his focus fractured by the way you move, the way you exist, like you’re pulling the air from his lungs.

you’re there suddenly, standing before them, your sundress glowing orange in the firelight, sand dusting your bare ankles, a faint sheen of sweat on your collarbone. “hey,” you say, voice soft, a little breathless, like the crowd’s worn you thin, like you’re seeking refuge.

suguru shifts, patting the space on the log between them. “plenty of room,” he says, easy, tossing you a chip from the bag at his feet. “hungry?”

“i’m your only sister,” you point out, rolling your eyes as you settle onto the log, careful with the short hem of your dress, thighs brushing the rough wood.

you’re too close—satoru can smell your shampoo, coconut and sweet, weaving through the smoky air. your knee presses against his, a steady heat through his jeans, and he shifts, angling away, terrified of leaning into it, of suguru noticing the way his hands twitch.

you slip into easy talk, the three of you passing the chip bag, laughing at suguru’s tales of tourists losing sunglasses to the waves. but there’s a charge humming under it all, a current satoru can’t ignore.

he’s hyperaware of you—the way your fingers tuck a stray curl behind your ear, the soft hitch of your breath when you laugh, the way your eyes find his in the firelight, each glance a spark that could ignite him. suguru’s right there, sprawled and relaxed, but satoru’s nerves are a live wire, every moment a test of his restraint.

the speaker blasts a new song, bass thumping across the sand, and couples start dancing near the fire, shadows twisting against the flames. a guy approaches you—tall, cocky, hand outstretched, all easy charm. “dance with me?” he asks, grinning like he’s already won.

satoru’s jaw clenches, a spike of something hot and reckless surging in his chest, but you just smile, polite, shaking your head. “maybe later,” you say, voice light, and relief crashes through satoru, sharp and unearned, loosening the knot in his gut.

the guy shrugs, moving on, and suguru watches, finishing his beer in a long gulp, the bottle glinting in the firelight. he stands, stretching, his shadow long across the sand. “gonna grab another,” he says, voice casual, but his eyes linger on you for a beat, then flick to satoru, unreadable. “you two want anything?”

“i’m good,” satoru says, too fast, his pulse still settling, his hands gripping his knees to keep still.

“i’ll take another,” you say, holding up your empty can, fingers brushing the rim, a faint smudge of lipstick on the edge.

suguru nods, then heads off, weaving through the crowd, his absence leaving a void that hums with possibility. the fire crackles, music pulses low, and the silence between you and satoru stretches, thick with smoke and want, the air heavy with everything he’s fighting to hide.

“having fun?” he asks, voice rougher than he means, cringing at how weak it sounds, like a kid fumbling for words.

you smile, eyes on the fire, flames dancing in your gaze like they’re part of you. “yeah. it’s nice being back for the summer.” you turn to him, face half-shadowed, half-glowing, your expression soft, open. “better than i expected.”

“yeah?” he asks, heart hammering, the sound too loud in his ears, terrified suguru’s watching from the drink table, catching every slip.

you nod, holding his gaze, steady, unflinching. “yeah.”

the silence deepens, heavy as the tide, pulling at him. you take a deep breath, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your dress, tugging it down, and he can’t look away from the nervous bite of your lip, the way it shines, wet with beer and firelight. he’s drowning, and suguru’s absence is a dangerous freedom, every second a chance to break.

“actually, i’m feeling a little…” you trail off, glancing at the crowd, the laughter and chaos swelling around you. “it’s kinda loud. kinda crowded.”

“we can move down the beach,” satoru offers, instant, eager, desperate to keep this moment. “if you want quiet.”

you shake your head, lip caught between your teeth, a gesture that’s a fucking dart to his chest. “i was thinking… maybe you could drive me home?”

his brain stutters, blanks. “home?” he echoes, keys already burning in his pocket, his hands itching to move.

“if you don’t mind,” you add, quick, a blush blooming across your cheeks, soft and real, like you’re offering more than you’re saying. “i’m just… tired.”

he knows you’re not tired. knows it like he knows the pull of the ocean, the sting of salt. your eyes are too bright, too awake, the lie a fragile veil over something bolder. he’s nodding, fumbling for his keys, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the fire’s crackle. “yeah, of course. let me just tell suguru—”

“already texted him,” you say, holding up your phone, a shy smile curving your lips. “he says it’s fine.”

satoru’s pulse spikes, panic and want twisting together. suguru’s out there, somewhere, and satoru’s terrified he’s watching, that he’ll see the truth in his face, the way he’s crumbling under your gaze. but he stands, offering his hand, voice rough. “let’s go.”

you take it, fingers warm, slightly sticky from the beer, letting him pull you up. you sway, bumping his chest, and he steadies you, hands on your waist, the thin fabric of your dress no barrier to the heat of your skin. “sorry,” you murmur, looking up through your lashes, not stepping back, your breath a soft tease against his jaw.

“that’s okay,” he says, voice raw, barely holding it together. “i’ve got you.”

you weave through the crowd to the parking lot, your hand still in his, a tether he’s terrified to break. satoru spots suguru by the drink table, their eyes meeting across the sand. suguru’s gaze is steady, a small nod passing between them, no words, just an acknowledgment that feels like a warning: don’t cross the line.

satoru nods back, a silent promise he’s not sure he can keep, and guides you to his truck.

the drive’s quiet at first, just the engine’s low growl and the distant rhythm of waves. satoru grips the wheel, knuckles white, hyperaware of you in the passenger seat—your bare legs catching moonlight, the way your dress rides up, revealing the soft curve of your thigh.

you turn the radio on low, a sultry summer song with a bassline that matches his pulse, heavy and slow. your knee brushes his, stays there, a deliberate heat that sets him ablaze, and he’s fighting every instinct to keep his hands where they belong, to keep suguru’s trust intact.

“thank you,” you say, voice soft, cutting through the dark like a lighthouse beam. “for the ride.”

“anytime,” he says, and it’s a vow, heavy with everything he’s burying, everything he’s too afraid to let suguru see.

another mile hums by, the radio crackling low, a sultry bassline weaving through the dark. tires whisper against cracked asphalt, a secret shared between the truck and the night. the windows are cracked, letting in slivers of humid, salt-heavy air, thick with the scent of seaweed and distant bonfires. it does nothing to ease the heat coiling inside the cab, a fever that clings to your skin, makes every breath feel flushed, electric, like the world’s poised on a knife’s edge.

satoru feels it before he sees it—your gaze, molten and heavy, searing into the side of his face. the air shifts, sharp, trembling, a wire stretched to snapping. weeks of want, maybe years, spill over, uncontainable, a tide breaking against a crumbling dam.

“satoru,” you whisper, voice catching, raw with a need that slices through him. “pull over. please.”

he glances at you, and it’s a fucking mistake. your eyes glitter in the dashboard’s dim glow, wild and wide, lips parted, hands fisting the hem of your peach sundress, knuckles pale like you’re clinging to sanity. “what?” he asks, voice fraying, teetering on wrecked.

“please,” you say again, lip quivering, voice splintering under the weight of desperation. “i can’t hold it anymore.”

he doesn’t hesitate. the blinker clicks, sharp and urgent, the truck veering onto the sandy shoulder, ocean roaring below the cliffs, a primal pulse in the dark. he shifts into park, and the world catches fire.

“i can’t,” you whisper, eyes wide, pleading, like you’re unraveling. “i can’t pretend like you’re not everything anymore.”

he freezes, waiting for you to laugh, to take it back, but your hands are on him, yanking him across the console, your mouth crashing into his. you taste like desperation, strawberry lip gloss, and something achingly sweet, a heartbreak he can’t name. he moans, low and stunned, hands flying to your hips as you pour into him, a wave finally breaking, relentless and all-consuming.

your kiss is frantic, messy, teeth catching his lip, tongue sliding against his in a clumsy, starving dance. he’s drowning, your body pressing closer, like you could meld into him, erase every inch of space. “wait,” he gasps, pulling back, forehead knocking against yours, breath jagged, the air between you steaming. “baby, you’ve been drinking. i can’t—”

“satoru,” you whimper, fingers digging into his shirt, nails biting through cotton, dragging him back. “i know what i’m doing. i’ve wanted you since i was sixteen. please. just tonight. let me have you.”

the raw truth in your voice shatters him, every defense crumbling like sand. “oh, sweetheart,” he coos, teasing but hungry, kissing you again, deep and reckless, tongue chasing yours like he’s been starved for you. “we should—shit, we should find a bed, somewhere better—”

“no,” you cut him off, voice fierce, climbing over the console, straddling his lap in the driver’s seat. your dress rides up, thighs bare and warm against his jeans, and he chokes, breath hitching at the heat of you. “here. now. i can’t wait.”

he’s trying to be good, trying to think of suguru, of the lines he shouldn’t cross, but you’re too much—too pretty, too desperate, grinding against him, the friction making his vision blur. “backseat,” he murmurs, voice low, fraying with impatience, hands gripping your waist to lift you. “more room, pretty girl.”

you nod, frantic, and you both tumble out into the humid dark, clumsy with need, the night thick with the buzz of cicadas and the ocean’s restless crash. he catches you when your sandal snags on the doorframe, your laugh breathless, a sound that hooks into his ribs and pulls tight.

he shoves open the back door, guiding you inside with a hand on your lower back, firm but gentle, the leather seats gleaming faintly in the moonlight.

the backseat’s a tight cocoon, windows fogging, the air steaming with heat and lust. you climb in, pulling him after you, straddling him again, knees bracketing his hips, the seat creaking under your weight. your sundress is a crumpled mess, straps slipping off your shoulders, and he’s lost, staring at you like you’re a fucking vision, eyes glinting with want, skin flushed and alive.

“c’mere, gorgeous,” he coos, voice dripping with tease, but there’s a tremor beneath it, a hunger he can’t hide. he drags you closer, hands sliding under your dress, palms worshipping the smooth expanse of your thighs, the curve of your hips, the soft dip of your waist.

you gasp, grinding against him, and he feels himself, thick and aching, pressed against your core through his jeans, every roll of your hips a sweet kind of torture.

“you’re gonna fuckin’ ruin me,” he murmurs, breath hitching, hands trembling as he pushes your dress higher, exposing the soft skin of your stomach, the delicate lace of your panties. his voice is all tease, but his eyes are dark, pupils blown, betraying the impatience clawing at him.

you giggle, wrecked and sweet, and he grits his teeth, your laugh a spark to his fraying control. “lemme touch you,” he pleads, voice low, edged with a need that’s almost painful, fingers itching to claim every inch of you.

“yes,” you breathe, thighs parting, a flower opening to the sun, offering him everything.

he traces slow, maddening patterns up your inner thighs, savoring every twitch, every shiver, the way your breath catches when his knuckles graze too close. his fingers brush the damp lace of your panties, and he curses, soft and reverent, the heat of you undoing him.

“soaked already,” he purrs, lips grazing your ear, voice thick with awe, a teasing lilt masking the way his hands shake. “such a good girl for me.”

he slips beneath the lace, and you choke on a cry, biting your knuckles, head falling back against the seat. “nuh-uh,” he teases, nipping your neck, a playful bite that stings just enough to make you gasp. “no hiding, baby. i want every sound. lemme hear you.”

he tugs your hand away, pinning it against the seat, his other hand working slow, deliberate circles over your clit, featherlight and cruel.

you whimper, high and broken, hips bucking into his touch, chasing the friction. he’s methodical, a tease—circling your clit with barely-there pressure, dipping lower to trace your entrance, then back up, dragging out every sensation until you’re writhing, grinding shamelessly against his hand.

“satoru,” you pant, nails scoring his shoulders through his shirt, leaving crescent marks he’ll trace later, proof of you.

“patience, sweetheart,” he murmurs, lips dragging wet down your throat, teeth grazing the frantic pulse at your neck. “gonna savor you. make you forget anyone else ever touched you.” his voice is a promise, teasing but laced with a hunger that betrays his own impatience, and you shudder, thighs trembling under his hands.

he shoves your panties aside, tossing them into the backseat’s shadows, and spreads you open, pressing you back against the seat, the leather sticking to your sweat-slick skin. the angle’s awkward, the space cramped, but he makes it work, one knee braced against the floorboard, shoulders hunching to fit, his breath hot against your core.

“prettiest fuckin’ pussy,” he murmurs, eyes dark, pupils swallowing the blue, staring at you like you’re a banquet and he’s been starving for years.

he kisses up your thigh, slow, messy, lips smearing wet trails, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin, the faint musk of you driving him wild. his hands grip your hips, fingers bruising, holding you still as he edges closer, breath fanning hot over your core, making you squirm. when his tongue drags a long, languid stripe up your folds, you sob, arching off the seat, hands flying to his hair, yanking hard enough to sting.

he moans, the sound eager, vibrating through you, and dives in, ravenous. he’s messy, relentless—tongue lapping broad, greedy strokes, then sharp, teasing flicks against your clit, nose nudging you with every movement.

his lips close around your clit, sucking lightly, and you cry out, thighs clamping around his head, a vise he welcomes. he pries your legs wider, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and keeps going, tongue tracing every fold, every sensitive inch, like he’s mapping you.

“taste like fuckin’ heaven,” he mumbles, words slurred, muffled against your core, lips brushing your clit as he speaks. his tongue dips lower, teasing your entrance, and he slides a finger inside, curling it slow, deliberate, searching for that spot that makes your breath hitch. you keen, high and desperate, and he adds another finger, stretching you, pumping in time with the sharp flicks of his tongue, the rhythm maddening.

“satoru,” you wail, overwhelmed, hips bucking, chasing the heat of his mouth, the pressure of his fingers. his eyes flick up, meeting yours, and they’re wild—lids heavy, face flushed, glistening with your slick, utterly lost in you.

he’s trying to hold back, to keep some control, because you’re suguru’s sister, because he shouldn’t, but you’re too fucking perfect, grinding against his face, and he’s unraveling, impatient for more.

he shifts, the backseat too small, his shoulder bumping the fogged window, smearing the condensation. one hand braces against the door, keeping him steady, the other working you deeper, fingers curling just right, hitting that spot again and again until your thighs shake.

his tongue traces patterns—lazy circles, sharp figure-eights, quick flicks that have you gasping, trembling. he pulls back for a moment, just to spit on you, the wet heat mixing with your slick, making everything filthier, then dives back in, lapping it up, sucking harder, fingers pumping faster, the wet sounds lewd and intoxicating.

“so fuckin’ wet,” he coos, voice teasing, lips brushing your clit, but the undercurrent of hunger is undeniable, his patience fraying. “dripping all over me, baby. gonna scream for me soon.” he dives back in, tongue relentless, fingers twisting, and you’re a mess, thighs quivering, chest heaving, the leather creaking under your restless movements.

“please,” you whimper, voice breaking, hands yanking his hair, pulling him closer, needing more. “faster, satoru, please.”

“greedy little thing,” he teases, but he obliges, tongue flicking quicker, fingers pumping deeper, curling sharper. “love it when you beg. makes me wanna tie you up, keep you like this all night.” his voice is playful, but the idea’s a spark, and you shudder, the image of you bound and spread for him making you clench around his fingers.

he groans, feeling it, and sucks your clit hard, tongue swirling, fingers relentless. you’re close, he knows it—the way you tighten around him, the way your hips stutter, the way your cries turn hoarse, desperate. he doubles down, tongue sloppy, lips smacking wetly, fingers driving into you, chasing every gasp, every shudder. “c’mon, pretty girl,” he coos, words muffled, dripping with want. “cum for me. let me taste it. fuckin’ paint me.”

you shatter, a hoarse, sobbing cry tearing from your throat as you come undone, convulsing under him, waves of pleasure crashing through you, your body arching off the seat. he doesn’t stop, lips moving, tongue lapping, fingers pumping, drawing out every tremor, every aftershock, greedy for every drop.

you’re whimpering, oversensitive, pushing weakly at his shoulders, but he’s too far gone, chasing the last of your release, his mouth slick and shining.

“satoru, fuck,” you gasp, voice broken, hands shoving at him, but there’s no strength, just a plea he ignores. he grins against you, sloppy and drunk, and licks another slow, deliberate stripe, making you jolt, a fresh whimper spilling out.

“one more, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick, almost pleading, lips brushing your clit, teasing and soft. “you’ve got another for me, don’t you? know you do.” his fingers slide deeper, curling slow, coaxing, tongue flicking light, playful, drawing you back to the edge with a patience that’s more about his hunger than your comfort.

you’re a wreck, thighs trembling, breath hitching, but you can’t resist him, not when he’s like this—teasing, hungry, cooing like you’re his to unravel.

he adjusts, cramped knees creaking, one hand gripping your thigh to keep you spread, hooking your leg over his shoulder to open you wider. his tongue circles your clit, soft and teasing, fingers pumping slow, deep, dragging out every sensation until you’re whining, high and needy, hands tugging his hair again.

“look at you,” he purrs, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, his face a mess—lips swollen, cheeks glistening, chin dripping with you. “so fuckin’ perfect, falling apart for me. bet you’d let me do anything, huh?” he nips your inner thigh, a quick, sharp bite, and you gasp, hips jerking.

“satoru,” you plead, voice fraying, “too much.”

“too much?” he teases, tongue flicking your clit, light and quick, making you twitch. “thought you wanted me, baby. thought you couldn’t wait.” his fingers curl, slow and wicked, and you arch, a fresh cry spilling out. “that’s it, give me everything. love watching you break.”

he dives back in, tongue tracing lazy patterns, lips sucking soft, then hard, alternating to keep you guessing, keep you trembling. his fingers work deeper, stretching you, curling against that spot that makes your vision blur, the wet sounds filling the backseat, obscene and intoxicating.

he’s relentless, messy, eating you like he’s been denied for years, like every lick is a claim. his free hand slides up, cupping your breast through your dress, thumb circling your nipple, teasing until it’s hard, until you’re gasping, overwhelmed.

“wanna see you ride my face,” he murmurs, voice slurred, drunk on you, pulling back to catch his breath, his lips slick and shining. “wanna feel you grind, baby. c’mon, use me.” he doesn’t wait for an answer, just shifts, lying back on the seat, pulling you up, guiding your hips over his face, his hands firm but coaxing.

you hesitate, oversensitive, but he’s insistent, tugging you down, and when his tongue flicks your clit again, you’re gone, grinding against him, chasing the heat.

he groans, eager, hands gripping your ass, guiding your movements, his tongue relentless, flicking, circling, sucking. you’re a vision, dress hiked up, straps falling, hair a wild mess, and he’s lost, watching you use him, watching you fall apart again.

“that’s it, baby,” he coos, voice muffled, vibrating through you. “fuck my face, c’mon, give it to me.” his words are filthy, teasing, but the hunger’s raw, impatient, and you’re too far gone to care, hips rolling, chasing the edge again.

he sucks hard, fingers digging into your hips, and you shatter a second time, weaker but sharper, a cry ripping from you as you convulse, thighs shaking, his tongue still moving, still greedy.

he laps you through it, slow, deliberate, not stopping until you’re limp, gasping, hands falling loose in his hair. his lips are swollen, face glistening, eyes hazy, utterly wrecked. he presses one last kiss to your clit, soft, almost worshipful, before pulling back, panting, staring at you like you’ve rewritten his world.

“fuck, sweetheart,” he breathes, voice raw, teasing but frayed with want, his hands still roaming your thighs, like he can’t let go. “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

“want you,” you whisper, dragging satoru up from where he’s still panting between your thighs, lips slick and swollen, the taste of you lingering on his tongue as you crash into him.

the kiss is filthy, all teeth and hunger, a clash of desperation and need. your hands claw at his shoulders, nails biting through his shirt, pulling him so close it’s like you’re trying to carve yourself into him.

he moans, a low, wrecked sound, hands frantic as he helps you tear his shirt off. the fabric snags, rips at the seam, and you both laugh—breathless, wild, the sound swallowed by the thick air of the backseat.

you pause, hands splaying over his chest, fingers tracing the lean muscle under flushed skin, the faint freckles scattered across his collarbone like stars he never noticed. he’s beautiful, carved but human, chest heaving under your touch, eyes dark with a want that makes your breath catch.

“fuck, you’re staring,” he teases, voice rough but laced with a shy edge, a flush creeping up his neck that’s got nothing to do with the heat.

“can’t help it,” you murmur, tracing the sharp line of his abs, feeling the shudder that ripples through him. “you’re too damn pretty, toru.”

he curses, soft and reverent, a quiet “shit” that’s more prayer than profanity, and shoves his jeans down, kicking them into the backseat’s shadows with a clumsy thud.

his cock springs free—thick, flushed, the tip glistening with pre-cum, and you whimper, thighs clenching, a fresh wave of heat pooling low. he’s big, bigger than you’d imagined in your wildest, most reckless dreams, and the sight of him sends a thrill through you, sharp and electric.

he hesitates, forehead pressed to yours, breath hot and ragged, the air between you steaming with sweat and want. “baby, i don’t have a condom,” he says, voice tight, the words dragged out like they’re killing him, his hands trembling on your hips.

“don’t care,” you whisper, desperate, hands sliding to his hips, pulling him closer until his cock brushes your thigh, hot and heavy. “want you. all of you. please, satoru.”

he curses again, louder, a broken “fuck” as he drags his cock through your folds, slicking himself in your wetness, the head catching on your clit and making you gasp, hips jerking.

“last chance, sweetheart,” he coos, eyes locked on yours, pupils blown so wide the blue’s a thin ring, a man teetering on the edge of control. “you sure?”

“please,” you beg, wrapping your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him closer. “need you inside me. now.”

he groans, a sound that’s all need, and pushes in slow, careful, watching your face with a focus that makes your heart stutter. the stretch is intense, a delicious burn that has you clutching his shoulders, nails biting into his skin, leaving marks he’ll trace later with a grin. he buries his face in your shoulder, moaning, the sound low and frayed, like he’s coming apart.

“fuck, you’re tight,” he whimpers, voice shaking, a teasing lilt undercut by raw hunger. “squeezin’ me so good, pretty girl.”

he moves slow, rocking into you, letting you adjust to the fullness, each shallow thrust stealing your breath. it stings, but it’s perfect—the way he fills you, the way he’s careful but desperate, holding back just enough to keep from breaking you. “more,” you beg, rolling your hips, greedy, chasing the friction, the pressure. “harder, satoru, please.”

“greedy little thing,” he teases, a chuckle that’s all heat, hands gripping your hips so tight you’ll bruise, a possessive edge to his touch as he pulls back, then fucks into you deeper, harder, the truck creaking with the force. you gasp, head falling back, nails raking down his back, leaving red trails he’ll wear like a trophy.

“satoru,” you sob, overwhelmed by the fullness, the way he hits every spot, splitting you open in the best way. the backseat’s too small, his knees bumping the door, your elbow grazing the fogged window, but it’s raw, filthy—the cramped space forcing you closer, bodies tangled, slick with sweat.

the air’s thick, heavy with the scent of sex, salt, and the faint coconut of your skin, windows fogged so tight you’re a secret hidden from the world.

“feels like fuckin’ heaven,” he pants, finding a rhythm, deep and steady, his cock dragging against your walls with every thrust, the wet sounds obscene, filling the cab.

the distant crash of waves below weaves through your gasps, his groans, the leather creaking under you. his hands roam, possessive, one sliding up to cup your breast through your dress, thumb teasing your nipple until it’s hard, making you whimper.

“look at you, baby,” he coos, voice teasing but frayed with impatience, “taking me so well.”

“let me ride you,” you gasp, pushing at his chest, desperate to feel him deeper, to take control, to make him unravel. your voice is a plea, high and needy, and his eyes flash, something feral sparking in them.

“fuck yes,” he murmurs, wild and breathless, a grin splitting his face. “come take it, gorgeous.” he flips you in one fluid motion, maneuvering in the tight space with a grace that’s almost unfair, pulling you on top as he settles back against the seat, the leather sticking to his sweat-slick back. his hands tug at your dress, impatient, a low growl in his throat. “off. now. wanna see every inch of you.”

you nod, frantic, yanking the sundress over your head, the fabric catching in your hair before you toss it aside. your breasts spill free, no bra—because of course, you fucking minx—and satoru moans, loud and broken, hands flying to cup them, thumbs brushing your nipples, sending jolts through you.

“fuck, you’re perfect,” he murmurs, squeezing gently, rolling the sensitive peaks until you arch, grinding against him, a whine slipping from your lips. he leans up, sucking one nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to sting, and you cry out, hips bucking instinctively.

“satoru,” you whimper, hands tangling in his hair, tugging hard, and he groans, switching to the other breast, lavishing it with wet, messy attention, his lips leaving a trail of heat. his hands roam—one squeezing your ass, urging you to move, the other pinching your nipple, making you shudder, your core clenching around nothing.

“ride me, baby,” he pants, pulling back, lips wet and swollen, eyes dark and hazy, pupils swallowing the blue. “take what’s yours. lemme see you fall apart.”

you sink down on him, trembling, the stretch deeper at this angle, a sharp, perfect ache that has you whimpering, pausing to adjust, your breath hitching. he fills you completely, the head of his cock kissing your cervix, and you grip his shoulders, nails biting into his skin, grounding yourself.

“that’s it, pretty girl,” he coos, hands steadying your hips, guiding you gently, his voice teasing but laced with a hunger that betrays his impatience. “fuck, you feel so good. so fuckin’ perfect.”

you move, hips rolling, clumsy at first, finding a rhythm that sends sparks up your spine. the leather sticks to your thighs, the air thick with the scent of sweat and sex, the windows fogged so tight you’re a world unto yourselves. his hands help, guiding your hips, but his eyes are glued to where you’re joined, watching his cock disappear into you, slick and glistening, a low groan spilling from his lips.

“look at you,” he breathes, voice thick with awe, a teasing edge fraying with need. “so fuckin’ gorgeous, taking me like that.”

every roll of your hips is electric, your thighs quivering, the effort making your muscles burn, but it’s worth it for the way he looks at you—like you’re a goddess, like he’s worshiping you with every thrust.

he meets you halfway, thrusting up, matching your pace, the truck rocking with the force, creaking and swaying like it’s barely holding together. his hands slide to your breasts, squeezing, thumbs teasing your nipples until you’re moaning, loud and shameless, lost in the heat of him.

“mine,” he murmurs, pulling you down for a rough kiss, teeth catching your lip, biting just enough to make you gasp. “fuck, you’re mine, baby. always have been.”

“yours,” you sob, collapsing against his chest, hips still grinding, chasing the pressure building inside you, a coil winding tighter with every move. his hands are everywhere—gripping your ass, cupping your breasts, sliding to your clit, rubbing messy, desperate circles that have you shaking, so close you can taste it.

he shifts, adjusting the angle, one hand braced against the door to keep his balance, the other guiding your hips faster, harder.

“c’mon, sweetheart,” he pants, voice wrecked, eyes locked on yours, a teasing grin fading into raw hunger. “gimme another. wanna feel you cum on my cock.”

his thrusts turn brutal, deep, hitting that spot over and over, and you’re gone, shattering around him, walls clenching tight, dragging a low, desperate moan from his throat as he feels you pulse, hot and wet. but he’s not done. you’re still trembling, riding out the aftershocks, when he grows impatient, his cock throbbing, the need to cum clawing at him.

“fuck, baby, you’re too slow,” he teases, but his voice is strained, fraying with lust, a man on the edge. his hands grip your hips, fingers digging in, and he lifts you, bouncing you on his lap with a strength that makes you gasp, the truck shaking with every movement.

“satoru,” you whimper, hands clutching his shoulders, nails scoring his skin as he sets a relentless pace, thrusting up into you, each slam of your hips against his sending shocks through you. the angle’s deeper, his cock hitting that sweet spot with every bounce, and you’re helpless, a ragdoll in his hands, your breasts bouncing, your moans spilling out, loud and broken.

“that’s it, baby,” he coos, but it’s dark, impatient, his eyes wild as he watches you, watches himself disappear into you, slick and messy. “fuck, you feel so good. gonna—shit, gonna cum if you keep squeezing me like that.” his hands tighten, bouncing you faster, harder, the wet sounds of your bodies colliding filling the backseat, obscene and intoxicating.

“please,” you beg, voice fracturing, overwhelmed by the intensity, the way he’s taking you apart again. “want it, satoru. want you.”

“fuck, say that again,” he groans, thrusting up harder, his voice teetering on desperate, the teasing gone, replaced by raw need. “tell me you want me.”

“want you,” you gasp, clinging to him, your lips brushing his jaw, his neck, as he bounces you, the friction driving you to the edge again. “want you so bad, toru. always have.”

he’s unraveling, his thrusts turning sloppy, erratic, his breath hitching as he chases his release. “fuck, baby, you’re too much,” he pants, hands sliding to your ass, squeezing hard, guiding you down onto him one last time. “gonna—fuck, i can’t—”

he pulls out just in time, groaning loud and broken, spilling across your thighs, hot and thick, painting your skin as he slumps against you, panting into the crook of your neck, both of you trembling, spent.

for a long moment, it’s just the ocean’s roar below, the frantic thud of your hearts, the sticky heat wrapping you tight, the air heavy with the scent of sex and salt. he grabs his discarded shirt, cleaning you up with slow, careful swipes, his touch soft now, almost reverent, his fingers lingering on your skin.

“you okay, pretty girl?” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, his lips warm, lingering, like he’s memorizing you.

“perfect,” you sigh, nuzzling into him, your body loose, sated, still buzzing with aftershocks, the leather creaking under you as you shift closer.

he helps you tug your dress back on, hands trailing soft, teasing paths over your shoulders, your collarbone, stealing kisses between every adjustment, his lips brushing your skin like he can’t bear to stop.

you’re curled together in the sticky heat, limbs tangled, the backseat too small but perfect for this—pressed close, hearts still racing, the fogged windows shielding you from the world. he checks his phone, and there’s one message from suguru:

you suck at hiding it. don’t get her pregnant, dumbass.

satoru groans, dropping his head onto your shoulder, his hair tickling your neck, a laugh bubbling up despite the mortification. “busted,” he mutters, half-amused, half-dreading the inevitable lecture.

“worth it,” you giggle, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging lightly, your lips brushing his temple, soft and warm, a promise in the touch.

tangled together under the heavy night, the world slipping out of focus—it’s just you and him, caught up in something quiet and reckless, something that feels too big to name.

a/n : ew i cant believe i had to mention sukuna but dw he got hit by a ten wheeler truck while the ending was happening. i scrapped the sorta aftermath of this which is one week later because it included risky beach sex.. lmk if y'all would want to see it ^_^

[sixeyesonathiel]

free throws and figure drawings

pairing – star player! gojo x broke artist! reader

summary : satoru gojo is many things—basketball star player, campus menace, objectively the best-looking guy in any room—but he is not a model. so when you, some quiet, intense art student, shove a flyer in his face and ask him to pose for a painting, his first instinct is to laugh. his second instinct is to say no.

it’s supposed to be easy money. sit still, look pretty, collect cash. but between your infuriating perfectionism, your absolute refusal to be flustered by him, and the way you stare like you’re trying to figure him out, satoru starts to suspect he’s in way over his head

tags –> one shot, 22k wc, university au, oblivious mutual pining, slow burn, idiots to friends(?) to lovers, banter, fluff, light angst, first kisses, reader has questionable financial priorities

playlist. | collection m.list.

satoru hates being late.

he’s not a model student, not by a long shot, but failing a long quiz because a horde of fan girls blocked his way to class? unforgivable. he was so close to making it in time, too—if only he hadn’t stopped to sign that last autograph. normally, he’d brush it off, but this wasn’t just any quiz—this was for a professor who already had it out for him. if he fails even one subject, the coach might force him to take a break from the team to focus on his studies, even if he was their star player.

he thrives on attention, okay? what’s the point of being their university's star player if he can’t bask in the privelege and the fame? that last game was legendary—he clutched the final shot, the crowd went insane, and now half the campus is screaming his name. still, if he gets benched over grades, that win won’t mean a damn thing.

now, he’s sulking on a campus bench, spinning his phone between his fingers, wondering how hard his professor is going to roast him next lecture. probably a lot. maybe enough to make him consider actually studying. his teammates will be insufferable about it, especially suguru.

and then, like a gift from the universe, you show up.

“excuse me.”

he barely glances up. he’s still bitter. still annoyed. but when he finally does look—oh, he knows your type. wide-eyed, a little nervous, clutching a sketchbook like it’s a lifeline, like it holds something more important than just paper and ink. he bets you’re about to ask for a selfie, or his number, or—

“i need you to model for me.”

his head tilts slightly, brow arching in lazy amusement. huh?

he waits for the punchline, but you only stare, unwavering. there’s something unnerving about your gaze—not shy, not desperate, just… intent. like you’ve already decided something, and his answer doesn’t matter. then, as if confirming it to yourself, you give a small, determined nod. “yeah. you’re perfect.”

his lips twitch, the ego in him flaring up instantly. “obviously.”

“so you’ll do it?” you lean in, hopeful, hands gripping the edges of your sketchbook like it’s anchoring you.

“obviously not.” he leans back instead, stretching an arm along the back of the bench, his smirk turning sharp. “listen, i know i’m pretty, but i’m not that easy.”

your expression shifts, a flicker of something unreadable—then, with a breath, you square your shoulders. “i’ll pay you.”

he barks out a short laugh, blue eyes gleaming with amusement. “oh? and what’s my going rate, then?”

without hesitation, you pull out a flyer from your bag, movements quick and businesslike. “i have an hourly rate. cash upfront.”

he plucks the paper from your hands, more entertained than anything, scanning it with a smirk. this is, without a doubt, the most absurd thing to happen to him all day (and that’s saying something). you’re actually serious. actually offering him money to sit still and look pretty.

you must be so down bad.

“sorry, sweetheart,” he drawls, handing it back lazily. “but i’m a busy man. can’t waste my precious time sitting around just so you can stare at me.”

he expects you to stammer, to get flustered and retreat. most people would.

there’s a pause, thick with hesitation, before you finally speak—like you’re pulling the words from somewhere deep, somewhere you don’t usually let people see.

“hold still,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. your gaze moves over his face with the kind of scrutiny that makes people uncomfortable, but satoru doesn’t squirm—he preens under it, smirks like he’s used to being admired. but that’s not what this is.

your eyes narrow slightly, head tilting. “your features are sharp, but not harsh. the lines of your face—” you trail off, thoughtful. “they flow too well. it’s almost unnatural.”

he blinks. “uh. thanks?”

you ignore him, scanning lower. “your collarbones frame the composition perfectly. and your hands…” your gaze flickers to them, fingers twitching against your sketchbook. “deliberate. expressive.”

his brows lift. “you’re checking me out.” he accuses, tone dripping with amusement.

“i’m analyzing your composition.” your voice is absentminded, matter-of-fact. you’re still staring, still studying, like he’s some kind of divine anomaly.

and maybe he is.

satoru should be smug about this. should be teasing you. but there’s something about the way you’re looking at him—serious, unwavering, like you’ve seen something no one else has. something not even he knows how to name.

his smirk falters, just slightly. “…so?”

“so,” you say, straightening, gripping your sketchbook tighter. “i need to paint you.”

not want. need.

and for the first time in a long time, satoru gojo is left without a clever comeback. because—okay. wow. that was a lot.

for the first time, he actually looks at you, really looks at you. and there’s no hint of deception in your expression, no underlying flirtation. your eyes—burning with something too raw, too genuine—throw him off completely.

“sounds like you’re obsessed with me.” he tries, aiming for his usual brand of cocky. but it’s weaker this time. a little off.

“i’m obsessed with getting my pieces right,” you counter, and it lands like a challenge. your voice doesn’t waver, steady in a way that makes his smirk twitch. “i’ll even raise your pay.”

his smirk falters for half a second. “yeah?”

“i—” you hesitate, fingers tightening around your sketchbook, knuckles pale from the pressure. “i can go up to… ten bucks per session. upfront.”

he snorts. “sweetheart, do i look like a discount model to you? you want me to sit still for hours, me—an in-demand athlete, a social necessity at every party, the backbone of this school’s sports program—for a measly ten?” he leans back, draping an arm over the bench like he’s getting comfortable for a long negotiation. “at least pretend to respect my market value.”

you exhale sharply, visibly weighing your options, then straighten with new resolve. “fine. twenty-five bucks per session. i can push to fourty, but you have to commit to at least three sittings.”

he opens his mouth to refuse—just for the drama of it, just to watch you scramble for a better offer—but then he hesitates.

and he sees it.

the way your fingers tighten around your sketchbook, the way your shoulders hold a quiet, unyielding tension. the way your eyes stay locked onto him, not with admiration, not with infatuation, but with something deeper, something urgent. there’s a pull in them, a quiet desperation—not for him, not for his attention, but for the shape of him, the angles of him, the way light bends and softens around the sharp edges of his face. he realizes, with a strange flicker of something he can’t name, that you aren’t begging him—you’re needing him.

…ugh.

satoru groans, throwing his head back dramatically, hands flopping uselessly onto the bench like the universe has personally inconvenienced him. “you’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“nope.” your jaw sets, firm, unwavering.

a sigh. a pause. a moment of self-reflection where he briefly considers if the extra cash is worth sacrificing his free time—his parties, his practices, the worship of a school that already thinks he’s untouchable.

then—he grins, sharp and easy, like he’s the one who’s won something here. “alright, mystery artist. i’ll be your muse.”

he leans in, cocky and insufferable, but there’s something new behind it now—a flicker of intrigue, the curiosity of a man who knows he’s irresistible but has never quite been needed like this before. “but only because i’m feeling generous.”

the next day later, satoru reminds himself—firmly—not to let this happen again. he should have held out longer, should have played hard to get, should have, at the very least, haggled for more cash. but no, he let himself get swept up in whatever this was, in your weird little artist intensity, and now he’s sitting on a questionably stable stool in the middle of your cozy, cluttered studio space. regretting. just a little.

your “studio” is barely more than a corner of your dorm room, wedged by the window where the light slants in at an annoyingly aesthetic angle. the floor is a battlefield of abandoned sketchbooks and paint tubes, half-squeezed and discarded like fallen soldiers. unfinished canvases lean against the walls in various stages of completion—some just rough sketches, others hauntingly close to done but left untouched, as if you lost interest mid-stroke. it’s clean and chaotic all at once, the strange contrast between the precisely arranged brushes—lined up by size, bristles all facing the same way—and the paint-stained rags draped carelessly over the back of your chair. the room smells like turpentine and old paper, sharp and familiar, like stepping into the mind of someone who never really stops thinking.

he should be bored—but he’s not.

“shoes off.” you say the moment he steps inside, not even looking up as you sort through your supplies.

satoru stops mid-step, blinking. his latest purchase—some limited-edition basketball sneakers, bought with the last of his cash prize from securing mvp last season, the sheer reason why he is broke right now to be here in the first place—suddenly feel heavier on his feet. his gaze flicks from you to the floor, then back again, a slow, deliberate movement as if testing whether you’re serious.

“seriously?” he drawls, shifting his weight.

“yes.”

“what, afraid I’ll track in dirt?” he tilts his head, smirk lazy, but his fingers hook around the back of his shoes, already anticipating your answer.

“no, i just don’t want you stepping in paint and crying about your expensive sneakers.” you finally glance up, eyes flickering to the telltale logo on the side of his shoes. there’s no mockery in your tone, just detached amusement, but he still bristles slightly—maybe because you’ve already figured him out so easily.

satoru exhales, exaggerated and put-upon, before kicking them off with a bit more force than necessary. the shoes land haphazardly by the door, slightly askew, pristine against the chaos of your floor. “...fine. but I better not step on a thumbtack and die.”

“noted.” you murmur, already moving on.

he takes in the room as he tugs at the hem of his hoodie, adjusting it. the space is a contradiction—small, but alive, every inch used with an artist’s careless precision. tubes of paint lie scattered like relics of past battles, pages of half-formed sketches peek from beneath stacks of books, and the air smells sharp—turpentine, charcoal dust, something faintly citrusy, probably from the cup of tea cooling by your desk. he should be unimpressed, but his gaze keeps getting caught on the little details—the careful arrangement of brushes, the single paint-smeared rag draped over your chair, the faint blue smudge on the back of your wrist.

"sit here." you drag a wooden stool into the light, the scrape of its legs against the floor cutting through the quiet.

his eyes narrow. “this thing gonna hold up?”

“unless you plan on moving around like a child, yes.”

satoru hums, unimpressed but intrigued, tapping two fingers against his thigh before finally dropping onto the stool. his posture is lazy, all careless sprawl and long limbs, arms hanging over the backrest like he’s got all the time in the world.

you click your tongue, stepping closer. “sit up straight.”

he sinks even lower, stretching his legs out in front of him. “but I like this angle. mysterious. brooding. like I have a dark past.”

you don’t even hesitate. “it looks like you have scoliosis.”

he barks out a laugh, sharp and genuine, teeth flashing under the dim light. “maybe that is my dark past.”

“fix your posture.”

satoru sighs, rolling his shoulders back—but not enough. you click your tongue, unimpressed, and before he can react, your hands are on him, firm but careful, adjusting his posture with practiced ease. your fingers press lightly against his upper back, trailing down to nudge at his shoulder blades, guiding him straighter. clinical, detached, nothing more than necessity. but he still goes still, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

your hands are cool against his skin, grounding in a way he doesn’t expect. for the first time, he realizes you’re really looking at him—not like most people do, with admiration, envy, or that desperate need to impress. no, you look at him like he’s a problem to solve, a subject to study, something to be rendered on paper in strokes and shadows. he should say something—flirt, tease, break the moment before it turns into something else—but the words sit strangely in his mouth. and then you’re already pulling away, back to your desk, already moving on.

"good," you murmur, reaching for a pencil amid the mess of supplies. you don’t sound satisfied, exactly—just focused, as if his presence in your studio is nothing more than another detail to get right. then, after a beat, you look up again, really look at him, and say, “don’t move.”

satoru smirks, tilting his head just enough for his bangs to shift, casting a fleeting shadow over his eyes. “no promises.”

you exhale sharply, shaking your head as you adjust the angle of your easel. the wooden frame creaks as you tighten a knob, movements brisk, precise—like you don’t have the patience for his nonsense today. “relax your shoulders.”

he spreads his hands, a lazy, exaggerated gesture, his varsity jacket slipping slightly off one shoulder. “my shoulders are relaxed.”

you glance up, unimpressed. “you look like you’re trying to fight god.”

“that’s just my natural aura.”

your hand pauses over your palette, fingers hovering just above the tubes of paint. then—a twitch. fleeting. almost imperceptible. but he sees it, the tiny, reluctant quirk of your lips, and his eyes glint with amusement.

“was that a smile?” satoru's grin is all teeth, sharp and victorious, as he leans forward, resting his forearm on his knee. “are you falling for me already?”

you don’t even bother looking up as you squeeze out a streak of cadmium red onto your palette. “i was smiling at the thought of shoving you off that stool.”

he lets out a low chuckle, leaning back again, hands bracing the edge of the seat as if testing its limits. “that’s fair.”

acrylic meets oil in a slow swirl, the colors blending as you mix with deliberate strokes. outside, the sun shifts, casting golden streaks through the dusty windowpanes, dappling his profile in warm light. he watches you in the silence that follows, something unspoken settling between the brushstrokes and banter.

and that’s how the first session goes—him trying to be difficult, you trying to make him less difficult.

but somewhere between the banter, the occasional begrudging moments of stillness, and the quiet scratch of pencil against paper, something shifts.

at first, he’s just counting down the minutes until he gets paid, watching the clock, tapping his fingers idly against his knee. but then, he starts watching you instead.

satoru notices the way your brow furrows in concentration, the way your fingers hesitate before committing to a line, the way your teeth graze your bottom lip when something isn’t turning out right. there’s a softness to you when you work, an intensity that feels different from how people usually look at him. no awe, no expectation—just a quiet, unwavering focus, like he’s something worth capturing.

he should be bored. this kind of thing isn’t for him—sitting still, staying quiet, being studied like some museum exhibit. but he’s not. instead he is interested.

not by the painting itself—he still doesn’t get the whole ‘art’ thing, still doesn’t see why people obsess over lines and colors and whatever meaning they think is hidden beneath. but he gets this. gets the way you treat it like it matters, like it’s something real, something worth your time.

so he keeps coming back.

SPRING bleeds into familiarity as summer approaches. the air carries the scent of sun-warmed pavement and freshly cut grass, the kind of early heat that settles into your skin before you even realize it. days stretch longer, the sunsets grow richer, but in this quiet, in the hush between afternoon and evening, it’s routine now—as natural as practice drills, as effortless as muscle memory.

the soft scratch of pencil against paper, the faint drag of graphite as you sketch his form for the hundredth time. the way you chew on the inside of your cheek when you concentrate, brows furrowing in that particular way that means you’re unhappy with a line. the way satoru makes a grand show of complaining, of stretching obnoxiously, of sighing like he’s been sentenced to something far worse than sitting still for an hour—but he always shows up anyway.

“this is cruel and unusual punishment.” satoru groans, slumping back in the chair like the very act of modeling is siphoning the life out of him. his long legs sprawl out, one foot tapping idly against the floor, an unconscious rhythm that betrays his restlessness. strands of white hair fall messily over his forehead, catching in the afternoon light, but he makes no move to fix them. instead, he tilts his head back dramatically, like a man resigned to his fate, letting out a sigh so deep it should echo through the room.

“you’re literally getting paid.” you remind him, tilting your head, adjusting the angle of your sketch with a practiced flick of your wrist. your voice is steady, patient, but there’s a weight to it—a quiet exasperation that makes the corners of his mouth twitch.

the soft scratch of pencil against paper fills the space between you, a contrast to his theatrics. your fingers move with precision, thumb smudging a shadow, expression unreadable as your gaze flickers over him like you’re dissecting every line and curve.

“at what cost?” satoru presses, shifting slightly in his seat, the chair creaking beneath his weight. his arms drape lazily over the armrests, fingers tapping against the wood—anything to keep himself occupied. his restlessness isn’t feigned; he’s never been the type to sit still, and the urge to move tugs at his muscles like an itch he can’t scratch. but he waits, because the way you sketch—brows furrowed, lower lip caught just slightly between your teeth—has him more intrigued than he wants to admit.

“at the cost of you shutting up for five minutes.”

“bold of you to assume i’m capable of that.”

his eyes flick toward you, sharp and searching, waiting for the reaction he knows is coming. for a moment, you’re still, the only movement the subtle shift of your fingers against the page. then—your lips twitch, the barest ghost of amusement, before you catch yourself and shake your head, returning to your work. satoru leans forward just slightly, just enough for the smallest smirk to pull at his lips, because he saw it—saw the way you almost gave in—and he counts that as a win.

you start talking more.

not just the usual corrections or critiques, but more—about your process, your ideas, the frustration of trying to capture his proportions because “seriously, satoru, why are your legs so stupidly long?”

“can’t help that i’m perfect, sweetheart.” he says, flashing a grin, stretching in his seat like he’s on display. his limbs sprawl out with practiced ease, one arm draped over the back of the chair, the other lazily resting against his knee.

“you’re built like a faulty character model,” you mutter, erasing a line with more force than necessary. your brows pinch together, irritation bleeding into your strokes, and satoru watches the way your lips press into a thin line, your focus so sharp it almost cuts.

“so you admit i look unreal.” satoru says smugly, tipping his head to the side, silver strands slipping over the curve of his cheekbone.

you exhale through your nose, controlled and measured, but he catches the slight twitch in your jaw. “yes, satoru. that’s exactly what i meant.”

his grin spreads wider, pleased and easy, tapping his fingers idly against his knee in a steady rhythm. you’re getting used to him now—the sarcasm, the running commentary, the way he moves like he owns the space around him. you roll your eyes less, sigh less, even smirk sometimes—tiny, almost imperceptible, but he catches it every time, cataloging each one like a victory.

he starts talking more, too.

about his classes, about basketball, about how he wasn’t late to his quiz this time because he jumped out a window to avoid his fan girls. he says it so casually, like it’s just another tuesday, like it’s not the most absurd thing you’ve ever heard.

“you jumped out a window?” you ask, blinking, your pencil hovering mid-stroke. your brows pinch slightly, lips parting like you’re trying to process the sheer idiocy of it.

“listen, it was a short fall.”

there’s a beat of silence—just enough for him to catch the way your eyes flick over his face, searching for any sign of exaggeration. his smirk is lazy, easy, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll scold him for it.

and then you laugh.

it’s sudden, unfiltered, slipping past your lips before you can catch it. breathless, a little incredulous, like even you can’t believe he’s that ridiculous.

he wasn’t expecting that.

it’s not like you never laugh—you do, just not at him. not like this, not in a way that feels so real, so genuine, so—unfair. it hits him square in the chest, something sharp and electric threading through his ribs, like a perfectly aimed free throw sinking straight through the net.

“oh my god,” you say, shaking your head, still grinning. “you’re actually ridiculous.”

“thank you,” he says, flashing a smug grin, because he made you laugh.

and that’s the first time he realizes he likes your laugh.

so he starts playing it like a game—how many times can he make you laugh in one session? how many times can he distract you before you start scolding him? it’s almost too easy, the way you fall into the rhythm of his teasing, the way your lips press together like you’re fighting back a smile even when you’re glaring at him. he takes it as a challenge, a personal mission to pull a reaction out of you, to chip away at your stubborn focus just enough to make you crack.

“hey, what if you sketched me mid-dunk? you know, capture my essence—” satoru leans forward, gesturing dramatically, his white hair falling into his eyes.

“sit still.” you mutter, not even looking up, but he catches the way your brow furrows just slightly, the way you grip your pencil a little tighter.

“but imagine the drama! the movement! the raw athleticism—” he babbles, spreading his arms wide as if to showcase the sheer grandeur of his idea.

“sit still or i’m deducting your pay.” your voice is flat, but the way your eyes flicker toward him—just for a second—tells him you’re at least half-listening.

“cold.” he pouts, slumping back into the chair, but his grin never wavers.

sometimes, when you’re too absorbed in your work, he shifts in his seat just to see if you’ll notice. a tiny movement, barely anything—but your head always snaps up, your gaze sharp, the slightest exasperation flickering in your expression. “stop that,” you’ll say, and he’ll throw his hands up in mock innocence, feigning surprise. it’s stupid, really, but he likes it.

(he starts winning. he always wins.)

but somewhere along the way, he starts losing, too.

because he catches himself watching you between poses.

satoru catches himself noticing things he shouldn’t—the way you tuck your brush behind your ear when your hands are full, leaving a faint streak of graphite on your temple. the way your sleeves are always smudged with paint, like you’ve been too caught up in your work to care. the way your fingers twitch when you talk, tracing invisible shapes in the air, like you want to sketch your thoughts into existence. it’s the little things, the ones that slip through the cracks when he isn’t paying attention—except he is, now, and he doesn’t know when that started.

catches himself waiting for your sessions.

it sneaks up on him—slow, creeping, like a game he didn't realize he was playing until he was already losing.

one moment, it’s just a side gig, a funny little arrangement, an easy paycheck. another, it’s something else entirely, something that lingers in his mind longer than it should.

because sometimes—which is already a lot—when he steps onto the court, ball tucked under his arm, the first thing he wonders isn’t about the game, but whether you’ll be sketching from the bleachers. sometimes, when he sees something stupidly pretty—the golden slant of light cutting across the gym floor, a perfect shot arcing through the net, the weightless seconds before it sinks—he thinks, you’d know how to capture this.

sometimes, when you’re concentrating, when your brows pull together, when your lips part just slightly in thought, when your whole world narrows to the page in front of you, he thinks—he doesn’t finish that thought. because it’s just routine, right? just the same way he looks forward to practice, to games, to winning.

it’s nothing more than that.

right?

but then, it starts happening—subtle at first, easy to dismiss. a text invitation left on read, a half-hearted ‘maybe’ in response to a party he’d normally say ‘hell yeah!’ to.

it’s a gradual shift, barely noticeable at first—until it is. until suguru eyes him from across the court, spinning a basketball on his fingertips, gaze sharp and knowing.

“you skipping out?” suguru asks one afternoon, his tone casual, but the way he watches satoru says he already knows the answer. “big party tonight. everyone’s going.”

“got plans.” satoru says easily, crouching to tie his laces, fingers tugging the knots tight like he’s sealing the conversation shut.

suguru bounces the ball once, catching it smoothly. “since when do you have plans that don’t involve getting wasted?”

satoru straightens, rolling his shoulders until they pop, shaking out his arms like he’s gearing up for something. his hair is a mess of white strands falling over his forehead, a little damp from practice, but he doesn’t bother fixing it. instead, he flashes a smirk, weight shifting easily onto one foot. “i’m broadening my horizons.”

suguru snorts, spinning the ball in his hands. “yeah? what’s her name?”

satoru flicks his wrist, and before suguru can react, his hand snaps out to intercept the ball satoru just stole from him, catching it last second. suguru narrows his eyes, unimpressed. satoru just grins, rocking back on his heels, the picture of insufferable ease. “shut up.”

he tells himself it’s not a big deal. he’s just picking his battles, choosing his nights, being selective.

but then, one evening, his phone buzzes with an invite—exclusive rooftop party, vip only, the kind of thing that would’ve had him saying ‘hell yeah’ months ago. the kind of thing he used to crave, to thrive in, all flashing lights and endless noise, a crowd that could never quite keep up.

instead, he glances at the time, sees that your session starts in half an hour, and swipes the notification away without a second thought.

he doesn’t even hesitate.

SUMMER arrives with a vengeance. spring’s fleeting softness is long gone, replaced by air thick with humidity, pavement hot enough to sizzle, and days that stretch into slow, languid eternity. campus, once alive with restless energy, now feels like an echo of itself—half-abandoned dorms, quiet hallways, the distant hum of cicadas filling the silence. no fan club lurking outside his lectures, no teammates calling his name across the quad. just heat, stillness, and a lot of free time.

satoru gojo is losing his mind.

your dorm is somehow even worse than outside, the air stifling, unmoving, dense with trapped summer heat. the pathetic excuse for a fan in the corner barely stirs the air, its dull hum doing nothing to ease the sweat clinging to his skin. he’s slouched in a chair, legs stretched out, head tilted back dramatically as he groans to no one in particular.

“this is inhumane,” satoru whines, shifting again, the fabric of his jersey clinging uncomfortably to his skin. his arm drapes lazily over his forehead, white bangs damp with sweat, eyes half-lidded in a show of exaggerated suffering. “you can’t expect a man to look this good while melting, y’know.”

“satoru, i swear to god, if you move one more time—” you mutter, not looking up from your easel, brush moving in slow, deliberate strokes. there’s a tension in your shoulders, one he recognizes by now—focused, immersed, determined to ignore him.

he cracks an eye open, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. “you’ll what?” he drawls, voice syrupy with amusement. “paint me uglier?”

you don’t dignify that with a response, just exhale through your nose and keep working.

it’s been months since you first hired him, and somewhere between his insufferable attitude and your exasperated sighs, something shifted. something settled. something... comfortable.

satoru is still impossible—never quiet, never fully still, always testing limits. but you’re used to him now, the same way you’re used to the hum of your fan or the scratch of your brush against canvas.

and he’s used to you, too.

he knows you never play music while you work (insane). he knows you paint in layers, slow and methodical, as if each stroke is a commitment too big to rush. he knows you hate when people hover over your shoulder—but for some reason, you let him stay.

so he stays.

“remind me why we’re even in the dorms right now?” satoru complains, flopping back onto your bed without permission, limbs splaying like he owns the place.

“because it’s a hassle to go home.” you murmur, brush dragging against the canvas, expression unreadable.

“you say that like normal people wouldn’t want a break from all this,” he gestures vaguely, letting his hand fall limply onto his stomach.

“i don’t like breaks,” you say simply, not bothering to look at him. “breaks mean i stop making things.”

he squints at you, the weight of your words settling in his chest. it sounds like a joke, but it’s not. and just like that, something clicks. maybe you’re here for the same reason he is. not because you have nowhere to go. but because being here is easier than being somewhere else.

he doesn’t say anything. just shifts further onto your bed, limbs sprawling even wider, purely out of pettiness.

the sheets beneath him smell like you—something faint, something warm, something familiar. he exhales, eyes slipping shut for a moment.

yeah. he could stay a little longer.

“seriously,” he groans again, tugging at the neckline of his jersey, the fabric clinging to his skin like a second layer. with a restless sigh, he rolls onto his stomach, sprawling out across your bed like a cat too lazy to move from a sunspot. his cheek presses against the sheets, indigo eyes flicking lazily toward you, half-lidded from the heat. “why is it so hot? isn’t there some artist trick where you suffer for your work without making me suffer too?”

you don’t bother looking up, your focus unwavering, the soft scratch of your brush against canvas filling the silence between you. there’s a faint crease between your brows, a telltale sign of concentration, though your expression remains unreadable.

“maybe if you stopped talking, you’d cool down.”  you murmur, dipping your brush into a shade of blue.

he scoffs, shifting onto his elbows, pushing damp strands of hair from his forehead with a lazy flick of his fingers. “bold of you to assume that’s an option.”

and it irritates him—how unfazed you are. does nothing shake you? does nothing break through that focus?

so it turns into a game.

at first, he starts small—subtle shifts in posture, exaggerated sighs, ridiculous flirtation, all carefully designed to draw your attention. a slow roll of his shoulders, the slight tilt of his head, the stretch of long limbs sprawled across your bed as if he owns the space. each movement is deliberate, each word carefully chosen to poke at you, to pry beneath that layer of calm focus you always seem to wear.

“what if i posed like one of those renaissance statues?” satoru muses, arching his back slightly, stretching his arms over his head, the muscles in his shoulders shifting beneath sun-warmed skin. his voice is thick with faux contemplation, his white lashes lowering as if he’s actually considering it. “y’know, real dramatic, real divine. make me look like a legend in the making.”

“you already think you’re a legend.” you mutter, the barest flicker of amusement crossing your face, so quick he almost misses it.

his grin sharpens, flashing teeth, and he rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow to watch you work. his hair falls slightly over his forehead, messy and weightless, catching the light in wisps of silver and white. “i mean, aren’t i?”

you don’t even look at him. just reach for your paintbrush, flick your wrist—and suddenly, a few drops of cold paint water splatter against his bare arm.

he yelps, jerking away like you’ve actually wounded him. “the hell—” he glares at the tiny droplets seeping into his skin, like they’re an offense to his very existence. “are you serious? that’s abuse.”

you hum, not bothering to hide the faint smirk on your lips as you dip your brush back into the paint.

his narrowed eyes linger on your expression, on the relaxed set of your shoulders, on the tiny, satisfied twitch of your mouth.

(point goes to you.)

when that doesn’t work, he switches tactics.

his gaze flickers to the stack of empty ramen cups in the corner, precariously balanced like a monument to bad decisions. his lips twitch, smug and knowing, before his eyes drift toward the mini fridge tucked against the wall. last time he checked—which was purely out of curiosity, mind you—it was nearly empty, save for a half-full bottle of water and a single, sad yogurt cup. it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.

“do you always paint this obsessively?”

“yes.”

“do you ever eat?”

“obviously.”

he hums, stretching his arms behind his head, the movement making his damp jersey stick even more uncomfortably to his skin.

“…you sure?”

your brush hesitates—a fraction of a second, barely noticeable, but he notices. then, just as quickly, you resume painting, voice perfectly even, expression carefully blank.

“what’s with the interrogation?”

“just curious,” he says, shifting until his long legs are stretched across the bed. his head tilts back against the sheets, white strands of hair falling messily over his forehead. “plus, if you pass out mid-session, who’s gonna pay me?”

you roll your eyes, exhaling through your nose, the corners of your mouth twitching. “i’ll put that in my will. ‘to satoru gojo, my life drawing model and worst financial decision.’”

satoru's laughter bursts out of him, loud and unfiltered, cutting through the thick, oppressive heat of the room. it’s the kind of laugh that makes walls feel smaller, that shifts the air, that lingers longer than it should.

and you don’t hide your small smile fast enough.

his laughter stutters for half a second, his sharp eyes catching the curve of your lips before you press them together again. fleeting, but unmistakable. something smug and delighted unfurls in his chest, a warmth that has nothing to do with the summer air.

his grin stretches slow and wicked. “oh, you like me,” he sings, rolling onto his back, looking at you upside down with that insufferable glint in his eyes.

“i tolerate you.” you correct, but your hand twitches, and before he can blink, another flick of your brush sends a tiny splash of paint in his direction.

he yelps, twisting away, but it’s too late.

(he’s still winning.)

but then—he moves too much.

a shift of his shoulders, an exaggerated sigh, the creak of your mattress beneath him. his knee bumps against your sketchbook, disrupting the careful balance of supplies stacked at the foot of the bed. then, as if testing the limits of your patience, he stretches, arms extending above his head, his basketball jersey riding up just slightly—just enough to reveal the sharp dip of his waist, the faint sheen of sweat at his collarbone. his head tilts back against your pillow, and he groans, long and drawn out.

you exhale sharply, setting your brush down with a click before pushing yourself up from your stool.

satoru's eyes track your movement, bright and sharp even in the dim light of your dorm. he’s expecting a scolding, maybe even an irritated glare. but there’s something different this time—your expression unreadable, your gaze fixed on him with that same unwavering focus that always throws him off. you move with purpose, deliberate steps closing the space between you, and the room suddenly feels smaller, the heat pressing heavier against his skin, against the air between you.

he watches, waiting for the usual sigh, the exasperated reminder to stop fidgeting. he waits for you to roll your eyes and mutter something about how he’s impossible to work with.

instead—your fingers catch his chin, tilting it just so.

satoru's breath hitches, barely perceptible, but you don’t notice—or if you do, you don’t acknowledge it. your touch is firm, not hesitant, your thumb grazing just beneath his jaw as you adjust the angle of his face. then, without a second thought, your hand shifts, fingers ghosting along the curve of his cheekbone, the edge of his jaw, brushing against the sensitive skin below his ear. there’s dried paint smudged on your fingertips, faint streaks of color that leave invisible traces against his skin, and his throat bobs as he swallows.

you don’t stop there.

your other hand lifts, smoothing his slouched shoulders back against the pillows, fingertips pressing briefly into the fabric of his jersey. then you reach for his wrist, shifting his arm so it drapes more naturally across his stomach. and all the while, you’re silent, your movements efficient, unthinking—like touching him is no different than adjusting the angle of a still life, like he’s just another part of the composition you’re perfecting.

before the silence stretches too long, before his brain can fully process the casual way you just handled him, he grins, slow and wicked.

“damn,” he drawls, voice lazy, smug, but there’s something tight beneath the ease of it. his head tilts back slightly against your pillow, eyes half-lidded, watching you with a mixture of mischief and something deeper—something that makes his smirk seem almost too deliberate, like he’s waiting for you to react. “you’re really making this a whole thing, huh?”

“what?” you say absently, fingers still deftly adjusting the angle of his jaw, your touch steady as you tilt his chin just another fraction higher. the concentration in your expression is unreadable, but your gaze never wavers, sharp and focused. he notices how your brows furrow just the slightest, the way your lips press together in a line that says you’re not going to let him distract you this time.

“nothing,” he smirks, his grin widening, amused by the way your hands move over him with such intention. his fingers twitch where they rest against the blanket, itching for something to do, but he forces himself to remain still, curious to see how far he can push you. “just—y’know, if you wanted me like one of your french girls, you could’ve just said so.”

your fingers tighten slightly in response, the faintest press of your nails against his skin—not quite a warning, but close. you can feel the pulse of his heartbeat under your fingertips, steady but accelerating just slightly, as if your touch has an effect on him he’s unwilling to admit. there’s an almost imperceptible shift in his posture, as if he's bracing himself, but his eyes are still locked on you, playful but careful.

“if you don’t shut up,” you say, voice perfectly even, calm in the face of his teasing, “i will paint you uglier.” the words roll off your tongue without hesitation, but there’s an edge to them, something you both know you mean more than you let on. your hand doesn’t move from his jaw, but your fingers tighten for a moment—enough to make him flinch, just barely—and it’s enough to make his grin falter.

“mm. bold of you to assume i have a bad angle.” his voice is dripping with sarcasm, his smirk returning in full force, and his hand twitches again as if he’s resisting the urge to reach out, to touch you in return. but he holds himself back, all too aware that this is your space—your process—and he’s simply a subject in it. yet, his confidence remains unshaken, a challenge flickering behind his eyes.

you give his jaw a deliberate little nudge, the motion slow and purposeful, and barely suppress a sigh as you watch him react—his body tensing under your touch, as if the slight pressure is just the right amount to make him ache for more. but you’re not finished, not yet.

“stay still, satoru.” you murmur, your voice the slightest bit sharper this time, but with a subtle undercurrent of something softer. he could almost mistake it for a command, if not for the way you adjust his position with gentle precision, ensuring every detail of his form is just as you want it. your eyes flicker over him, tracing the angles of his face, the sharp line of his jaw, the soft curve of his neck—something about the way you hold him, make him stay, makes him feel like you’re in complete control, and that’s when it hits him.

he doesn’t dare move.

not because he suddenly respects the process.

but because your fingers are cool against his overheated skin, an unexpected relief against the oppressive heat of the room. because for a moment, when you adjusted his posture, you were close enough for him to see the flecks of paint on your cheek, the way your lashes framed your eyes, the soft crease in your forehead when you concentrate.

because you touched him without hesitation. without thought. without treating him like something fragile, something distant, something untouchable.

and he doesn’t move for the next three hours.

...oh.

he’s in grave danger.

AUTUMN arrives with brisk winds and golden light, the air carrying the scent of fallen leaves and distant bonfires. the campus shifts with the season, summer’s lazy sprawl giving way to hurried footsteps and layered clothing, students caught between clinging to warmth and embracing the inevitable cold. the world feels sharper now, edges clearer, the sun hanging lower in the sky, stretching shadows across the pavement. satoru gojo hasn’t changed much, still striding through campus like he owns it, but there’s something different in the way he keeps showing up.

it starts with a realization: you’re an idiot with money.

satoru has been modeling for you for months now, first as a casual arrangement, then as an unspoken habit, and now—now he’s not even sure what to call it. at first, it was just a side hustle, a way to fund his snack addiction and make up for his tendency to forget that classes required effort. he still shows up late sometimes, still complains about holding the same pose for too long, still finds ways to annoy you just to see how you’ll react. but somewhere between summer and autumn, it stopped being about the money.

because you’re routine now.

just like basketball practice. just like late-night convenience store runs. just like winning. he doesn’t think about it too much, doesn’t poke at the feeling, just lets it settle into the spaces between his days. but then, one evening, it clicks—this thing between you isn’t exactly balanced. because for all the money you pay him, you’re the one stretching yourself thin.

it happens when he catches you eating a sad cup of instant noodles for what must be the fourth day in a row.

at first, he doesn’t say anything, just watches as you peel back the lid, steam curling weakly into the cool autumn air. he thinks maybe it’s a preference thing, some weird artist habit, until his gaze drifts—to the extra commissions stacked on your desk, the supply receipts stuffed into your sketchbook, the way you barely check your phone unless it’s him texting about a session. your fingers tighten around your chopsticks, movements slower than usual, exhaustion threading through the way you stir the noodles.

you are, quite literally, funding him instead of yourself.

“again?” he finally asks, gesturing at your dinner. his voice is light, teasing, but there’s something else behind it, something sharper, like he’s waiting for you to slip up. he watches the way you barely react, how your grip on the chopsticks stays loose, how you keep your focus on the pitiful cup of noodles steaming in your hands instead of looking at him. his knee bounces once, a restless motion, before he stills it with a pointed exhale.

you shrug, not meeting his eyes, stirring half-heartedly, and the broth sloshes over the rim, spilling onto your sleeve in a dark stain. but you don’t react, don’t even seem to notice, just keep stirring, keep avoiding his gaze like you can will this conversation into disappearing. “i have a budget.” you say, voice even, detached, like you’re stating a fact and not making an excuse. your fingers tighten around the flimsy cup for half a second before you force yourself to loosen them, nudging a stray noodle back under the broth like you can’t feel his eyes on you.

satoru narrows his eyes, shifting where he sits, the mattress creaking under his weight. his arms stretch over his head for a beat, but there’s tension in the motion, his jaw tight even as he forces himself to lean back, feigning nonchalance. “you literally raised my pay just to get me to pose.” he says, voice incredulous, edged with something between concern and irritation. he isn’t laughing anymore, isn’t teasing, just watching, waiting, expecting you to have some kind of answer.

“those two are completely different things.” you mumble, slurping up some noodles like the conversation isn’t happening, like you can hide behind the motion. your posture shifts, shoulders curling inward, the steam from the cup rising in thin wisps against your face, half-obscuring your expression.

different how?

but you don’t elaborate.

you don’t meet his eyes, either, just keep pushing your noodles around the cup, the movements small, aimless, stalling. his gaze flickers down, catches the little details—the fading paint stains on your fingers, the slight tremor in the way you stir, the tension coiled in your shoulders like you’re bracing for something. he exhales, head tilting, watching you with the same sharpness he saves for an opponent about to make a move, for a moment of weakness he can take advantage of—but this time, it doesn’t feel like a game.

and then, all at once, it clicks. how much you’re actually paying him. how much of your already-limited allowance is going to him just so you can paint. how much you’re giving up without a word, without a complaint, without even a hint of hesitation.

and suddenly, his next paycheck doesn’t sit right with him.

so from that moment on, satoru starts caring for you in ways you don’t even notice.

it’s subtle at first, woven into the fabric of your routine, slipping in so seamlessly that you almost don’t register the shift. he still shows up late sometimes, still drags his feet through the doorway like he’s doing you a favor, but now—now he’s always carrying something. a plastic bag crinkles against his fingers as he drops it onto your desk, careless and offhand, like he isn’t watching for your reaction.

“leftovers,” he says way too casually when you glance up at him, suspicion flickering in your eyes. his voice is loose, unconcerned, but there’s something too deliberate in the way he nudges the bag closer, the way his hand lingers just a second too long before he pulls away. “figured you’d want ‘em before i threw them out.”

you eye the freshly wrapped onigiri and convenience store sandwiches, brows knitting together as your fingers hesitate over the bag. the packaging is neat, unopened, no signs of the mindless picking and half-eaten portions he usually leaves behind when he’s actually careless. “…since when do you not finish your food?” your voice is skeptical, flat, but there’s something guarded in the way you ask it, something careful.

“since now,” he says, flopping onto your bed with the kind of dramatic ease only he can manage. his hoodie rides up slightly, exposing a sliver of pale skin, but he doesn’t bother adjusting it, too busy stretching his arms over his head. “just eat it before i change my mind.”

you do. you don’t question it, don’t pick apart the way he shifts his weight against your mattress like he’s making himself at home, don’t dwell on the way his voice sounded just a little softer than usual. he pretends not to notice when you eat in silence, barely glancing at him. but later that night, when you’re alone, you find yourself smiling down at the empty wrapper before tossing it in the trash.

then he starts paying for your drinks when you go out, slipping the cash over the counter before you can argue, calling it his ‘treat’ like he’s some kind of benevolent patron.

“you only say that because i’m the only artist you know.” you deadpan, reaching for your coffee, fingers brushing the warmth of the cup.

“yeah,” he grins, unapologetic, smug, like he’s already won something. his fingers drum lightly against the side of his own cup, restless energy bleeding through the way he leans just slightly into your space. “and you’re killin’ it at first place.”

your fingers twitch slightly against the cup, grip adjusting like you’re trying to steady something that isn’t your coffee. you pretend not to feel the warmth in your chest, pretend his words don’t settle somewhere deep, somewhere dangerous. but when you take a sip, you don’t fight the way the heat lingers.

but it still doesn’t feel like enough.

satoru watches the way you flip through your sketchbook, fingers skimming the edges of each page like you’re weighing how much space you have left. he sees the way your gaze lingers on your paint tubes, the way your thumb presses absently against the label, as if debating whether the color is worth using. he notices the way your sleeves push up slightly when you mix paints, the faintest crease forming between your brows when you check how much is left. you won’t take money from him outright—he knows that much—but maybe, just maybe, he can get you to make money some other way.

so he tries introducing you to sports betting, grinning like he’s telling you the best-kept secret in the world. his energy is relentless, all sharp confidence and easy arrogance, like he truly believes he’s about to change your life. you don’t even need to look up to know he’s leaning in too close, elbows braced against your desk, practically radiating self-satisfaction. it’s unbearable.

“satoru, that’s literally gambling,” you say flatly, dragging your pencil across the page, deliberately uninterested.

“it’s strategic investing,” satoru corrects, voice smooth, pleased with himself, like he’s just introduced you to some kind of financial loophole. he shifts slightly, and his jersey slips off one shoulder, exposing the curve of his collarbone, but he doesn’t seem to notice—too caught up in his own nonsense. his fingers tap against your desk, impatient, restless, waiting for you to take the bait.

you don’t. instead, you finally glance up, brows raised. “you lost thirty bucks last week.”

his lips part like he’s about to argue, but then he pauses, reconsiders, and pivots. “okay, but that was a fluke,” he says, already curling his mouth into a perfectly crafted pout.

“was it?”

satoru exhales dramatically, like this conversation is somehow exhausting him, and drops his head onto your sketchbook, completely unbothered by the fact that you’re still holding a pencil. “have a little faith in me, damn.”

you shake your head, amused despite yourself. you shouldn’t be. you should shut this down, make it clear that you have no intention of entertaining whatever scheme he’s trying to rope you into.

but then—

“fine,” you say one day, flipping through your sketchbook, voice too casual, too offhanded. like this is barely worth mentioning, like you’re not actively indulging him. “i’ll bet on your team.”

the change is immediate.

satoru's body goes still, and for once, there’s no teasing, no smirk, no cocky remark. just a blink—slow, calculating—like he’s processing the words more carefully than anything else you’ve ever said to him. the tension lasts only a second before his mouth curves into something dangerous, something sharp, something entirely too pleased.

oh. oh, no.

“oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice all silk and trouble, reaching up to ruffle his already-messy hair. his fingers linger for a second, pushing back the damp strands before he tilts his head at you, grin widening. “you’re not gonna regret that.”

he doesn’t wait for your response. he’s already out the door. and frankly, you didn't expect the game to be brutal.

clearly, your estimate was wrong. the gym is packed, filled with students from both universities, the air thick with tension, sweat, and school pride. banners hang from the walls, school colors clashing, chants echoing through the space like war cries. the visiting team—tall, muscular, built like they were engineered for this—carries themselves with the weight of confidence, a roster of starters who have dominated the league all season. they tower over the court, standing like an immovable wall of defense, but it only takes one play for them to realize they’re in trouble.

because satoru gojo is simply faster. better.

the moment the ball is in his hands, he moves like he owns the court. the opposing point guard—a solid 6’5 with broad shoulders and a killer defensive record—lunges to block him, but it’s over before it even starts. satoru feints left, shifts right, and leaves him grasping at air, breaking into a sprint toward the basket before the others can react. their power forward—tall, heavy, built for blocking shots—steps in, arms raised high, but satoru barely acknowledges him.

because satoru is 6’3, fast as hell, and has a vertical leap that makes people question physics. he jumps, body twisting mid-air, and the slam dunk is so violent it rattles the rim.

the crowd erupts.

the visiting team’s coach is already shouting, hands flying in frustration as his players scramble to reorganize. they try to lock satoru down, try to double-team him, but it’s pointless—his crossovers are disrespectful, his footwork impossible to track, his speed completely unfair. one defender—6’7, easily one of the best in the league—steps up, stance wide, arms ready, but satoru doesn’t even give him time to think.

because satoru is playing with purpose.

his second shot? half-court. no hesitation.

the ball soars through the air, clean, perfect, and the second it lands through the net, satoru is already turning away, smirking as if he knew it would go in before he even let go.

“oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” nanami mutters, watching as the other university’s shooting guard—who up until now had been known for his defense—grabs his knees like he’s questioning his life choices.

“they’re frustrated,” suguru notes, amused, stepping up beside satoru during a dead ball.

“they should be.” satoru says, rolling his shoulders, letting his sweat-slicked jersey shift against his skin. he looks completely relaxed—untouched, unbothered, infuriatingly smug—as if he isn’t systematically destroying one of the best teams in the league.

but this isn’t just about winning.

because every time he scores, he looks at you.

he doesn’t even try to be subtle. his icy blue eyes flick up to the bleachers, head tilting slightly, lips curving into a knowing grin. his fan girls scream, convinced he’s looking at them, but you know better. because satoru isn’t just playing—he’s showing off.

he breaks past another defender with ridiculous ease, dribbling once before stepping back for a three-pointer that barely even touches the rim. the opposing team’s captain calls for a switch, barking out orders, but it doesn’t matter—they can’t stop him.

the timeout huddle is a mess.

players are breathing hard, jerseys clinging to sweat-damp skin, shoulders rising and falling as they try to recover. the gym is loud—too loud—the crowd still buzzing from the absolute disaster that was the first half. their coach is talking, something about holding the lead, tightening defense, not getting cocky, but no one is listening. because across the circle, satoru is still grinning like he’s having the time of his life.

“yo, what the hell is wrong with you today?” suguru mutters, tossing him a towel, brow furrowed like he’s genuinely concerned.

satoru catches it with one hand, absently wiping the sweat from his forehead, movements lazy, easy, completely unbothered. his white hair is a mess, strands curling slightly from the heat, the glow of the overhead lights catching on the sharp angles of his face. his jersey is clinging to his frame, fabric damp where it stretches over his shoulders, his chest, but he doesn’t seem to notice—or care. instead, he tugs the collar away from his skin, letting the cool air hit, eyes flicking up toward the stands like he’s looking for something.

or rather, someone.

“nothing.” he says, voice easy, light, like he didn’t just dismantle an entire university’s defense and humiliate half their starters in front of a packed gym. his breath is steady, not a hint of exhaustion, only the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath his damp jersey, fabric clinging to his frame, sweat glistening along the sharp lines of his collarbone. his hair is an absolute mess, strands sticking to his forehead, white against flushed skin, but he makes no move to fix it. he just breathes in deep, exhales slow, and grins wider, a lazy, knowing curl of his lips, all sharp edges and unchecked arrogance.

then, too casually—“just gotta make sure my girl gets paid.”

suguru blinks. once. twice. then exhales, a slow, measured breath, like he’s trying to process what he just heard.

his expression shifts—not shocked, not confused, but amused. a slow smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, dark eyes glinting with something knowing, something entertained. because this is the same girl, isn’t it? the same girl satoru was ditching party invitations for, choosing study sessions over late-night drinks for, showing up to campus early for when he barely woke up on time for class.

“...oh?” suguru says, just to hear him say it again.

but satoru doesn’t elaborate. doesn’t even look away from the stands. just flips the towel over his shoulder, rolls his wrists like this is just another game, like he hasn’t just set the entire gym on fire with a single sentence.

the buzzer blasts. second half starts. and satoru gojo is playing for blood.

the other university comes back from halftime determined, desperate, their coach gesturing wildly from the sidelines, barking orders as if sheer strategy will make up for the fact that they are losing to one man. they throw everything at satoru—double teams, switches, aggressive press defense—but none of it matters. he slips through them like water, like air, like something untouchable, moving with the kind of ease that makes even the referees hesitate before blowing the whistle.

he isn’t just scoring—he’s playing with them.

he spins the ball between his fingers, a lazy smirk curling at his lips, then passes it off last second, only to sprint across the court faster than anyone expects and sink a corner three. when their shooting guard tries to lock him down, satoru just laughs—actual laughter, low and effortless, before stepping back and draining another deep shot, his wrist flicking with a perfect follow-through. it barely touches the net.

you shouldn’t be this invested.

but your eyes track him anyway, caught up in the rhythm of his movements, in the way his jersey clings to the shape of his shoulders, the sweat glistening at the hollow of his throat. he’s moving like this is personal, like the entire game is some elaborate performance meant for you alone, and it’s starting to get to you. every time he scores, he glances up, searching for you in the stands, and you hate that your stomach flips when his gaze finds yours.

you hate it even more when you catch yourself smiling.

he’s impossible to ignore, too bright, too loud, too much. the crowd responds to him like he’s some kind of basketball god, voices rising every time he moves, a mix of screams, chants, and what you’re pretty sure is an entire row of students calling out his name. his fan girls are in absolute chaos, some clutching each other’s arms, others dramatically swooning, like they’re seconds away from fainting just from watching him exist.

the other team is beyond frustrated.

they’ve thrown everything at him—double teams, switches, aggressive defense—but it doesn’t matter. because satoru isn’t just playing to win. he’s playing to humiliate.

his next victim is their shooting guard, 6’4, all muscle, built like he should be a defensive wall. he steps up, arms wide, eyes sharp, feet planted like he’s ready for anything. but satoru? satoru doesn’t even look like he’s trying. he bounces the ball once, twice, just enough to let the anticipation build, before shifting forward like he’s about to drive in.

the defender lunges and satoru, the absolute menace that he is, just stands there.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t even attempt to go around him. just watches—completely unbothered, completely still—as the guy flies past him, momentum carrying him forward, stumbling face-first onto the court.

the crowd gasps.

the defender scrambles to recover, but it’s already over. satoru spins the ball in his hands, takes a single step back, and—without even looking at the rim—launches a half-court shot.

the ball soars, clean, effortless, perfect. it barely even touches the net. the gym absolutely erupts. and then—he winks up at the bleachers.

or rather, at you.

it’s infuriatingly slow, deliberate, the corner of his mouth curling up in a way that is both cocky and playful. his white hair is a mess, damp with sweat, strands sticking to his forehead, but it only makes the sharpness of his features more pronounced. his lips part slightly, the ghost of a smirk still lingering, the blue of his eyes catching under the lights—bright, focused, sharp enough to be dangerous.

the reaction is immediate.

“he saw me!” someone shrieks, grabbing their friend’s arm in a death grip.

“no, he was looking at me!” another one yells, voice already breaking.

“oh my god, he’s literally flirting with our section!”

meanwhile, you’re still just watching him play, like he didn’t just incite a full-scale riot in the stands. you don’t even think—you just lift your hand, give him a thumbs up, then go right back to pretending this is normal.

satoru freezes.

for a split second, he stares, blinking like he wasn’t expecting you to actually respond. the gym is too loud, too chaotic, but all of it fades into static as he holds your gaze, something unreadable flickering behind his expression.

then—his grin stretches slow and sharp, something almost dangerous flashing in his expression.

the opposing team barely has time to react. the second satoru turns back to the game, he’s already moving.

their point guard makes the mistake of hesitating, fingers gripping the ball a second too long as he scans the court for an opening. satoru doesn’t wait. he lunges forward, impossibly fast, cutting through the space between them like a blade. his hand shoots out, fingers slapping against the ball with a sharp, decisive smack, and suddenly—it’s his.

the steal is clean, effortless, unfair.

the defender barely has time to curse before satoru is already gone, already breaking into a full sprint down the court. his movements are fluid, sharp, ruthless, his jersey clinging to the sweat on his skin as he takes off, the crowd roaring in anticipation.

a single defender manages to keep up, breathing hard, desperate, sprinting beside him in a last-ditch effort to block him. but satoru doesn’t even look at him. doesn’t even acknowledge him.

he takes one step inside the paint—then jumps. and he just keeps going. the crowd screams as he soars, legs tucking, arm pulling back, body arching so high it feels unreal. the defender leaps, arms stretching, trying—failing.

because satoru gojo is 6’3, fast as hell, and plays above the rim like the air belongs to him.

his fingers clamp around the ball, grip firm, the muscles in his arms flexing as he swings forward—then slams it through the net with enough force to make the entire backboard rattle.

the gym explodes. the other university’s bench is silent. their coach buries his face in his hands.

satoru drops back down to the court, landing lightly on his feet, rolling his shoulders as if he didn’t just commit a crime in front of a full audience. he turns, gaze flicking up toward the bleachers—toward you. his fan girls lose their minds.

but you? you don’t stand a chance.

you exhale slowly, pressing your knuckles against your lips, trying to ignore the warmth creeping into your face. you’re not swooning—you refuse to be one of them, one of the girls throwing themselves at him like he’s some kind of untouchable idol. but your fingers curl against your sketchbook, grip tightening, and you know you’re falling for him anyway.

the game is already over.

the scoreboard doesn’t say it yet, but everyone knows. satoru knows. the other university knows. even their coach, red-faced and exhausted from yelling, has stopped trying to call plays that might turn things around. but satoru? he’s still playing like he has something to prove.

his next move is straight-up cruel.

their point guard is waiting for him at the three-point line, arms wide, stance low, feet planted like he’s ready for anything. he isn’t. satoru bounces the ball between his legs once, twice, then shifts forward just enough to make it look like he’s driving in. the defender lunges, panicked, reaching out to block him—but satoru is already gone.

a single, fluid crossover sends the guy sprawling onto the court, hands catching empty air as satoru steps back and sinks another three-pointer like he’s just shooting around at practice. the bench erupts, players falling over each other in disbelief, a mix of laughter and shouts filling the gym. even the referee—usually stone-faced and neutral—lets out a quiet, impressed whistle.

you cover your mouth with your sleeve, shoulders shaking as you try to stifle your laughter. it’s unfair, really, how easily he does this—how easily he turns the game into his own personal stage, his own playground.

he doesn’t even look at the scoreboard. he looks at you.

your breath catches, because this time, there’s something different in the way he holds your gaze. he isn’t just searching for a reaction—he’s watching. like he’s waiting for something. like he’s confirming something.

your fingers tighten against your sleeve. you know.

and from the way his smirk softens just slightly, the way his head tilts, eyes bright beneath the glare of the gym lights—he knows, too.

the final seconds tick down.

the other team stops trying to chase the score—they know it’s hopeless. some of them don’t even bother running back on defense anymore, hands on their hips, breathing hard, completely defeated. when the final buzzer blares, it’s almost mercy at this point, the end of a game that should’ve stopped being competitive long ago.

final score: 112-39.

satoru lifts his arms in a lazy stretch, grinning, completely unbothered, as if he didn’t just personally crush one of the highest-ranked teams in the league. sweat clings to his skin, his jersey damp, hair an absolute mess, but he still looks ridiculously good, annoyingly confident.

his teammates crowd him immediately, patting his back, ruffling his hair, laughing at his absolute disrespect on the court. he takes it all in stride, leaning against suguru’s shoulder like he didn’t just outrun everyone on that court, fingers lifting in a lazy peace sign as cameras flash.

but the moment he’s free—he looks for you.

he doesn’t find you right away.

by the time the final buzzer blares and the court erupts into cheers, you’re already making your way down the bleachers, tucking your sketchbook under your arm like you can pretend you weren’t watching him the entire time. the gym is still loud, electric, the energy of the crowd vibrating against your skin as students swarm the court, players getting swallowed up in a mess of high-fives and celebratory shouts. you keep your head down, moving quickly, telling yourself that you’re just avoiding the chaos, that you’re not actually running from him.

but then—footsteps. fast. deliberate. coming straight for you.

“oi, oi—why are you leaving so fast?”

too late.

you barely have time to react before satoru catches up, falling into step beside you, grinning like he’s won something more than just a game. he’s still breathless from the court, his jersey damp, sweat clinging to the edges of his hair, but he moves easily, like the entire game was just a warm-up. the fluorescent lights overhead catch on the sharp line of his jaw, on the bright blue of his eyes, on the smug tilt of his lips as he leans in slightly, invading your space like it’s his right.

“so,” satoru drawls, voice still rough from exertion, breath still a little uneven. his skin glows under the fluorescent lights, sweat clinging to the sharp lines of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, the stray strands of white hair sticking to his forehead. but he doesn’t seem to care—too busy grinning, too busy basking in his victory. he leans in slightly, crowding into your space the way he always does, eyes alight with something smug, something expectant. “how’s it feel to profit off your favorite athlete?”

you blink, gripping your sketchbook a little tighter, pressing it against your chest like a shield. this is not a conversation you want to have right now—not when he looks like that, not when he’s still riding the high of the game, not when he’s standing too close, towering over you, sweat-drenched and insufferably pleased with himself.

“…i think i probably only made like twenty bucks.”

he freezes. for the first time all night, satoru gojo short-circuits. “...huh?”

you shift your weight slightly, trying not to smile, but he sees the way your fingers twitch, the way your gaze flickers away for half a second, like you’re barely keeping it together. “i only bet the minimum,” you admit, voice calm, unaffected, like you didn’t just shatter his entire perception of the game. “didn’t wanna risk too much.”

there’s a pause. a long one.

satoru's grin falters. his gaze sharpens, like he’s replaying the last two hours in his head, like he’s remembering every dunk, every deep three-pointer, every ridiculous play he pulled off—all under the assumption that you had gone all in.

you see the exact moment he realizes. he ruined a college team’s entire morale for twenty bucks. he also accidentally started several dating rumors.

“no way.” his voice is flat, almost horrified. “no actual way.”

you bite the inside of your cheek, struggling to keep your expression neutral. it’s too easy.

he runs a hand through his hair, pushing back the damp strands, still looking like he’s processing an entire life-altering event. “you—you barely even bet?”

“yup.”

“so you weren’t—” he gestures vaguely, looking genuinely lost, like he’s been personally betrayed by the universe itself. “you weren’t, like, invested?”

you shrug, avoiding his gaze, because you suddenly feel kind of bad. “not really.”

his expression crumbles.

“oh my god.” he exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his temples like this is causing him actual physical pain. “i wasted all my best moves for twenty bucks?”

you nod, lips pressing together, but this time, the guilt outweighs the amusement. you peek up at him, watching the way he slouches slightly, shoulders dropping, his usual confidence momentarily replaced with the weight of sheer disbelief.

“…i mean,” you murmur, hesitant, before reaching into your pocket. “you looked pretty cool.”

he doesn’t react immediately, still looking far too devastated to register your words, but when you pull out a neatly folded handkerchief and raise it toward him, he finally glances down.

his brows lift.

“what’s this?” he asks, voice suspicious, but there’s something softer in it now, something curious.

you swallow, suddenly self-conscious, but you don’t pull your hand back. “you’re, um… sweating.”

his lips twitch.

“oh?” he says, and now he’s watching you instead of the handkerchief, instead of anything else.

you avert your gaze, cheeks warming slightly, but you still reach up carefully, dabbing the cloth against his forehead with quiet, deliberate movements. he goes still, just for a second, just long enough for you to register the shift in the air, the way his breath hitches almost imperceptibly.

then—slowly, teasingly—

“damn,” he murmurs. “if i knew you’d be this sweet about it, i would’ve played even harder.”

your fingers pause, pressing against his skin just a fraction longer than necessary, before you pull back abruptly, heart stumbling over itself.

“forget it.” you mutter, stuffing the handkerchief back into your pocket, turning on your heel.

satoru laughs, bright and unbothered, falling into step beside you like he wasn’t just existentially wrecked a minute ago. and somehow, you know this isn’t the last time he’s going to make you feel like this.

but as it turns out, offering satoru a handkerchief isn’t enough to alleviate his mood—he sulks for an entire week.

he still shows up, still lounges around your dorm like he owns the place, but everything he does is unnecessarily dramatic. he sighs—loudly and often—collapsing onto your furniture like his limbs don’t work properly. he sprawls across your bed without asking, flopping onto his stomach like some overgrown cat, muttering about betrayal every time you glance at him. he pokes at your art supplies absentmindedly, dragging a finger along the rim of your paint jars, staring mournfully at your sketchbook like it personally wronged him.

satoru refuses to play pickup games at the campus court, claiming he’s ‘retired’ after his efforts were wasted on someone who only bet the bare minimum. he stretches out on your floor instead, staring at the ceiling with the air of a fallen war hero, occasionally tossing a basketball in the air and catching it one-handed—just to remind you of what was lost.

“you could’ve told me.” he grumbles one evening, sprawled out in the middle of your dorm, arms crossed like a petulant child. his hair is still damp from practice, the ends curling slightly where sweat has dried, but he hasn’t even changed out of his jersey yet—too busy sulking.

you hum in response, dipping your brush into a fresh shade of blue, too used to his dramatics to entertain them. “what, that i wasn’t planning to go broke over a basketball game?”

“yes!” he says miserably, rolling onto his side so he can stare at you like you personally ruined his life.

his arms are still crossed, but one hand is half-buried in his hair, fingers tugging lightly at the strands, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and heartbreak. “i would’ve toned it down.”

you snort, finally glancing at him. his blue eyes are fixed on you, sharp but lazy, like he’s waiting for you to admit you were wrong. “no, you wouldn’t have.”

satoru opens his mouth—probably to argue, probably to deny that he's the most dramatic person alive—but then he catches the look on your face. something shifts in his expression, something slower, something warmer, like he’s seeing you in a way he hadn’t before. for the first time since he walked into your dorm today, he goes quiet.

you don’t look away.

outside, the wind rattles against your window, golden leaves scraping against the glass. the air smells crisp, cold, like the start of something new. autumn is settling in.

“…did you at least have fun?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. your voice is lighter than usual, quieter, like you already know the answer but want to hear him say it anyway.

he doesn’t answer right away.

he just grins, lazy, easy, completely insufferable, like he knows something you’re not ready to admit yet.

“yeah,” he murmurs. “guess i did.”

the last days of AUTUMN slip in quietly, fading into the edges of routine like the final strokes of a painting.

the air is sharper now, biting, enough that satoru finally stops showing up in just his jersey—though he still refuses to wear anything heavier than a hoodie, claiming he’s "built different." the wind rattles your dorm window more often, slipping through the cracks to nip at your fingers as you paint, and the trees outside stand bare and skeletal, their golden leaves now forgotten heaps on the pavement, damp and crumbling underfoot.

and then, there’s finals.

campus shifts with the season, brimming with stress, the energy heavier, more desperate. the library is always full, lights flickering through the windows at all hours of the night. students hunch over laptops in cafés, their cups stacked high with unfinished coffee, their fingers smudged with ink and exhaustion.

and you—you are pushing yourself too hard.

satoru sees it before you do.

he sees it in the way your hands don’t move as fluidly when you paint, how your brushes sit in murky water for too long before you remember to rinse them out. he sees it in the way you rub your eyes more often, fingertips pressing against your temples when you think no one’s looking. the way you sip your coffee like it’s medicine, like you need it just to stay upright.

but more than anything, he sees it in the way you’ve stopped sketching between sessions.

at first, he doesn’t say anything.

because he knows you. knows that you hate being told to slow down, that you treat breaks like enemies, that unfinished work sits on your conscience like an open wound.

so instead, he tries harder in ways you don’t notice.

he starts bringing you food more often, not even bothering to pretend they’re leftovers anymore. he tosses a granola bar at you before every session, drops a water bottle onto your desk without explanation, side-eyes your instant noodles with blatant, unfiltered disapproval.

so instead, he tries harder in ways you don’t notice.

he starts bringing you food more often, no longer bothering with the flimsy excuse of calling them leftovers. he tosses a granola bar at you before every session, always with an offhanded comment—"don’t die on me, yeah?"—before flopping onto your bed like he didn’t just shove sustenance into your hands. he drops a water bottle onto your desk without explanation, the plastic cool against your wrist as you sketch, and side-eyes your instant noodles like they personally offend him. when you ignore him, he clicks his tongue in disapproval, muttering something about "atrocious dietary habits" like he’s one to talk.

“you’re not my mom, satoru.” you say one evening, peeling the wrapper off the snack he just unceremoniously threw at you.

“nah,” he scoffs, propping himself up on one elbow, watching you unwrap it with clear satisfaction. “if i was your mom, i’d actually let you starve so you’d learn a lesson.”

you pause, narrowing your eyes. “...what lesson?”

he shrugs, grinning like he didn’t just say something completely unhinged, dimples showing slightly. “i dunno. that eating real food is important or some shit.”

you roll your eyes, but you still eat whatever he brings.

and when you think he’s not looking, you chew a little slower, savoring the warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the food.

he starts texting you more, too.

[10:47 PM] still awake?

[10:48 PM] wait dumb question. ofc you are.

[10:48 PM] go to sleep before ur brain melts. if you can’t sleep we can call, im a wonderful singer.

[10:49 PM] also if ur ignoring me rn i’m gonna be soooo hurt u don’t even know.

[10:50 PM] i’m okay, satoru.

[10:51 PM] just a little tired. i’ll sleep soon.

[10:51 PM] thank you for checking, though.

he doesn’t reply right away.

you stare at the screen for a moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard, wondering if he fell asleep or got distracted, if he’s still there. as if sensing this, his replies arrive.

[10:54 PM] yeah, i know.

[10:54 PM] but take it easy, okay?

[10:55 PM] i’ll see you tomorrow.

you exhale, something warm settling in your chest, something you don’t have the energy to unpack right now.

[10:56 PM] okay.

you flip your phone over, tucking it beneath your pillow, but you fall asleep easier that night. because it’s nice. having someone to notice. having someone to care.

then, one evening, it happens.

you’re halfway through a painting, something that’s been frustrating you for days, something that isn’t coming out right no matter how many times you fix it. the colors aren’t blending the way you want, the strokes feel too heavy, too forced—like your hands aren’t listening to you anymore.

satoru is there, sprawled across your bed like he has nowhere else to be, phone in one hand, the other tucked lazily behind his head. he glances at you between scrolling, sighing loudly whenever you don’t react, making just enough noise to remind you of his presence. when that doesn’t work, he shifts onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow, eyes flicking toward your hunched form at the desk. “you’re supposed to entertain me, y’know.”

“i’m busy,” you mutter, barely sparing him a glance, your focus locked on the canvas in front of you. your brush hovers midair, colors blending under the dim light of your desk lamp, but there’s a tightness in your grip, a frustration in the way your shoulders remain stiff.

“so?” he rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, his head tilting slightly as he watches you. “i am literally your muse.”

you exhale sharply, setting your brush down with a little more force than necessary. “you are literally annoying.”

he gasps, clutching his chest like you just struck him. “harsh.” his voice is light, teasing, but his eyes stay on you, watching as you tilt your head, exhale through your nose, then lean forward again, brush hovering over the canvas.

you’ve been fixated for too long now, barely moving except to mix colors, sigh, and frown at your work. your posture is too stiff, too tense, your shoulders drawn up, the curve of your spine locked in place like you’ve forgotten how to relax. your fingers tighten around the brush, knuckles whitening, the bristles pausing mid-stroke as your breath shudders slightly—too shallow, too uneven.

something itches in his chest. for the first time all night, he frowns.

“hey,” he says, sitting up, his phone forgotten beside him. “id you even eat today?”

"“huh?”

your reaction is delayed, your head turning toward him like it takes effort to shift your focus. you blink at him, slow, eyes unfocused, as if you’re still caught between here and the painting, like you don’t quite register what he’s saying.

then—the brush slips from your fingers. before he even registers what’s happening—you sway.

his heart stops. then he’s off the bed in an instant, faster than thought, hands reaching, catching you before you can hit the ground.

“woah, woah—hey.” his voice is too sharp, too urgent, nothing like his usual lazy drawl. one arm curls around your waist, steadying you, while the other grips your wrist, fingers pressing against the faint pulse beneath your skin. you’re too light in his hold, your weight sinking into him like you can’t hold yourself up.

your head lolls against his chest, and he barely registers the faint smudge of paint you leave on his hoodie because—you’re not responding.

panic flares white-hot in his gut.

“okay, no. you don’t get to just faint on me,” he mutters, adjusting his grip, his breath coming quicker than he’d like. he taps your cheek lightly, the warmth of your skin too cool against his fingertips. “wake up, idiot.”

you groan softly, brows pinching together, your expression twisting like even the act of regaining consciousness is too much effort.

“...m’fine,” you mumble, barely coherent, words slow and heavy like your tongue can’t quite keep up.

satoru lets out a sharp breath, his grip on you tight but careful, like he’s still processing the fact that he had to catch you in the first place. “oh, yeah? yeah? that why you just dropped like a damn sack of flour?” his voice is sharp, edged with something that’s not quite annoyance, not quite panic, something he doesn’t know what to do with.

you don’t answer.

his jaw tightens, muscles flexing as he exhales through his nose, his chest rising and falling too fast, too unevenly. without another word, he shifts, carefully maneuvering you onto your bed, his movements stiff, deliberate, too controlled.

“unbelievable,” he grumbles under his breath, pulling the blanket over you with a little more force than necessary. “who even does this? who just forgets to function?”

you mumble something unintelligible, your voice so soft that it barely even reaches him, your eyes fluttering open just enough to meet his. they’re glassy, unfocused, struggling to stay on him, and for some reason, that frustrates him even more.

satoru exhales sharply, running a hand over his face before pushing his hair back, his fingers tangling into the damp strands at the nape of his neck. after a beat, he crouches beside the bed, forearms resting on his knees, his gaze steady as he studies you.

“you okay?” his voice is quieter now, but there’s an edge beneath it, something pressing.

“…m’fine,” you repeat, voice barely above a whisper, but you don’t even sound like you believe it.

his eyes narrow.

“you literally just passed out.” his tone is flat, unimpressed, laced with something dangerously close to concern. “try again.”

you blink slowly, like it takes effort, like you have to search for the words. “…just… tired..” you admit, the syllables slipping together as your lashes flutter, fighting to stay awake.

he doesn’t like the way that sounds.

“yeah, no shit.”

you shift slightly, eyes slipping shut again, breath evening out, and he presses his lips together, watching you too closely, his expression unreadable. his fingers twitch against his knee, like there’s something else he wants to say, something else he wants to do.

then, quieter—like he’s speaking more to himself than to you—“you gotta stop this.”

you hum softly in response, already half-asleep, your breathing slow, steady, but he’s still watching you, still too aware of how small you look like this, how fragile you felt in his arms.

but he means it. you can’t keep doing this. can’t keep running yourself into the ground, pushing past your limits like they don’t exist.

he won’t let you.

his arms remain loosely folded over his knees, but his fingers tap restlessly against his leg, his jaw tight. his hoodie is still stained with the smudge of paint from where your head rested against him, but he doesn’t move to wipe it off. instead, he watches the slow rise and fall of your chest, the faint crease between your brows even in sleep, like you’re still carrying the weight of exhaustion. he exhales, rubs a hand over his face, then reaches for the blanket crumpled at the edge of the bed and drapes it over you, movements slow, careful.

he stays until he’s sure you’re really resting.

when  you wake up, the first thing you notice is the blanket draped over you. the second thing you notice is the smell of something warm, something fresh.

your fingers twitch against the fabric, gripping the edge of the blanket like you’re grounding yourself, like you’re trying to make sense of where you are. your head feels heavy, dull with leftover exhaustion, but there’s something comforting in the warmth pressed against your legs, the scent curling into the cold air. you blink blearily, sitting up, and there—

satoru, on your floor, typing away on his phone. beside him, a steaming cup of instant miso soup sits on your desk.

his back is against the bed frame, legs stretched out, hair a mess of uneven strands where his fingers must’ve run through it too many times. his hoodie hangs loose on his frame, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose the sharp cut of his forearms, and when he hears you shift, he glances up—expression unreadable, gaze sharp but softer than usual.

“you’re awake,” he says, this time without looking away, without the usual smug edge to his voice.

satoru's eyes flicker over your face, assessing, sharp but softer than usual, like he’s searching for something—proof that you’re really okay, that you’re here, conscious, breathing. his posture is relaxed, but there’s something unnaturally still about him, like he hasn’t quite settled since you collapsed. the glow from your desk lamp casts uneven shadows across his face, catching on the messy strands of his hair, the faint crease between his brows.

“...what happened?” your voice is hoarse, rough around the edges, like you’ve been asleep for much longer than you should have. you shift under the blanket, fingers tightening around the fabric, the weight of exhaustion still pressing against your limbs.

he gives you a flat, unimpressed look.

“you died.”

you blink at him, lips parting slightly—stunned, too tired to argue.

he holds your gaze for half a second longer before exhaling, reaching for the cup on your desk. “...briefly,” he amends, his fingers barely touching the ceramic as he pushes it toward you, the soft scrape of porcelain against wood filling the quiet space between you. “drink. before you die again.”

your fingers curl around the warmth, hesitating for just a second before lifting it. the heat seeps into your palms, steadying, grounding, and for some reason, your chest tightens in a way you don’t want to name.

you take a slow sip, the warmth spreading through your bones, reaching into the cold, exhausted parts of you that you hadn’t even realized were there.

“thanks,” you mumble, voice quieter now, the steam from the soup curling into the cold air between you.

satoru shrugs, but his gaze lingers, watching you a little too closely, a little too long, like he’s waiting for something. there’s no teasing grin, no smart remark—just a quiet, unreadable weight in the way he looks at you. his fingers tap absently against his knee, the rhythm uneven, restless, like there’s something on the tip of his tongue that he’s still deciding whether or not to say.

then—"you know," he starts, voice too casual, too calculated, like he’s testing the waters before fully stepping in. "you never let me see your sketchbook."

your grip tightens slightly around the cup, the warmth pressing against your palms, suddenly too much, too distracting.

he notices.

satoru's gaze flickers down—just for a second, brief but deliberate—before meeting yours again, sharper now, curiosity replacing the usual lazy amusement in his expression. the teasing edge is gone, replaced by something steadier, something unreadable. “why is that?

“…no reason,” you lie, shifting under his stare, trying to appear unaffected. but the soup in your hands is suddenly too warm, too grounding, your fingers curling tighter around the ceramic like it might steady you. you can feel the weight of his attention, the way he’s watching you too closely, too intently, like he’s waiting for the cracks to show.

his brows lift, his expression flat, unimpressed. “bullshit.”

you scowl, gripping your soup tighter, like it’ll shield you from this conversation, like it might somehow block him from seeing through you.

“it’s private.”

“so? i’m literally the subject,” he argues, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his presence suddenly heavier, more insistent. “i should get at least a sneak peek.”

“no.”

his eyes narrow slightly, the corner of his lip twitching like he’s already planning a new approach. “why?”

“because,” you say, and that’s all you give him. because you don’t know how to explain it. because you don’t want to.

his lips press into a thin line, his gaze lingering just a little too long, just sharp enough to make you shift under the weight of it.

a challenge.

but you’re still half-buried in exhaustion, your limbs too heavy, your mind still foggy, and he knows it.

so after a beat, satoru exhales through his nose, then leans back against the bed again, arms folding behind his head, stretching out like he’s already decided this conversation isn’t over.

“fine. for now,” he says, voice light, easy. but there’s something about the way he says it—something low, something certain, like a promise rather than a concession.

you glare at him, because you know him—know the way his mind works, know that he never lets things go, never drops anything without a reason. you see the way his grin lingers, the way it tugs at the corner of his mouth just slightly off-kilter, like he’s already planning his next move. it’s not a matter of if he’ll bring this up again—it’s when.

he grins wider, because he knows you know. because you’re predictable in a way that amuses him, in a way that keeps him entertained. you’re trying too hard to brush this off, to pretend like the question doesn’t rattle something inside you, but he’s always been good at noticing the little things. your avoidance, your tight grip on the cup, the way your shoulders stiffen just slightly whenever he pushes too close.

and just like that, the weight of the moment lifts, the air turning lighter again, slipping back into something familiar. you take another sip of the miso soup, the heat seeping through your fingers, spreading through your chest, anchoring you in the quiet. satoru shifts, arms still behind his head, gaze flickering away from you for once—out the window, toward the sky, toward the city beyond.

outside, the wind rattles the glass, slipping through the cracks, curling into the room like the first whisper of something colder.

autumn is ending. and winter is near.

WINTER has settled in, quiet but undeniable.

the air is colder, sharper, slipping through the cracks of your dorm window no matter how tightly you close it. the ground outside is dusted in frost, the once-vibrant autumn leaves now forgotten beneath slushy sidewalks and the occasional crunch of ice. campus is emptier now, students retreating home for winter break, leaving the dorms quieter, the hallways less crowded, less alive.

but he’s in your dorm all the time now.

it started with quick drop-ins after games—an excuse to complain about how sore he was, to stretch out on your floor like a lazy cat, to toss you a snack without explanation. then it turned into late-night visits when he had nowhere better to be—until, eventually, he stopped pretending he needed a reason at all.

your dorm isn’t much, just a tiny room barely big enough for the both of you, but somehow, it’s become his space, too.

he kicks his shoes off without thinking, leaves his jacket slung over your chair like it belongs there, flops onto your bed without asking. he always brings something with him—sometimes food, sometimes a new brand of tea he insists you try, sometimes just the lingering warmth of conversation when the room feels too quiet.

(you complain about it. “this is not a hangout spot.” “stop making a mess on my desk.” “for the last time, satoru, my bed is not your personal couch.” but you never actually tell him to leave.)

and lately, you seem less exhausted when he’s here.

finals are over. winter break has started. the campus is quieter, the stress that had settled into your shoulders finally lifting, loosening its grip.

you still overwork yourself, still get lost in your paintings for hours, but you’re taking care of yourself now, too.

he sees it in the way you actually eat full meals instead of just instant noodles. in the way you don’t fight him when he shoves a bottle of water into your hands. in the way you’ve stopped waking up with smudged paint on your cheek from falling asleep at your desk.

he’s proud of you. not that he’d ever say it out loud. maybe one day. but for now, he’ll just keep showing up.

tonight, though, you’re running late.

some meeting for an art exhibition, something you were weirdly cagey about when he asked. you had waved him off, barely sparing him a glance as you gathered your things in a rush, stuffing papers into your bag, adjusting your coat with hurried movements. he had teased you—“look at you, so professional. should I start calling you sensei?”—but you had just rolled your eyes, muttered something about being late, and disappeared out the door.

he almost doesn’t notice at first, too busy digging through a plastic bag of snacks he brought for you, tossing a pack onto your desk, then tearing open another for himself. he stretches out against your bed frame, one knee propped up, his phone in one hand, snacks in the other, making himself comfortable in the way he always does. your absence doesn’t bother him—you’ll be back soon, and besides, he’s already claimed this space as his own.

but then—his eyes flicker to your desk. to your sketchbook.

it’s right there.

he’s been curious for months.

he’s seen the way you snap it shut the second he moves too close, how you always turn it facedown, tuck it under your arm, keep it pressed against your chest when you leave a room. it’s deliberate, protective, like it holds something you don’t want him to see—something more than just rough sketches from your sessions.

and he’s been good. he’s been patient. but now? now, he’s alone. and, well—what’s the harm in taking a little peek?

his fingers brush the cover, hesitating for just a second—a quiet moment of restraint before curiosity wins out. then, with one last glance at the door to make sure you’re not back yet—he flips it open.

he expects sketches of his poses from your sessions. the usual. the planned. the predictable.

what he doesn’t expect is—pages and pages of him.

not the carefully composed ones, not the ones you’d shown him before. no, these are different. the lines are loose, unpolished, real—like you weren’t drawing to impress anyone, like you were just trying to capture something before it slipped away.

his fingers still against the page, breath catching slightly, pulse stuttering in a way he doesn’t understand. his own face stares back at him, over and over again, not the carefully arranged expressions from your sessions, but the ones he didn’t know you were paying attention to.

him, tying his shoes before a game, the curve of his shoulders loose and relaxed. him, tossing his head back, laughing, mouth open, eyes crinkled—drawn in a way that makes him look softer than he’s used to. next to it, in small, slanted handwriting: ‘loudest laugh in the world.’

satoru exhales slowly, flipping the page, movements quieter now, more deliberate.

him, spinning a basketball on his fingertip, drawn from multiple angles like you were trying to get it just right. him, leaning against your dorm room wall, arms crossed, head tilted, gaze sharp but amused—like he’s in the middle of teasing you. his eyes flick to the corner, where you’ve written, ‘always watching. annoyingly perceptive.’

he huffs out a quiet breath—not quite a laugh, not quite anything. his throat feels tight.

he turns another page, his fingers careful now, almost hesitant. a corner of a napkin peeks out—he pulls it loose, unfolding it carefully. a quick, half-finished sketch of him mid-sprint, lines rushed, motion barely captured, next to a coffee-stained note that just says: ‘too fast to draw. unfair.’

his lips part slightly, breath catching at the words, at the fact that you even tried.

another, taped messily into the spine of the book—a full-body drawing of him from behind, hoodie pulled up, hands in his pockets, walking away. ‘somehow takes up more space than anyone else.’ you wrote in the margins, the ink slightly smudged, like you had run your fingers over it absentmindedly.

he swallows, jaw tightening. his thumb brushes the edge of the page, lingering there, like if he just holds still, he’ll figure out what to do with the way his chest feels too full, too tight.e because this—this isn’t simply a collection of sketches. this is him, through your eyes.

and then—he flips another page. this one is different.

not a quick sketch, not a half-finished doodle on the edge of a napkin, not something you scribbled in passing. a full portrait. detailed, deliberate, like you took your time with it. like you wanted to get it exactly right.

he recognizes the jersey immediately—it’s from last week, when he had come over grumbling about practice, throwing himself onto your bed like it was his own, arms sprawled out, eyes shut, muttering about how being the best was exhausting. he remembers laughing, remembers the weight of your gaze on him, remembers teasing you about how you were always staring anyway.

but this—this means you had watched him even longer. the expression you captured—it’s him, but it’s softer. relaxed. comfortable. unaware.

oh.

his fingers pause against the edge of the paper, grip tightening just slightly.

but you couldn’t have done all this in front of him without him noticing. you’re always preoccupied, always doing something else whenever he’s around—never reaching for your sketchbook. had you drawn this only after he left? had you memorized these moments, watched him for far longer than he realized, until you could capture him this accurately?

his stomach does something weird again.

like a sharp twist of something unfamiliar, something heavy, something he doesn’t quite know what to do with. his throat feels tight, his pulse uneven, a strange warmth creeping into his chest and settling there, stubborn and unmoving.

his gaze lingers on the portrait, taking in the details—the careful shading of his jawline, the way his hair looks slightly messier than usual, the way his arms are draped carelessly over the sheets. he looks like he belongs there.

he swallows, jaw tightening. because he does.

he hears your footsteps before the door even opens—the soft, familiar rhythm of them padding down the hall, the faint rustle of your coat as you shift, the quiet exhale you always let out before stepping inside.

the door creaks open gently, slow and careful, like you’re trying not to startle the silence of the room. “i’m home,” you say softly, the words barely past your lips before you step inside.

but satoru isn’t paying attention. because his heart is still racing, his hands are still gripping the sketchbook, and he’s way too fucking giddy to think of a way to get rid of his crime in time.

you take two steps in before your gaze lands on him—seated on your bed, sketchbook open in his hands, looking like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. your expression shifts in an instant—relaxed to confused to absolutely horrified.

“satoru, what are you—” your voice cuts off mid-sentence, sharp and sudden, like you physically can’t finish.

he looks up at you, eyes bright with mischief, lips already curling into a grin, the kind that spells nothing but trouble. fingers still pressed against the pages, holding them open like evidence, like proof. then—casually, effortlessly, like he didn’t just get caught red-handed—“you like me.”

you freeze, body going rigid, fingers twitching at your sides like you don’t know whether to snatch the book back or bolt.

he tilts his head, grin widening, flipping through the pages with exaggerated slowness, dragging out your suffering. “and here i thought you only liked me for my bone structure—”

“give it back.” your voice comes out too fast, too sharp, laced with something close to panic.

he laughs, flipping another page, gaze flicking between the sketches and your rapidly reddening face. “so you have been staring.”

"satoru—" you take a step forward, but he just leans back against the bed, completely unbothered, holding the sketchbook out of reach.

“oh, this one’s nice,” he teases, holding up the sketch of him mid-game, spinning the book slightly between his fingers like he’s inspecting it. “was this from last week? so you were watching me train and not just pretending to be absorbed in your sketchbook—”

“i was drawing!—”

“—drawing me.” his voice is light, teasing, but there’s something else under it—something quieter, something warmer, something dangerously close to fondness.

you snatch the sketchbook out of his hands so fast it nearly smacks him in the face.

he expects you to yell at him. maybe shove him. maybe even hit him with the sketchbook. but instead your expression twists, your cheeks burning, lips parting like you want to say something but can’t, and before he can react, before he can stop you—you groan and slam the sketchbook back to your bed, turn on your heel and leave.

“hey—!” he scrambles after you, nearly tripping over a stack of books, nearly sending an entire pile of papers flying, nearly proving why you never let him near your workspace unsupervised. his breath comes out in sharp puffs of white against the cold air, but he barely notices, too focused on closing the distance between you, on the way your shoulders are stiff, the way you move like you’re fighting the urge to break into a full sprint.

outside, the first real snowfall of the season is drifting down, dusting the campus in white, clinging to the bare branches, softening the edges of the world. but you’re too preoccupied with storming away to notice, too caught up in your own mortification to care.

“oh, come on,” satoru groans, catching up with long, easy strides, like this isn’t a crisis, like this isn’t your worst nightmare unfolding in real time. “don’t just run away—”

“i am not running away.”

“you totally are.”

“i—!” you whirl around so fast he nearly crashes into you, nearly walks straight into your personal space like an idiot. he stops just short, breath catching slightly, eyes flicking down to the tiny sliver of space left between you.

the air is cold between you, breath visible in the space that suddenly feels too charged, too warm despite the winter creeping in.

your arms are crossed so tightly it looks like you’re holding yourself together, like if you let go, you might actually combust from sheer embarrassment.

“you’re so—” you huff, flustered, frustrated, desperate to change the subject, desperate to claw back even a fraction of your dignity.

“handsome? charming? incredibly kissable—”

“—infuriating!”

he just grins, all teeth and shameless amusement, because you’re easy to read now. because no matter how much you glare at him, your ears are pink, your fingers are twitching, your weight is shifting like you want to run again but can’t bring yourself to.

“you like me,” he says again, softer this time. more certain.

you don’t answer.

snowflakes land on your lashes, catching in your hair, melting against your skin. your lips are parted like you want to argue, but nothing comes out. your eyes are too bright, too wide, too caught between wanting to flee and wanting to stay.

satoru gojo is not known for his restraint.

so, naturally, he kisses you.

he moves before he can think, before he can overcomplicate it, before you can run again. his head tilts, his breath warm against your skin, and then—he leans down, slow, deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away.

but you don’t.

and oh—oh.

his lips are warm despite the cold, despite the way the winter air bites at your skin, despite the snowflakes melting between you. his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks when he closes his eyes, those impossibly bright baby blues disappearing beneath pale lashes. he doesn’t rush, doesn’t tease, doesn’t turn it into something playful. for once, he takes his time.

his free hand lifts just slightly, like he wants to cup your cheek, like he wants to hold you there, but at the last second, he hesitates. instead, his fingers curl lightly around your wrist, grounding, steady, just enough pressure to keep you from slipping away.

you freeze for half a second.

then, you melt.

your breath stutters, your fingers gripping at the fabric of his uniform, hesitant at first, then firmer, anchoring yourself to him. your body tilts forward, just the slightest bit, just enough to tell him—yes.

and he’s already grinning into the kiss, absolutely insufferable, because he knew it. because he knew you wouldn’t pull away. because he knew you liked him.

when you finally pull back, breathless, he doesn’t let you go.

doesn’t want to.

his grip on your wrist stays firm, not tight, not demanding, just enough to keep you here, to keep you in this moment a little longer. his breath is warm against your skin, fanning softly over your lips, his fingers twitching like he’s debating pulling you back in.

“so,” he murmurs, forehead pressing against yours, nose barely grazing your own, “are you gonna admit it now, or do i have to go through another sketchbook’s worth of proof?”

your fingers tighten slightly around his sleeve, your heart hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape, like it’s trying to make up for every second you spent pretending this wasn’t real. your cheeks are burning, the cold doing nothing to help, but still—you force yourself to meet his gaze, to stare straight into those impossibly bright baby blues.

“…i do.”

his breath hitches.

“you… do?”

“i like you,” you clarify, somehow both firmer and shyer at the same time, words tumbling out too fast and too soft. then, before he can say anything stupid—“now you say it.”

his grin falters—not in amusement, not in teasing, but in something softer, something fonder, something that makes your stomach flip.

“i like you,” he repeats, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like he never doubted it for a second. his ears are pink, his fingers twitch against your wrist, but his voice stays steady, stays sure. “a lot.”

your stomach twists, your face burns, and before he can get even more unbearably smug about it, you shove him, pushing at his chest with more force than necessary, just to wipe the grin off his face.

he laughs, stumbling back a step but still holding onto your wrist, still looking at you like you’ve just handed him the greatest win of his life.

but this time, you don’t walk away.

instead, you sigh, shaking your head as you grab his sleeve properly and start pulling him back toward your dorm, fingers curling around the fabric like you’re holding on without realizing it.

“what, no dramatic speech about how i misread everything?” he teases, falling into step beside you, his free hand slipping lazily into his pocket.

“shut up,” you mumble, voice muffled by the scarf you’ve pulled higher over your face, like it’ll somehow hide the warmth still lingering in your cheeks.

“soooo,” he drawls, bumping his shoulder against yours, “does this mean i’m officially your muse and your boyfriend now? multi-purpose?”

“no.”

“cold.”

he laughs, and it’s light, easy, painfully warm despite the winter air, like it’s found a home between you, settling there without permission. his breath fogs in the cold, but the space between you feels warmer somehow, lighter, like the weight of something unspoken has finally lifted. his steps are relaxed now, shoulders looser, head tilting toward you every so often—a quiet, effortless gravity pulling him closer, even when he doesn’t realize it.

when you get back to your dorm, he kicks off his shoes like always, sending them haphazardly toward the corner. shrugs off his jacket like always, barely looking where it lands. flops onto your bed like always, stretching out like he owns the place, arms behind his head, hair messy from the wind.

but this time, you roll your eyes and curl up beside him, too.

he doesn’t say anything about it, doesn’t tease, doesn’t even try to fight the smug grin tugging at his lips. he just shifts, adjusting without thinking, making room like he’s been waiting for this—like you’ve belonged there all along.

when he tucks his arm around you without thinking, you don’t complain.

when you mumble, half-asleep, voice softer than usual, “thanks for taking care of me.” he just hums, low and content, the sound barely more than a vibration against your skin. his fingers move without thought, absentmindedly tracing slow, lazy circles against your back, the rhythm steady, grounding.

when he presses a lazy kiss to the top of your head, breath catching just slightly against your hair, you don’t push him away.

outside, the snow keeps falling, soft and slow, blanketing the world in quiet. winter settles in around you. and for once, you let yourself rest.

the last of WINTER lingers in the early mornings, cold air curling against skin, clinging to rooftops, biting at fingertips. but the afternoons are warming up, the sun stretching a little higher in the sky, melting the ice that once lined the sidewalks. students swap heavy coats for lighter jackets, trading chattering teeth for the kind of energy that only comes with knowing winter is finally loosening its grip. cherry blossoms are just beginning to bud, hesitant, as if uncertain the cold is truly gone.

campus is filling up again. winter break is over. the once-quiet halls are alive with movement, voices overlapping, footsteps echoing against tile, the hum of life creeping back in. the scent of freshly brewed coffee drifts from the cafés, mingling with the crisp air, a sure sign that students are shaking off their winter sluggishness.

and satoru gojo is a public menace.

he was already bad enough as their university’s basketball star before. always loud, always impossible to ignore, always moving through campus like he owned it, like he was more event than person, someone you watched because you couldn’t help it. with that ridiculous, effortless kind of charm, all long limbs and easy smiles, like he’d never once known the weight of the world.

but now? now, he has a girlfriend. and now, he has you. and he makes sure everyone knows.

“my beloved!”

his voice slices through the courtyard like a warning bell, sharp and unmistakable, sending heads turning with an almost comical synchronicity. he’s leaning against a vending machine when you spot him, his navy varsity jacket loose over his shoulders, white t-shirt just barely clinging to the lean muscle beneath. his hair is a mess of soft white strands, tousled from the wind—or maybe practice—but his grin is bright, his blue eyes locked onto you with alarming precision.

you freeze for half a second—just half—but that’s all it takes for him to zero in on you, and you can feel the shift in the air, the heat of his gaze on your back as if he’s been waiting for this moment all along. the sound of his footsteps quicken, and before you know it, the familiar, teasing voice slices through the space between you.

“lovey! sweetheart! honeybunch sugarplum—”

you don’t even hesitate. the instinct to escape rises up, and you walk faster, head forward, eyes fixed on some imaginary point in the distance. it’s an old trick, pretending like if you just focus hard enough on something far away, you can ignore the fact that satoru gojo is loudly, dramatically, chasing after you like some over-the-top rom-com hero.

“stop it.” your teeth grind together, a faint blush creeping up your neck as you force your shoulders to stay stiff, trying to hold onto whatever dignity you have left.

he laughs, delighted by your discomfort, the sound almost echoing in the quiet space. with a lazy, unbothered air, he shoves his hands into his pockets and easily falls into step beside you. his white hair is still a mess from practice, some strands falling into his eyes, but he looks effortless, like he hasn’t even broken a sweat. “you wound me, darling.”

“i am not doing this with you.” you mutter under your breath, barely glancing at him, hoping that if you ignore him long enough, he’ll just go away. but it’s futile.

he’s faster. it’s always the same. his long legs carry him with a grace that shouldn’t be possible for someone so tall, and with barely any effort, he’s at your side, matching your pace, his grin stretching impossibly wide. his head tilts slightly, his white hair falling over his eyes in that way you’ve come to recognize so well—shifting and effortlessly falling into place. his blue eyes catch the light, looking so damn intense, you can’t help but notice the way they gleam through the long lashes, unguarded and almost playful.

“starlight, love of my life, future mother of my children—”

you stop mid-step, throwing him a sharp look, and his smile only widens at your frustration. “satoru.”

he gasps, clutching his chest in mock horror, eyes widening as if you’ve physically hurt him. he stumbles back a step, just for effect, and lets out an exaggerated sigh. “are you—” his voice drops to a dramatic whisper, his expression feigning scandal as he leans in closer. “are you ashamed of me?”

your jaw tightens, the irritation mixing with something else you’d rather not address. “i would like for people to know quietly.”

satoru halts mid-step, his hand flying to his chest as if you’ve just ripped out his heart. his face contorts into exaggerated pain as if you’ve just shattered him with a single sentence. “you—you don’t want to scream our love from the rooftops? you don’t want the whole world to know how much you adore me?” he flutters his fingers dramatically in the air as if visualizing the grand spectacle of it all.

you groan, shoving your hands into your pockets, doing your best to ignore the amused glances and curious whispers around you. it’s not bad, really. the attention.

you had expected—well. you don’t know what you expected. for people to react badly? for them to wonder why he’s with you, of all people?

but mostly, people are just… surprised. conversations halt mid-sentence, heads whip around for second and third takes, and whispered speculations weave through the air like static electricity.

a lot of:

“wait. gojo has a girlfriend? for real?”

“damn, i thought he was just messing around.”

“no way. no actual way.”

a handful of utterly devastated fangirls, clutching their textbooks like lifelines, staring as if their world has just come crashing down. but no one says anything cruel. no one scoffs or sneers. no one looks at you like you don’t belong next to him.

it’s a little overwhelming. but not awful. just… loud. and satoru? he thrives in it.

he’s absolutely ridiculous about it, keeps throwing his arm around your shoulders, keeps making a show of lacing his fingers through yours, keeps finding ways to bring it up in conversations that have nothing to do with him. when you’re walking together, he tugs you just a little closer, just a little tighter, like he wants everyone on campus to see. his hand is always finding its way to your waist, resting there like it belongs, fingers tapping idly against the fabric of your sweater. sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly dramatic, he’ll spin you around in the middle of the hallway, dipping you like you’re in the final scene of a romance movie, just because he can.

and you—earnest, quiet, and in love despite yourself—you let him.

you don’t indulge him the same way he does you. your affections are smaller, tucked between the spaces he leaves, a quiet echo to his relentless declarations. but you don’t pull away when he leans into you. you don’t protest when he sneaks his fingers through yours. and when you think no one’s looking, when his head is turned just so, when he’s grinning at something dumb and impossibly satoru, you let yourself look at him the way he looks at you.

one time, in the middle of lunch, he just sighs dramatically, leaning back in his chair, stretching his arms like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. his white hair is a mess from practice, sweat-damp at the nape of his neck, but he still looks effortless, still looks like he belongs under the sun, basking in the warmth of his own theatrics. he exhales, long and suffering, tilting his head back so far his chair almost tips. and then, with all the weight of the universe pressing down on his chest, he declares;

“man, having a girlfriend is crazy.”

you don’t even look up from your sketchbook. you’re used to this. you barely even blink anymore when he starts talking like the main character in a tragic love story. “you literally asked for this.”

“yeah, but still.”

he hums, thoughtful, like he’s truly pondering the gravity of his situation—then abruptly flops onto your lap, draping himself across you like he’s meant to be there. his head lands against your stomach, arms sprawled, legs stretched out across the bench, the weight of him pressing down on you like an overgrown cat. his hair tickles your wrist, and when you peer down, his eyes are already on you, bright and full of trouble. he’s grinning, of course he’s grinning, his lips twitching like he’s barely holding back a laugh.

you grunt under the sudden weight, the pressure of his body settling onto you like a heavy, careless blanket. you barely stop yourself from elbowing him off, your muscles tensing from the surprise, but he’s already too comfortable, sprawled across your lap with a dramatic sigh. “get off me.”

“no.”

he sounds so certain, so annoyingly nonchalant as he rests his head on your stomach, his hair messy from practice, damp strands sticking to his forehead like a defiant halo. you sigh through your nose, fingers tightening around your pencil, the sharp tip pressing against the paper as if it could ground you. “what do you want.”

“you know,” he says, his voice light, almost sing-song, as his head tilts just enough to meet your gaze, those ridiculously bright, ridiculously smug baby blues peering up at you with a look that’s both teasing and entirely too pleased with himself. “you kinda have a responsibility now.”

your sigh is louder this time, escaping through your nose as you flip to a new page in your sketchbook, trying to ignore the weight of him and the pull of his presence. you shift a little beneath him, adjusting to make space as your gaze flickers down at him. “what responsibility.”

he doesn’t move, doesn’t break the casual pose, his arms still spread wide like he’s claiming the space between you, his legs stretched comfortably across the bench, his fingers tapping lightly against your stomach. “you have to come to all my games. non-negotiable.”

you finally glance down at him, unimpressed, but your eyes soften just a little when you see the way he’s looking up at you, his grin wide, eyes twinkling like he’s saying something that’s a matter of life and death. you roll your eyes but can’t help the quiet smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth. “all of them?”

“yes. all.”

you blink at him, your hand drifting to your lap, pressing down the fluttering feeling in your chest, the soft affection you try so hard to keep from spilling over. “but i already go to most of them—”

“all. of. them.” his tone is firm now, a little playful but undeniably serious, his finger poking at your side like a reminder of his claim over your attention. he lifts his head just slightly, his lips pulling into a smirk that’s far too smug for anyone's good, and you know, without a doubt, that he’s completely and utterly certain of his win.

you sigh, louder this time, rolling your eyes as he grins up at you like he’s already won. his hair is soft when your fingers brush against it, a stray lock falling over his forehead as he waits, expectant. you hesitate for just a second, then let your fingers linger a beat longer than necessary, smoothing it back into place. “and why, exactly?”

his smirk falters, just for a fraction of a second. almost imperceptible. but you catch it, the flicker of something softer beneath the bravado, the way his throat bobs slightly before he answers.

“because you have to witness your incredibly talented, best-athlete-on-campus boyfriend in action, obviously.”

“obviously.”

“plus,” he adds, reaching up to poke your cheek with the most obnoxious little tap, “i play better when you’re there.”

your fingers tighten around your pencil, just slightly. you don’t answer immediately, because if you do, it might come out too soft, too earnest, too much. but your lips press together, and your gaze lingers, and when you finally murmur, “…is that true, or are you just saying that?” it sounds quieter than you mean it to.

his grin widens, eyes gleaming, mischief and sincerity tangled together like a promise. “guess you’ll have to keep coming to find out, huh?”

you shove his face away.

but later, when his attention is stolen by something else—when he’s laughing with his friends or zoning out as he stretches— you find your gaze lingering, the subtle shift of your focus as you tilt your head. your eyes trace the smooth curve of his cheek, the way the sunlight catches in his hair, making the white strands look like a halo around his face. there’s the easy slope of his shoulders, the way he leans back with that effortless confidence, his legs stretched out over the bench like he owns every inch of space around him. you notice all these things in the quiet moments when he’s not looking, and it’s almost like a secret you keep tucked away.

and then you think, helplessly, hopelessly— he plays better because he’s looking for you. it's not just the game he’s focused on. it’s the stands, it’s you. and for all his teasing, all his dramatic declarations, there’s this undercurrent you can’t deny—that he needs you there, in that spot, where his eyes always find yours.

you go to all his games anyway. it’s not a question, not a choice. you sit in the stands, your eyes fixed on the court, but your mind elsewhere, always waiting, always watching. every time, without fail, he looks for you before tip-off, and the moment he spots you, his expression shifts—just the faintest change in the curve of his lips, the way his eyes brighten as if he’s found something precious. every time, he finds you, like there’s no other place he would rather be. every time, he grins that obnoxious, confident grin, the one that says he will win, that he knows you’re there, and that’s enough.

spring creeps in. the last of the cold melts away, and you notice how the days stretch longer, how the warmth settles in your bones as everything begins to bloom around you.

and satoru gojo never stops being loud about loving you, his voice always rising above the noise, always unafraid of being seen. and you, quiet as you are, never stop loving him right back, holding it all in the space between the moments, where words aren’t necessary.

a/n : i would like to formally announce that i was this close to killing her off in winter via tragic anemia-induced collapse, but in a rare act of mercy, i decided against it. as such, i will be accepting 100-word minimum essays filled with gratitude in the comments. failure to comply may result in me rethinking my generosity. choose wisely.

kidding aside, im glad i finally got this fic out of my drafts—this has been rotting and slowly cooking since the episode with satoru playing basketball released😋 idk much about western school year so i apologize if the schedule is all wrong! i only relied to google writing this. not like they will read this but i still wanna thanks my homeboys for helping me write the basketball scene, i definitely needed that <3 im not an artist so i apologize if there are any misconceptions in my fic ^^

[sixeyesonathiel]

seven-forty-seven and other certainties

pairing — class clown satoru x transferee reader

synopsis : seven-forty-seven. that’s when you arrive every morning, clutching that pale blue mug with tiny white flowers, and satoru has memorized the pattern because he’s stationed himself by the hallway window like some lovesick astronomer charting the orbit of his own undoing. he knows you save your fruit for last at lunch, knows you hum melodies under your breath when you think no one’s listening, knows the exact shade of lavender your cardigan turns in october light—but he doesn’t know your middle name, doesn’t know what makes you laugh until your eyes crinkle, doesn’t know how to bridge the galaxy between watching and being worthy of your attention. still, he can’t help it; you’re the only thing he’s certain about in a world that thrives on making him ridiculous. so he keeps trying, and failing, to make you look his way, as if the right moment is just one heartbeat away.

wc – 12.1k ෆ tags -> f!reader, high school au, angst and eventual fluff, satoru being a lovesick idiot, SO MUCH PINING, secret acts of service, stalker-ish behavior but make it romantic, misunderstandings, hurt/comfort, asthma, panic attacks, love letter, getting together, rain confessions, unrequited love that's actually requited, first kiss, angst with a happy ending

satoru thinks he might be losing his mind.  

it’s been three months since you transferred in, and he still doesn’t know what your favorite color is. doesn’t know if you prefer tea or coffee, doesn’t know what makes you laugh—really laugh, not that polite little smile you give everyone. hell, he doesn’t even know your middle name, but somehow his entire universe has reorganized itself around the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re concentrating.  

pathetic doesn’t even begin to cover it. 

the thing is, he’s tried. god, has he tried. not in any obvious way—satoru has exactly zero experience with genuine feelings, the kind that make his chest cavity feel like it’s slowly collapsing in on itself every time you walk into a room. his expertise lies in performance, in being the guy who makes everyone laugh until they forget he might be a real person underneath all the noise.  

but with you, every carefully rehearsed joke dies in his throat. every casual conversation starter sounds forced and desperate in his head before he can voice it. so instead, he’s become a scholar of your existence, studying the minutiae of your daily routine with the dedication of someone trying to decode an ancient language.  

he knows you arrive at school at exactly 7:47 every morning, clutching a travel mug that steams in the cold air—coffee or tea, he still doesn’t know, but the ceramic is pale blue with tiny white flowers around the rim. he knows because he’s memorized the pattern during the countless mornings he’s stationed himself by the window in the empty hallway, pretending to study while tracking your approach across the courtyard.  

he knows you always choose the third row from the back, two seats from the window, and that you spend the first five minutes of every class organizing your supplies with methodical precision. blue pen, yellow highlighter, a small ruler you use as a bookmark. everything arranged just so, like the order of things matters in a way that makes his chest tight with wanting to understand why.  

he knows you eat lunch in careful, measured bites and always save your fruit for last. knows you smell faintly of something floral—lavender, maybe, or something equally soft that makes him lean closer when you pass in the hallways, chasing that subtle scent like a man starving.  

what he doesn’t know is how to bridge the gap between observer and participant. how to become someone worthy of knowing these details because you chose to share them, not because he’s catalogued them from a distance like some lovesick detective.  

“you’re staring again,” suguru says, sliding into the seat next to him during lunch. his dark hair falls across his forehead as he unwraps his sandwich, giving satoru a look that’s equal parts amused and concerned.  

“i’m not staring.” satoru’s fingers drum against the cafeteria table, restless energy vibrating through him like a live wire. his hair catches the fluorescent light in ways that seem almost unnatural—strands of winter morning frost that refuse to lay flat no matter how many times he runs his hands through them. “i’m... observing.”  

“creepily.”  

“strategically.”  

across the cafeteria, you’re sitting with a small group of girls from your class, picking at your lunch with those same careful, measured bites. today you’re wearing that soft lavender cardigan—the same gentle purple as twilight sky before rain—and satoru has spent an embarrassing amount of time wondering if lavender might be your favorite color. your fingers wrap around your water bottle with gentle precision, and the simple gesture makes his chest cavity feel like it’s caving in on itself.  

or maybe it’s yellow, like the hair tie you always wear on your wrist but never actually use. he’s watched you reach for it countless times when your hair falls in your face, fingers closing around the elastic before you seem to remember something and choose to tuck the strands behind your ear instead. the hair tie stays on your wrist like a safety net you never quite need to deploy.  

or blue, like the pen you always choose first from your pencil case, like the corner of sky visible through the third-row window where you always sit, like the flowers on your coffee mug and the notebook you write in during literature class.  

he’s catalogued these details like a desperate scholar, hoarding every tiny piece of you he can observe from a distance. but the collection feels hollow, incomplete. he wants to know the stories behind your choices—why blue pens, why that specific seat, why you save fruit for last and never use the yellow hair tie. he wants to know what you think about during those moments when you stare out the window, expression distant and contemplative.  

he wants to know what you taste like and what makes you cry and whether you’d let him hold your hand if he was brave enough to ask.  

“just talk to her,” shoko says, appearing with her lunch tray and the perpetual smell of cigarettes that follows her around. she slides in across from them, lighter hair catching the fluorescent lights as she fixes satoru with that deadpan stare of hers. “like a normal person.”  

“what if she thinks i’m annoying?” satoru whines, actually whines, his voice climbing higher as he gestures dramatically. his eyes—those impossible cerulean pools that seem to hold entire skies captive—dart frantically between his friends. the panic is genuine, raw in a way that makes his chest constrict. “what if she’s been trying to avoid me this whole time and i just haven’t noticed because i’m too busy being pathetic?”  

because that’s the thing that keeps him awake at night—the possibility that you’ve already made up your mind about him. that you’ve categorized him as the loud, obnoxious guy who turns everything into a performance, and nothing he could say or do would change that assessment.  

“what if she already thinks i’m weird because of that time i tried to make her laugh by doing that stupid voice during chemistry?” his voice gets higher, more frantic. “she just stared at me like i was having a breakdown which, let’s be honest, i probably was—”  

“satoru,” suguru interrupts, but there’s fondness threading through his exasperation.  

“—and now she probably tells her friends about the weird white-haired guy who won’t shut up and makes stupid jokes and thinks he’s the main character in everyone else’s story when really he’s just—”  

“you’re spiraling,” shoko says flatly.  

satoru slumps forward, burying his face in his crossed arms on the table. his hair falls like silk curtains around his face, hiding the flush creeping up his neck. “i’m dying, shoko. literally wasting away. look at me—i’m becoming a husk of my former self.”  

“you literally ate three lunch portions yesterday.”  

“emotional eating!” satoru lifts his head just enough to fix her with those devastating eyes, now gleaming with theatrical despair. “i’m pining. this is what pining looks like. i’m like... like a victorian maiden wasting away from unrequited love, except instead of consumption it’s chronic stupidity and instead of writing tragic poetry i just stare at her like a creep and hope she doesn’t notice.”  

if only it were that simple.  

the thing is, satoru knows how to talk to people. he’s built his entire high school reputation on it—the guy who can make anyone laugh, who turns every moment into a performance, who fills up all the empty spaces with noise and movement and carefully calculated chaos. teachers love him because he makes their classes entertaining. classmates love him because he’s never met a silence he couldn’t fill or a tension he couldn’t defuse with a well-timed joke.  

but with you? every word feels too big for his mouth, every gesture too clumsy, too desperate. the performance skills that have served him so well with everyone else feel hollow and wrong when he imagines directing them at you. you deserve something real, something genuine, and satoru has no idea how to be genuine when being genuine means risking the possibility that the real him isn’t enough.  

it wasn’t always like this. for the first few weeks after you transferred, you were just another face in the classroom, quietly pretty in that understated way that doesn’t demand attention. satoru barely noticed you, too busy maintaining his role as class entertainer, turning every lesson into an opportunity for comedy.  

but then came that tuesday in october.  

the memory is burned into his brain with perfect clarity—the way the afternoon light was slanting through the classroom windows, turning everything golden and hazy. he’d been showing off again, naturally. their physics teacher had been explaining momentum, and satoru had seen an opportunity for physical comedy, volunteering to demonstrate some ridiculous interpretation complete with exaggerated gestures and sound effects.  

he’d been in his element, commanding the room’s attention with the kind of practiced ease that made it look effortless. the class was laughing, sensei was trying not to smile, and satoru was riding that familiar high of successful performance. except he’d gotten carried away, as he always did, and miscalculated the space between himself and the desk behind him.  

the tumble was spectacular—a full-scale collision that sent papers and textbooks flying in every direction, his long limbs tangled awkwardly as he went down in a cascade of his own hubris. the crash echoed through the classroom, followed immediately by that particular silence that comes right before everyone starts laughing.  

except this time, as satoru started to push himself up from the floor, already forming his next joke to cover the embarrassment and turn his failure into another moment of entertainment, he noticed something that made him freeze mid-motion.  

you weren’t laughing.  

while everyone else was caught up in the spectacle of his pratfall, you had quietly gotten up from your seat and were crouched beside the scattered papers, gathering them with careful, methodical movements. no performative kindness, no dramatic gestures to match the energy of the moment—just simple, genuine help offered to someone who needed it.  

your fingers were gentle as you collected each worksheet and handout, straightening bent corners and smoothing wrinkles with the kind of automatic care that spoke to something fundamental in your character. you weren’t doing it for applause or recognition; most of the class was still too busy laughing to notice what you were doing.  

you were doing it because it was the right thing to do. because he needed help, and you were someone who helped.  

“you okay?” you’d asked softly, offering him the stack of rescued papers. your voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through all the noise of the still-giggling classroom like sunlight through glass.  

satoru had looked up at you—really looked—and felt something fundamental shift in his chest. something that rearranged his understanding of what mattered, what was worth paying attention to, what kind of person he wanted to be worthy of knowing.  

your eyes weren’t bright with amusement at his expense or calculating how this moment might benefit you socially. they were simply kind, offering genuine concern for his wellbeing without any expectation of return. when was the last time someone had looked at him and seen past the performance to the person underneath? when had anyone ever cared enough to ask if he was okay instead of just waiting for the next joke?  

“yeah,” he’d managed to say, accepting the papers with fingers that trembled slightly at the brief contact with yours. “yeah, i’m... thanks.”  

you’d smiled then—not the polite, distant expression you gave everyone else, but something smaller and more real. something just for him. “good catch on the momentum demonstration though. very authentic.”  

the joke was gentle, warm, delivered with a straight face that made it even funnier. satoru had found himself laughing, really laughing, not the practiced showman’s laugh he used for effect but something genuine and surprised and utterly delighted.  

“i aim for realism in all my educational presentations,” he’d replied, and your smile had widened just a fraction, like you were pleased he’d played along.  

that was it. thirty seconds of interaction, maybe less, but it rewired something essential in satoru’s understanding of connection. for the first time in his life, someone had seen past the noise and performance to offer him something real—not because it benefited them, not because they wanted something in return, but simply because they were the kind of person who helped when help was needed.  

that’s when the watching started. the noticing.  

how you always sit in the third row from the back, two seats from the window where afternoon light streams in like liquid gold. how you take notes in blue ink but highlight in yellow, creating little bursts of sunshine across your notebooks. how you eat lunch in small, careful bites and always save your fruit for last, like you’re extending the pleasure of something sweet.  

how you smell faintly of lavender—your shampoo, maybe, or that soft cardigan you wear when the weather turns grey and uncertain. how you smile at everyone but it never quite reaches your eyes except for rare moments when you think no one is looking, when something genuinely amuses or delights you and your whole face transforms.  

satoru has become an expert in those unguarded moments, collecting them like a dragon hoards gold. the way you duck your head to hide a smile when someone makes an unexpectedly clever joke. the little furrow that appears between your eyebrows when you’re working through a difficult problem. the unconscious way you hum under your breath when you think no one can hear, usually something soft and melodic that gets stuck in his head for hours afterward.  

he’s also become an expert in finding ways to help without you noticing, ways to orbit your world without disrupting it. it started small—making sure there were extra handouts available when you forgot yours, strategically leaving his notes where you might find them when you’d missed a day of class due to a cold.  

but as his feelings deepened from admiration to something more desperate and consuming, so did his efforts to make your life easier in invisible ways.  

when he overheard you mentioning to a friend that you’d forgotten your lunch money again, he’d started carrying extra cash, slipping a few bills into your bag when you stepped away from your desk. it had to be done carefully, casually, when everyone was distracted and you wouldn’t notice the movement. he’d perfected the art of misdirection, using his natural tendency toward dramatic gestures to cover the smaller, more significant action of taking care of you.  

the first time he’d done it, his heart had hammered so hard he was sure someone would notice. but you’d simply returned to find the money in your bag, looked puzzled for a moment, then shrugged and headed to lunch. no dramatic gratitude, no investigation into the source—just quiet acceptance of a small kindness.  

it became addictive, that ability to ease your day in ways you’d never know about. when you were struggling with calculus, he’d convinced sensei to pair you with him for study sessions—except he’d pretended to need help instead, asking you to explain concepts he already understood perfectly. watching you work through problems aloud, seeing the way your confidence grew as you talked yourself through the steps, was worth every minute of pretending to be confused by equations he’d mastered years ago.  

“i don’t get this part,” he’d say, pointing to something perfectly straightforward, and you’d lean closer, your hair falling forward as you focused on his notebook.  

“okay, so think about it this way,” you’d begin, your voice taking on that patient, careful tone you used when explaining things. and satoru would nod seriously, asking follow-up questions designed not to get answers but to keep you talking, to keep you engaged, to help you realize how brilliant you actually were.  

the study sessions became a weekly tradition, and though you never said so directly, he could see the way your test scores improved, the way you sat a little straighter in math class, more confident in raising your hand when sensei asked questions.  

when the weather turned cold and rainy, he started timing his route home to coincide with yours, always carrying an oversized umbrella that could easily fit two people. you’d politely decline his offers to share it every time, your fingers fidgeting with the strap of your bag as you looked anywhere but at his face—up at the grey sky threatening more rain, down at puddles reflecting fragments of blue between the clouds.  

but he’d walk slower anyway, close enough that you stayed mostly dry under the protection of his umbrella’s generous span. close enough to catch hints of your lavender scent when the wind shifted. close enough to imagine what it might feel like if you decided to close that last bit of distance between you.  

those walks were torture and bliss in equal measure. you never spoke much, both of you listening to the rhythm of rain against fabric, your footsteps synchronizing without conscious effort. sometimes you’d hum softly, those same melodic fragments that haunted his dreams, and satoru would match his breathing to the music, trying to memorize each note.  

he told himself he was being helpful. told himself these small kindnesses were just what any decent person would do for a classmate. but late at night, lying in his bed and replaying every moment of proximity, every accidental brush of fingers when you’d handed back his notes, every time you’d looked at him with something that might have been gratitude or affection, he knew the truth.  

he wasn’t just helping. he was courting you in the most pathetic way possible, too afraid of rejection to make his intentions clear but too desperate to stop trying.  

because the thing about loving someone from a distance is that it creates its own gravity. every small interaction becomes magnified, every smile or laugh or moment of eye contact takes on massive significance. he was building a relationship in his head based on fragments and assumptions, falling deeper in love with someone he barely knew but desperately wanted to understand.  

he wanted to know what you thought about during those moments when you stared out the window, expression distant and contemplative. wanted to know what books made you cry and what songs you hummed when you thought no one was listening. wanted to know what you were afraid of and what you dreamed about and whether you’d ever, even for a moment, wondered about him the way he wondered about you.  

but more than that—and this was the part that made his chest feel like it was caving in—he wanted to know the worst parts of you too. the things that frustrated you, the ways you were petty or unreasonable or human. he wanted to love your flaws and bad moods and the face you made when you were genuinely angry about something.  

because that’s what real love was supposed to be, wasn’t it? not putting someone on a pedestal but wanting to know every facet of who they were, the light and shadow both. he’d spent so long performing the best version of himself for everyone else’s entertainment that the idea of being known completely—flaws and fears and desperate longing included—felt both terrifying and essential.  

the problem was that wanting something and knowing how to get it were entirely different skills, and satoru had always been better at wanting than achieving when it came to things that actually mattered.  

“she smiled at me yesterday,” satoru says now, watching you laugh at something one of your friends said. that real laugh, the one that transforms your whole face, makes your eyes crinkle at the corners in a way that sends electricity shooting through his nervous system. his chest feels like it’s being compressed by invisible hands, ribs contracting around a heart that’s beating too fast and too hard. “like, really really smiled. not the polite one she gives sensei when he asks if she understood the lesson.”  

it had happened during chemistry class, when their teacher had made an unexpectedly clever pun about molecular bonds. the whole class had groaned in that exaggerated way that meant everyone was secretly amused, but you’d actually laughed—a surprised, delighted sound that had made satoru’s entire world shift on its axis.  

and then, as if sensing his attention, you’d glanced over at him, still smiling, and for one perfect moment it felt like you were sharing the joke with him specifically. like you’d looked for his reaction because it mattered to you what he thought.  

it had lasted maybe three seconds, but satoru had been riding the high of it ever since, replaying those few moments of connection until they’d taken on an almost sacred significance in his memory.  

“revolutionary,” shoko says dryly, but her expression is softer than her tone. “what’s next? eye contact?”  

“don’t mock my pain,” satoru whines, dramatically flopping back in his chair. his hair falls away from his face like spilled moonlight, revealing the flush painting his cheekbones. “this is serious emotional turmoil. i think i’m developing an ulcer from the stress. or maybe it’s lovesickness—do people still get lovesickness? because i’m pretty sure that’s what this is.”  

“you’re being dramatic,” suguru says, but there’s fondness in it.  

“i’m being accurate,” satoru corrects, gesturing wildly with hands that catch the light, his rings glinting like small stars. “this is what unrequited love looks like. this is what it does to a person. i’m wasting away from the sheer intensity of my feelings, becoming a shadow of my former self, a cautionary tale about the dangers of—”  

“just ask her out,” suguru interrupts, exasperated affection clear in his voice.  

“i can’t just—” satoru gestures vaguely, his hands moving through the air like he’s conducting an invisible orchestra of anxiety. “what if she says no? what if she stops smiling at me altogether? what if she realizes i’ve been basically stalking her daily routine for months and decides i’m a creep? what if she transfers schools to get away from me? what if—”  

“what if she says yes?”  

the possibility feels too fragile to touch, like spun glass that might shatter if he breathes on it wrong. because hope is dangerous when you’ve built your entire emotional equilibrium around the safety of distance, around loving someone who can’t reject you because you’ve never actually offered yourself up for rejection.  

what if you say yes, and then get to know the real him and decides you were wrong? what if the person he is underneath all the performance and desperate trying isn’t someone worth knowing after all?  

after lunch, satoru finds himself in his usual predicament: wanting to talk to you but having absolutely no idea what to say. you’re at your desk, reading something for literature class, and he’s hovering three desks away like an idiot, pretending to look for something in his bag while his brain cycles through and discards potential conversation starters.  

hey, how’s the book? too generic.  

nice weather, huh? it’s literally grey and threatening rain.  

did you understand the homework? he’d sound like he was fishing for study session time, which he was, but he didn’t want to make it obvious.  

outside, clouds are gathering in that particular way that promises rain later, and the grey light filtering through the windows makes everything feel hushed and expectant. you’re completely absorbed in whatever you’re reading, occasionally tucking your hair behind your ear in that gesture that makes his chest cavity feel like it’s slowly collapsing.  

this is ridiculous. he’s satoru gojo. he can talk to anyone about anything. he once convinced their principal to let him dj the school dance by spending twenty minutes explaining why classical music was “totally outdated for modern youth expression.” he talked their chemistry teacher into letting the class have a pizza party instead of taking a quiz by arguing that “hands-on learning about the chemical composition of processed foods” was educational.  

but ask you about your weekend plans? impossible.  

“just do something,” suguru hisses from behind him, having clearly grown tired of watching satoru’s internal breakdown. “anything. you’re being weird.”  

panic does funny things to decision-making. instead of the casual conversation satoru had been planning, instead of asking about homework or commenting on the weather or literally any normal human interaction, his brain short-circuits into what he later realizes was the stupidest possible plan.  

if he can’t talk to you normally, maybe he can create a situation where you have to talk to him.  

it starts innocent enough—or at least, that’s what he tells himself. while you’re distracted, helping another classmate with a question about the reading assignment, satoru quietly moves your bag from beside your desk to behind the filing cabinet in the back corner of the room.  

not hiding it, exactly. just... relocating it. temporarily.  

he watches you help your classmate, your voice soft and patient as you explain some concept about symbolism in the text, your finger tracing gentle lines across the page to illustrate your point. there’s something about the way you teach—generous and careful, like you genuinely want the other person to understand rather than just proving how smart you are—that makes his throat feel tight with longing.  

the plan is simple: you’ll realize your bag is missing, he’ll “help” you look for it, and in the process of gratefully thanking him for his assistance, you’ll finally see him as more than just the class clown who occasionally shares his umbrella. maybe you’ll even smile at him again, that real smile that makes his knees forget how to support his weight.  

foolproof, right?  

except when you return to your desk and notice your bag is gone, you don’t ask for help. you don’t announce it to the class or look around frantically or do any of the things satoru had assumed you would do.  

instead, you just... freeze.  

your hand goes to your chest, fingers splaying across your collarbone like you’re trying to hold something in place. satoru watches your breathing shift from calm and even to something more deliberate, more controlled, like you’re having to think about each inhale and exhale.  

you’re trying to stay composed, he realizes, trying not to draw attention to your rising anxiety. but he can see it in the tight line around your eyes, the way your free hand grips the edge of your desk, the careful way you’re scanning the room without making it obvious that you’re looking for something.  

this isn’t what he wanted. this quiet distress, this carefully controlled panic—this isn’t the scenario he’d imagined at all.  

“hey,” he says, abandoning all pretense and moving to your desk. up close, he can see the tight line of your mouth, the way your fingers are trembling slightly where they press against your throat. “everything okay? you look like you’re missing something.”  

“my bag,” you say quietly, and your voice is steady but there’s something strained underneath it, something that makes alarm bells start ringing in the back of his head. “i can’t find my bag.”  

“oh no,” satoru says, and he’s a good enough actor that the concern in his voice sounds genuine instead of manufactured. “when did you last see it?”  

“i—” you start to answer, but then he’s leaning closer, ostensibly to help you look around your desk area. he’d sprayed too much cologne this morning in his nervousness, some expensive thing suguru had recommended that had seemed like a good idea at the time. now the scent feels overwhelming in the small space between you.  

you take a small step back, your hand fluttering briefly to your chest before you catch yourself. he follows without thinking, still scanning your desk area with theatrical concern, completely missing the way you press your lips together and take another careful step away.  

your breathing shifts again, becoming more deliberate. your fingers find the edge of your desk, gripping it slightly as you try to maintain control, but satoru is too focused on executing his stupid plan to notice the signs.  

“maybe it fell behind something?” he suggests, moving closer still. the cologne seems to intensify in the smaller space, and you take another step back, your shoulders bumping against the wall.  

you’re trapped now, between his presence and the wall, and your breathing is becoming more labored by the second. your fingers press against the base of your neck, and there’s real distress in your eyes now, not just the mild anxiety he’d been expecting.  

“satoru,” you say quietly, and there’s something urgent in your voice that finally, finally makes him stop talking and actually look at you.  

really look at you.  

color is draining from your face like water from a broken glass. your hand is pressed against your throat, fingers splayed wide, and your chest is rising and falling in careful, measured movements that are clearly taking enormous effort. your eyes are wide, not with gratitude or the beginnings of romantic connection, but with genuine fear.  

something is very, very wrong.  

“hey,” he says, and all his manufactured concern transforms into something real and terrifying. “hey, what’s wrong?”  

you look at him for a moment, and he can see you trying to decide whether to trust him with whatever is happening. your lips are slightly parted as you focus on breathing, and there’s a grayish tinge around your mouth that makes his stomach drop toward his feet.  

then your eyes dart around the room, searching, and the pieces click together with horrible clarity.  

“my inhaler,” you manage to whisper, voice tight and strained like each word costs you. “need my bag.”  

the words slam into him with the force of a physical blow—not the cliché kind, but like the way truth hits when you’re not ready for it, sudden and breathtaking and completely devastating.  

inhaler. asthma. and he—  

god, what has he done?  

satoru has never moved faster in his life. he practically flies to the back corner, his hands shaking as he grabs your bag from behind the filing cabinet, and when he turns back toward you with it, he sees the exact moment you realize what this means.  

your eyes widen as you see him returning with your bag from that specific location, and the look that crosses your face—the terrible understanding, the betrayal, the quiet devastation of realizing that the person trying to help you is the same one who caused this—it carves itself into his memory with surgical precision.  

it’s worse than anger. worse than yelling. it’s disappointment, quiet and profound, and it makes him feel like he’s shrinking into himself, becoming smaller and smaller until there’s nothing left but guilt and the lingering scent of his too-strong cologne.  

you don’t say anything about the betrayal. you just dig through your bag with trembling fingers, pulling out a small blue inhaler, and the sound you make as you press it to your lips—desperate and rattling and absolutely terrifying—will haunt his dreams for weeks afterward.  

the medication works, but slowly. satoru stands frozen beside your desk, watching color gradually seep back into your face like watercolor bleeding across wet paper, and there’s something clawing at the inside of his chest that feels suspiciously like panic.  

he did this. he did this to you. he moved your bag, he invaded your space with his overwhelming presence, he created the exact situation that triggered your asthma attack, and he did it all because he was too much of a coward to just say hello like a normal person.  

his hands are shaking—when did they start shaking?—and his eyes, usually so bright they seem to glow, are wide with horror and guilt, reflecting every shade of remorse that exists in the spectrum of human emotion. his perfectly tousled hair is disheveled from running his hands through it, white strands sticking up at odd angles that would be endearing in any other context.  

“are you—” he starts, his voice cracking on the words. “do you need—should i get the nurse? or water? i can get you water, or—”  

“i’m fine,” you say quietly, but your voice is still rough around the edges, and the word ‘fine’ has never sounded less convincing.  

satoru hovers uselessly, his hands fluttering between reaching for you and pulling back, like he can’t decide if his touch would help or make everything worse. probably worse. definitely worse. everything he touches turns to disaster, apparently.  

“i didn’t know,” he says desperately, the words tumbling out in a rush of genuine panic. “i swear i didn’t know about the asthma, i would never have—if i’d known—”  

but that’s not really true, is it? because he did know something was wrong. he saw your distress, saw the way you were struggling to breathe, and his first instinct wasn’t to help but to continue with his stupid plan. he was so focused on manufacturing a romantic moment that he ignored your actual needs, your actual safety.  

you look at him then, really look at him, and he braces himself for anger. he’s prepared for yelling, for tears, for the kind of dramatic confrontation that would at least give him something concrete to apologize for, some clear path toward redemption.  

instead, you just look tired. disappointed in a way that reaches your bones, settles in your posture like a weight you’ll carry for a long time.  

“don’t touch my stuff again,” you say quietly, your voice hoarse from the attack. you won’t meet his eyes as you tuck the inhaler back into your bag, your movements careful and deliberate.  

the words are soft but they land like stones dropped into still water, sending ripples of realization through his chest. not anger, not dramatics—just a simple boundary drawn in the sand, quiet and final.  

then you get up and walk away, your soft lavender cardigan trailing behind you like smoke, leaving satoru standing there with the weight of what he’s done settling around him like lead.  

he watches you go, memorizing the set of your shoulders, the way your hair catches the grey light from the windows, the careful steadiness of your steps. some part of him already knows this might be the last time you let him see you at all, and the thought makes his knees feel unreliable.  

something fundamental has shifted in his chest, something that can’t be undone. not the fluttery, hopeful feeling he’s carried for months, but something heavier and more permanent. the realization that he’s lost something he never actually had, but somehow that makes it worse, not better.  

he’d spent months building a fantasy relationship based on observations and assumptions, convinced himself that his feelings were pure and romantic when really they were selfish and invasive. he’d put his own desires above your comfort and safety, and now he has to live with the consequences of that choice.  

someone should probably tell him to sit down. his legs feel unreliable, like they might give out without warning. but instead he just stands there, staring at the door you disappeared through, breathing in the lingering scent of his cologne and understanding for the first time what it means to be genuinely ashamed of yourself.  

the worst part isn’t even the guilt, though that’s crushing enough. it’s the knowledge that he’s proven himself to be exactly the kind of person who doesn’t deserve to be in your world. selfish, thoughtless, willing to risk your safety for his own gratification.  

you asked for one thing: don’t touch my stuff again.  

such a simple boundary. such a reasonable request.  

and satoru knows, with crystalline clarity, that he’ll spend the rest of his life honoring it, even if it means loving you from a distance so great it feels like another planet entirely.  

the next few days pass in a haze of guilt so thick satoru feels like he’s moving underwater. every breath takes effort, every step feels deliberate. he, who has never been quiet a day in his life, finds himself subdued in ways that make suguru and shoko exchange increasingly worried glances.  

the silence isn’t natural on him. normally, satoru fills every available space with noise—commentary about their teachers, complaints about homework, observations about classmates, elaborate theories about why the cafeteria curry tastes like cardboard. but now he sits through lunch picking at his food, his usual animated gestures replaced by restless fidgeting. his fingers drum against the table in anxious rhythms, his leg bounces under the table, and his hair falls across his forehead in dejected waves that he doesn’t bother to fix.  

the worst part is how you’ve become a ghost in his periphery. before, you were a presence he sought out, a warmth he gravitated toward without quite realizing it. now you’re a careful absence, a space deliberately carved out of his world. he catches glimpses—the edge of your lavender cardigan disappearing around corners, your voice soft and distant in the hallway, the particular way sunlight catches in your hair through the classroom windows—but they feel like echoes of something lost.  

you don’t look at him anymore. not even the polite smiles, not even the careful acknowledgments when he holds doors or offers his umbrella. you’ve effectively erased him from your world, and the space he used to occupy—however small—now feels enormous in its emptiness.  

but it’s more than just the absence of your attention. it’s watching you actively reshape your entire routine around avoiding him. you take different routes to class now, ones that don’t pass his locker or the spots where he usually lingered. you sit farther away during lunch, choosing tables with clear sightlines to exits. your study spots in the library have shifted to the far corner by the poetry section, somewhere he’d never think to look.  

satoru finds himself memorizing these new patterns with the same obsessive attention he once devoted to learning your preferences. except now he’s cataloguing all the ways you don’t want to see him, mapping the geography of your avoidance like a scholar of his own rejection. every adjusted route, every changed habit, every carefully calculated distance feels like evidence of how thoroughly he’s ruined whatever fragile connection existed between you.  

the guilt sits in his chest like a physical weight, making his ribs feel too tight and his lungs too small. sometimes he catches himself holding his breath without realizing it, as if his body is trying to remind him what it felt like for you in that moment when your inhaler was out of reach and panic was closing your throat.  

“this is getting ridiculous,” shoko says on thursday, cornering him after their last class. she’s got that look—the one that means she’s been watching him deteriorate all week and has reached her limit. her lighter hair is tucked behind her ears, and there’s genuine concern threading through her usual deadpan expression. “you look like someone ran over your dog.”  

“worse,” satoru mumbles, slumped against the lockers. the metal is cool against his spine, but it does nothing to ease the heat of shame that’s been burning in his chest for days. his hair falls across his forehead in dejected waves, no longer catching light like spun silver but hanging limp with the weight of his misery. “someone should run over me.”  

“dramatic much?” but there’s no real bite in shoko’s words. she’s studying his face with the clinical attention she usually reserves for her first aid training, cataloguing the dark circles under his eyes, the way his shoulders hunch inward like he’s trying to protect himself from invisible blows.  

“she doesn’t want to talk to me,” satoru continues, his voice taking on that whiny quality that means he’s really, truly upset. it’s the same tone he used as a kid when he scraped his knees or lost his favorite toy, except now there’s something hollow underneath it that makes shoko’s chest tighten. “and she’s right not to. i’m an idiot. i’m worse than an idiot—i’m the kind of person who gives someone an asthma attack because i wanted her to notice me.”  

the words taste bitter in his mouth, and he runs both hands through his hair until it’s sticking up at impossible angles. his eyes—usually so vibrant they seem to glow with internal light—look dulled, like someone turned down their brightness settings. the effect is unsettling on someone who’s made a career of being the center of attention.  

“that’s like... that’s supervillain levels of terrible,” he continues, his voice dropping to a whisper. “who does that? who puts someone in actual physical danger just for a chance to play hero?”  

“you’re an idiot who made a mistake,” suguru corrects, joining their little intervention. he’s been listening from a few feet away, probably giving satoru space to spiral before stepping in. his dark eyes are serious but kind, the way they get when he’s trying to talk one of his friends down from an emotional ledge. “there’s a difference.”  

“is there?” satoru laughs, but there’s no humor in it. the sound is flat and hollow, like stones dropping into an empty well. “i literally made it so she couldn’t breathe, suguru. because i was too much of a coward to just say hi like a normal person.”  

he slides down the lockers until he’s sitting on the floor, his uniform rumpled and his posture defeated. from this angle, with his knees pulled up and his head tilted back against the metal, he looks younger somehow. less like the confident class clown everyone expects him to be, more like the anxious seventeen-year-old boy he actually is.  

“and you know what the worst part is?” his voice cracks slightly, and he has to clear his throat to continue. “it wasn’t even a prank or whatever she probably thinks. it was worse than that. it was me being so desperate for her attention that i was willing to manufacture a crisis just to have an excuse to talk to her.”  

shoko crouches down beside him, her expression softer than usual. “satoru—”  

“i’ve been in love with her for months,” he continues, the words spilling out like he can’t stop them. they’ve been building pressure in his chest for so long that saying them aloud feels like puncturing a balloon. “months of watching her and learning her schedule and finding excuses to be near her, and the one time i actually try to do something about it, i nearly send her to the hospital.”  

the confession hangs in the air between them, raw and vulnerable in a way that makes both his friends exchange glances. satoru doesn’t usually talk about his feelings this directly, doesn’t usually let them see past the performative confidence to the uncertainty underneath.  

“you’re being dramatic,” shoko says, but her tone is gentler now, like she’s talking to something wounded. “it was an asthma attack, not attempted murder.”  

“am i? because it sure felt pretty serious when she couldn’t breathe.” satoru’s voice drops to a whisper, and when he looks up at them, there’s something haunted in his expression. “what if something had happened? what if her inhaler wasn’t in her bag, or what if it was empty, or what if—”  

“stop,” suguru says firmly, dropping down to sit beside him. “you’re spiraling again.”  

“good! i should spiral.” satoru’s hands clench into fists in his lap, his knuckles white with tension. “i should feel terrible about this forever because what i did was—”  

“fixable,” shoko interrupts, settling on his other side. “if you stop wallowing and actually do something about it.”  

but what is there to do? how do you apologize for something like that? how do you take back the moment when your selfishness literally made someone unable to breathe? satoru has never been good with genuine apologies—he’s always been able to charm his way out of trouble with jokes and dramatic gestures—but this feels too important for his usual repertoire.  

the weekend stretches ahead of him like a prison sentence. normally, satoru would spend saturday sleeping in and sunday doing homework at the last minute, maybe hanging out with suguru and shoko if they could tolerate his energy levels. but the thought of two whole days without even the possibility of seeing you, even from a distance, makes his chest feel hollow.  

instead, he finds himself at his desk with a blank piece of paper and a pen that feels impossibly heavy in his hand.  

the first draft is a disaster. too casual, too formal, too joking, too serious. he writes and crumples and writes again until his wastebasket overflows with failed attempts. his desk is littered with torn pages, each one a different approach to the impossible task of explaining the inexplicable.  

hey, so about the other day... crumple.  

i know you’re probably mad at me... crumple.  

please don’t hate me forever... crumple.  

by sunday night, he’s surrounded by the carnage of his literary failures, his hair disheveled from running his hands through it, his eyes strained from staring at blank pages. the collar of his sleep shirt is wrinkled from nervous tugging, and there are ink stains on his fingers from gripping his pen too tightly.  

finally, sometime around midnight, he stops trying to be clever or charming or anything other than honest. the words that come then are raw and unfiltered, written in his messy handwriting with all its imperfect loops and hurried slashes:  

i don’t know how to start this, so i’m just going to say it: i’m sorry. i’m sorry for moving your bag, i’m sorry for what happened because of it, and i’m sorry for being too much of a coward to say this to your face.  

i know you probably think i did it as some kind of prank, but it wasn’t that. it was worse than that. i did it because i wanted you to talk to me, and i was too scared to just ask you to. i’ve been watching you for months, trying to figure out how to be part of your world without disrupting it, but all i did was prove that i don’t deserve to be in it at all.  

i don’t know what your favorite color is, or what kind of music you listen to, or if you prefer tea or coffee. i don’t know anything real about you, but somehow you’ve become the most important part of my day. seeing you smile—even those careful, polite ones—made everything else bearable. and now i’ve ruined even that.  

i’m not asking you to forgive me. i’m not asking you to talk to me again. i just needed you to know that what happened wasn’t because i don’t care. it was because i care too much, and i’m terrible at showing it.  

i’m sorry for being the kind of person who would risk your safety just for a chance at your attention. you deserve so much better than that. you deserve so much better than me.  

-satoru  

ps: i’ve been leaving you extra snacks in your locker on the days when you forget lunch money. and i convinced sensei to pair us for calculus study sessions because you’re actually brilliant at it and i thought if you explained it out loud, you’d realize that too. and i always walk slow when it rains because i hoped you’d stay a little drier, even if you never took the umbrella. i’m sorry if any of that was unwelcome. i just wanted to help.  

he folds the letter with trembling fingers, creasing it carefully like it’s something precious instead of a confession of his worst impulses. on monday morning, he arrives at school early, the hallways still empty and echoing with the hollow sound of his footsteps. your locker is in the sophomore wing, and he knows the combination because he’s watched you enter it enough times to memorize the sequence—another violation of your privacy that makes him feel sick with shame.  

slipping the letter through the vents takes exactly three seconds, but he stands there for another minute afterward, staring at the metal door like he can will it to grant him forgiveness. the letter disappears into the darkness beyond the vents, carrying all his hope and terror with it.  

the next few days pass in a special kind of agony. every time he sees you in the hallway, his heart does something acrobatic in his chest, searching your face for any sign that you’ve read his words. but your expression remains carefully neutral, your routine unchanged. you still avoid his usual haunts, still choose paths that don’t intersect with his, still treat him like furniture that happens to be shaped like a person.  

by wednesday, satoru is convinced you threw the letter away without reading it. the possibility shouldn’t hurt as much as it does—after all, you have every right to ignore his desperate rambling—but it settles in his chest like lead anyway. maybe it’s better this way. maybe some mistakes are too big for apologies to bridge.  

but then thursday happens.  

he’s walking to english with suguru, trailing behind because his legs feel heavy and his uniform feels too tight and everything feels like it requires more energy than he can muster. you’re ahead of them, walking with that careful, measured pace you’ve adopted since the incident, your bag slung over your shoulder and your hair catching the afternoon light streaming through the hallway windows.  

that’s when you drop your pencil case.  

the sound of it hitting the floor echoes in the hallway—a sharp crack followed by the scatter of pens and pencils rolling in different directions. satoru’s instinct is immediate and overwhelming: help. fix it. make it better. his feet are already moving before his brain catches up, muscle memory overriding conscious thought.  

but then he remembers. don’t touch my stuff again.  

he stops so abruptly that suguru nearly runs into him, his hands clenched into fists at his sides to keep from reaching out. it’s physical torture, watching you kneel to collect your scattered supplies while he stands frozen three feet away. his whole body is screaming at him to move, to help, to do something, but your words echo in his memory like a prohibition.  

other students walk around you, some offering to help, others simply stepping over the scattered pens. you accept assistance from a girl in your chemistry class, your voice soft and grateful as she hands you a runaway highlighter. satoru watches it all from his enforced distance, cataloguing the careful way you check each pen to make sure the tips aren’t broken, the methodical way you organize them back into their designated spots.  

that’s when he sees it.  

his letter. folded small and tucked into the clear pocket on the front of your pencil case, visible enough that he knows you’ve kept it, hidden enough that it’s private. the paper is slightly wrinkled now, like it’s been handled, unfolded and refolded multiple times. like it’s been read.  

you kept it.  

the realization hits him like lightning, electric and overwhelming. his vision goes a little fuzzy around the edges, and he has to lean against the wall to keep his knees from giving out. you kept his letter. you didn’t throw it away, didn’t dismiss it, didn’t pretend it never existed. you folded it up and tucked it somewhere safe, somewhere you’d see it every time you reached for a pen or pencil.  

“dude,” suguru says quietly, following his gaze. “holy shit.”  

satoru can’t respond. can’t breathe properly. can’t process the magnitude of what this means. it doesn’t necessarily mean forgiveness—you might have kept it as evidence of his stupidity, or as a reminder to stay away from him. but it means you read it. you absorbed his words, his apology, his confession, and decided they were worth preserving.  

it’s the first spark of hope he’s felt in days, fragile and tentative but real.  

friday brings rain, heavy and insistent against the classroom windows. satoru finds himself distracted all day, watching water streak down glass and thinking about umbrellas, about careful distances, about the way you always walk a little faster when the sky opens up. by the time school ends, the downpour has settled into a steady rhythm that promises to last through the evening.  

he has his umbrella, of course. the same oversized black one he’s carried for months, the one he’s used as an excuse to walk near you on dozens of rainy days. today, he doesn’t plan to use it as an excuse for anything. today, he just wants to get home without drowning in the deluge or the weight of his own thoughts.  

but when he reaches the corner where your paths usually diverge—the place where you normally turn toward your neighborhood while he continues straight toward his—you’re there.  

waiting.  

satoru stops so abruptly that rain immediately begins soaking through his uniform. you’re standing under the overhang of a convenience store, protected from the worst of the downpour but still catching spray from the wind. your hair is damp, sticking to your cheeks and neck, and that soft lavender cardigan is dark with moisture. your fingers are twisted in the fabric of your sleeves, and you’re looking at the ground like you’re gathering courage from the wet pavement.  

for a moment, he thinks he might be hallucinating. stress-induced visions brought on by too much guilt and not enough sleep. but then you look up, and your eyes meet his across the rain-soaked distance, and the reality of your presence hits him like a physical force.  

“hi,” you say quietly, and your voice is barely audible over the sound of rain hitting concrete and car tires splashing through puddles. but satoru hears it anyway, because he’s been waiting to hear your voice directed at him for so long that his ears are tuned to the frequency of your words.  

satoru’s heart forgets how to beat properly. it stutters and lurches and then tries to compensate by racing so fast he can feel his pulse in his temples. his umbrella slips slightly in his suddenly nerveless grip, and when he speaks, his voice comes out rougher than intended—like he’s forgotten how to use it for anything other than internal recrimination.  

“hi.”  

for a long moment, you just look at each other across the rain-dark afternoon. the silence stretches between you, not comfortable but not entirely uncomfortable either. it’s the silence of two people who have too much to say and no idea where to start. cars pass by, their headlights cutting through the grey gloom, and somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbles like the sky is clearing its throat.  

your eyes are the same color they’ve always been, but there’s something different in them now—some decision made, some wall cautiously lowered. satoru can see the careful set of your shoulders, the way you’re holding yourself like you’re ready to run if this goes badly. but you’re here. you’re here and you’re talking to him and that has to mean something.  

“i read your letter,” you say finally, water droplets clinging to your lashes like tiny prisms. when you blink, they scatter, and satoru thinks absurdly that you look like something from a painting—ethereal and beautiful and far too good for someone like him.  

he nods, not trusting his voice. his throat feels thick, like all his words are crowding together and canceling each other out. the rain is cold against his neck, seeping through his collar, but he barely notices. all his attention is focused on you, on the careful way you’re watching his face, on the slight tremble in your voice that suggests you’re as nervous as he is.  

“you’ve been... helping me?” there’s something careful in the way you ask it, like you’re afraid of the answer. your hands fidget with the hem of your wet cardigan, a gesture so familiar it makes his chest ache with longing. how many times has he watched you do exactly that when you’re thinking through a difficult problem in class?  

“yeah.” the word comes out rougher than he intends, and he has to clear his throat before continuing. “i’m sorry if that was—i mean, i know you didn’t ask for—”  

“why?”  

the question stops him short, cutting through his rambling apology like a knife through silk. why? how is he supposed to explain that you’ve become essential to his existence? that your quiet kindness in october rewrote something fundamental in his understanding of what matters? that he’s spent months learning the rhythm of your routine because being in sync with your world feels like the closest thing to belonging he’s ever experienced?  

“because,” he says lamely, then forces himself to try again. his hair is getting plastered to his forehead now, silver strands dark with rain, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care. “because you helped me pick up my papers that day. and you didn’t laugh.”  

you blink raindrops from your lashes, considering this. “you help people all the time. you make everyone laugh.”  

“that’s different.”  

“how?”  

satoru runs his free hand through his hair, the wet strands slipping between his fingers like silk. how can he explain that making people laugh is performance, but what you gave him was recognition? that every joke he tells is just noise designed to fill up the empty spaces, but your quiet “you okay?” was the first time someone had seen past the entertainment to ask about the person underneath?  

the rain continues to fall around you both, creating a curtain of grey that makes the rest of the world feel distant and unreal. streetlights are beginning to flicker on, casting pools of yellow light that reflect in puddles and make everything look like an impressionist painting.  

“because when you helped me, it wasn’t for show,” he says finally, his voice barely carrying over the rain. “it was just... kind. and i’d never had someone be kind to me without expecting something back.”  

something shifts in your expression at his words. the careful guardedness doesn’t disappear entirely, but it softens around the edges, like morning frost beginning to melt under weak sunlight. you step closer, close enough that he can smell your shampoo even over the rain—something soft and floral that makes his head spin with possibility.  

your proximity sends electricity racing along his nerve endings, every cell in his body suddenly hyperaware of the space between you. he can see the way rain has made your eyelashes clump together, can count the droplets of water clinging to your skin, can track the rapid pulse at the base of your throat that suggests you’re as affected by this moment as he is.  

“the pencil case,” you say suddenly, your voice soft but clear.  

“what?”  

“you said you didn’t know what my favorite color was. but you do.” you touch the clear pocket where his letter is tucked away, and satoru realizes that everything scattered from your pencil case was blue. blue pens, blue highlighter, blue sticky notes, blue paper clips. “you’ve always known. you bought me blue snacks when you left them in my locker. you convinced sensei to let me use the blue markers for our presentation. you’ve been paying attention.”  

he has been paying attention. obsessively, desperately, cataloguing every detail like his life depends on it. the way you always choose the blue pen first from your pencil case. the way you gravitate toward blue sticky notes in the library. the way your eyes light up—just slightly, but enough for someone who’s watching carefully—when you see the blue wildflowers that grow by the school’s front gate in spring.  

“blue,” he says softly, and finally—finally—you smile. not the polite, careful smile you give teachers and acquaintances, but that real smile, the one that transforms your whole face and makes his knees forget how to support his weight. it’s like watching the sun break through storm clouds, sudden and brilliant and warming everything it touches.  

“blue,” you confirm, taking another step closer. you’re close enough now that he can see the flecks of gold in your eyes, can see the way your pupils dilate slightly as you look up at him. the rain has made your skin luminous, like you’re lit from within. “like your eyes.”  

satoru’s umbrella slips from suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering to the wet pavement with a sound that seems impossibly loud in the intimate space between you. but neither of you move to pick it up. you’re both getting drenched now, rain soaking through your clothes and dripping from your hair, but you step closer instead of away.  

his eyes—those impossible cerulean pools that seem to hold entire skies captive—are wide with wonder and disbelief. up close, they’re even more extraordinary than you’ve ever allowed yourself to notice. they’re not just blue, but dozens of blues: the deep navy of midnight sky, the bright cerulean of tropical waters, the pale frost-blue of winter mornings. silver threads through them like captured lightning, and there are darker rings around the irises that make them look infinite, like looking into them might mean falling forever.  

“i have a confession too,” you say, and your voice is so quiet he has to lean down to hear you. your breath is warm against his ear when he does, sending shivers down his spine that have nothing to do with the rain. the proximity makes his pulse thunder so loudly he’s sure you can hear it. “i’ve been avoiding you.”  

“i know,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. this close, he can see every detail of your face—the way your lashes frame your eyes, the soft curve of your mouth, the small scar on your chin that he’s wondered about for months. “i don’t blame you.”  

“not because of the bag thing.” you pull back just enough to look at him, and there’s color in your cheeks now that wasn’t there before—a soft flush that makes his breath catch. “before that. since october.”  

satoru’s brain struggles to process this information. rain drips from his hair, and he has to blink water from his lashes to focus on your face. the world feels like it’s tilting on its axis, realigning around this new understanding. “but... why?”  

you look down, your fingers playing with the hem of your wet cardigan. when you speak, your voice is so soft he has to strain to hear it over the rain.  

“because you make my heart race. and when my heart races too much, sometimes i can’t breathe properly.”  

oh.

oh.  

the pieces click together so suddenly satoru feels dizzy with it. the careful distance you’ve maintained, the polite smiles that never quite reached your eyes, the way you’d declined his umbrella even when you were clearly getting soaked. not because you disliked his attention, but because you liked it too much. because proximity to him triggered something in your cardiovascular system that your compromised respiratory system couldn’t handle.  

you’ve been managing your feelings for him the same way you manage your asthma—with careful avoidance, strategic distance, measured exposure.  

“so when you moved my bag,” you continue, your words coming faster now like you need to get them out before you lose courage, “and i couldn’t find my inhaler, it wasn’t just the missing medication. it was also... you were so close, and worried about me, and your cologne was so strong, and i couldn’t handle both the asthma and the way you were looking at me.”  

the confession hits him like a physical force, rewriting everything he thought he understood about the last few months. all those times you’d walked away when he offered help, all those carefully maintained distances, all those polite deflections—you hadn’t been rejecting him. you’d been protecting yourself. protecting both of you, maybe, from the complications of feelings that felt too big for your bodies to contain.  

satoru stares at you, this impossible girl who’s just turned his entire understanding of the last few months upside down. his heart is beating so hard it feels like it might crack his ribs, and there’s something building in his chest—something too big for his body to contain. it’s relief and amazement and crushing tenderness all mixed together into something that might be love but feels too enormous to name.  

“you...” his voice cracks slightly, and he has to clear his throat to continue. “you were avoiding me because you liked me?”  

“you were helping me in secret because you liked me,” you counter, and that’s fair. your eyes meet his, and there’s something brave and vulnerable in your expression that makes his knees weak. “we’re both idiots.”  

“complete disasters,” he agrees, and then you’re both laughing. it starts as nervous giggles but builds into something brighter, more genuine. the sound echoes in the rain-soaked space between you, mixing with the steady patter of water on pavement and the distant hum of traffic.  

the laughter fades into something quieter, more intense. rain continues to fall around you both, but it feels less like a barrier now and more like a cocoon, insulating you from the rest of the world. satoru reaches up with trembling fingers to touch your face, his thumb brushing water from your cheek. your skin is soft and cold from the rain, but it warms under his touch like you’re coming alive beneath his hands.  

when you don’t pull away, when you actually lean into his palm like a flower seeking sunlight, his heart does something acrobatic in his chest. the simple trust of that gesture—letting him touch you, letting him close, letting him offer comfort instead of maintaining the careful distance you’ve worked so hard to preserve—undoes something fundamental in his chest.  

“for the record,” he says, voice softer than the rainfall, “blue is my favorite color too now.”  

“now?”  

his thumb traces across your cheekbone, following the path raindrops have taken down your face. the way you shiver at his touch has nothing to do with the cold rain and everything to do with the electric current that seems to run between your skin and his. “since october. since you.”  

you make a sound that’s half laugh, half sigh, and when you rise up on your toes to kiss him, satoru thinks every stupid decision he’s ever made was worth it if it led to this moment.  

your lips are soft and taste like rain and promises. the kiss is gentle at first, hesitant—a question more than a statement. but when satoru responds, when he kisses you back with months of pent-up longing carefully restrained into something tender, you make a small sound in the back of your throat that goes straight to his soul.  

the rain continues to fall around you, but it becomes background noise to the sensation of your mouth against his, your hands fisting in the front of his soaked uniform shirt, the way you fit against him like you were made for this exact moment. he can taste the salt of rainwater on your lips, can feel the rapid flutter of your pulse where his thumb rests against your neck.  

when you break apart, both of you are breathing hard. satoru rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, lashes dark with rain. his expression is one of pure reverence, like he can’t quite believe this is real, like he’s afraid that opening his eyes might make you disappear.  

“your heart’s racing,” he murmurs, because he can feel it against his chest—a rapid flutter that matches his own.  

“yeah,” you say, your fingers still tangled in his shirt, tugging slightly in a way that makes his breath hitch. “but it’s the good kind.”  

you’re both soaked through, shivering in the rain, but neither of you seems inclined to move. satoru’s hands frame your face like you’re something precious, his thumbs stroking across your cheekbones with infinite tenderness. water drips from his hair onto your upturned face, but you don’t seem to mind.  

“we should probably get you home,” he says after a long moment, though his voice lacks conviction. “you’re soaking wet. you’ll catch cold.”  

“so are you,” you point out, but you’re already bending to retrieve his fallen umbrella, your movements reluctant. when you hand it to him, your fingers brush his, sending sparks up his arm that have nothing to do with static electricity.  

the walk to your house passes in a dream-like haze. you’re tucked under his umbrella, close enough that your shoulder brushes his arm with every step, close enough that he can hear the way your breathing has settled into something calmer but still elevated. you don’t talk much, but the silence is comfortable now, charged with possibility instead of tension.  

satoru finds himself hyper-aware of everything: the way raindrops cling to your hair, the soft sound of your footsteps on wet pavement, the warmth radiating from your body despite the cool rain. he wants to memorize every second of this, wants to catalogue every detail so that later, when he’s lying in bed staring at the ceiling in disbelief, he’ll have proof that this actually happened.  

“this is me,” you say when you reach a small house with a covered front porch and flower boxes under the windows. the flowers are wilted from the rain, but satoru can see that they were once blue—cornflowers, maybe, or some kind of morning glory.  

you turn to face him under the porch light, and the yellow glow makes your rain-dampened skin look golden. there’s a moment of hesitation, like you’re not sure how to end this, how to transition from the intimacy of shared confessions back to the reality of separate lives.  

“thank you,” you say finally. “for walking me home. and for... everything else.”  

“thank you for reading my letter,” he says, then feels heat rise in his cheeks. “and for not throwing it away. and for giving me a chance to apologize properly.”  

you reach up to touch his face, your fingers cool against his flushed skin. “thank you for apologizing. and for all those months of help i didn’t know i was getting.”  

he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering closed. “thank you for keeping my letter where i could see it.”  

“thank you for noticing that i kept it.”  

you’re both quiet for a moment, reluctant to break this fragile new thing between you. finally, you rise up on your toes again, and this time the kiss is softer, sweeter—a promise instead of a question.  

“i’ll see you monday?” you ask when you pull away, and there’s something shy in your voice that makes his chest tight with affection.  

“couldn’t keep me away,” he says, and means it completely.  

he waits on your porch until you’re safely inside, watching the warm light spill from your windows into the rainy night. only when he sees you appear briefly in what must be an upstairs window—changed into dry clothes and looking impossibly beautiful even from a distance—does he finally turn to walk home.  

the rain has gentled to a drizzle by the time he reaches his own house, but he’s still soaked through. his mother takes one look at him standing in the entryway, dripping on the hardwood and grinning like an idiot, and wordlessly hands him a towel.  

“good day at school?” she asks dryly.  

“the best,” satoru says, and disappears upstairs to change, humming under his breath for the first time in days.  

later, much later, after he’s showered and changed into dry clothes and attempted to do homework that he can’t concentrate on because his brain keeps replaying the feeling of your lips against his, satoru lies in bed staring at the ceiling with the biggest smile he’s ever worn.  

he finally knows something real about you: you taste like coming home, like the answer to every question he’s never known how to ask.  

but even later than that, after weeks of shy hand-holding and shared umbrellas and study sessions that actually involve studying, after you’ve let him into your world for real instead of just hovering at the edges, he’ll learn something even more important:  

your favorite color isn’t just blue.  

it’s the specific shade of blue that lives in his eyes when he looks at you like you’re the answer to every prayer he’s never known how to pray.  

and satoru thinks that might be the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever told him.  

[splurtz]

EXTRA, EXTRA, ℛ𝓔𝓐𝓓 ALL ABOUT IT !

. . . 𝑇𝓞ℛ𝓤'𝓢 IN HIS FEELINGS AND HE CAN'T GET OUT OF IT :(

SUM. rumor has it that in an attempt to sleep with you, satoru gojo thought it would be a good idea to work at the same campus cafe as you! does he need the money? no! does he need your attention? well yeah.

CONTENT. MDNI. explicit sexual content. slow burn. kinda enemies to lover. oral sex. riding. unprotected sex. creampie. slight dom/sub undertones. lots of teasing. dirty talk. semi-public making out. mild angst from miscommunication. eventual fluff.

A/N. satoru art by uruyuuu ... malcolm todd is goated

you meet satoru gojo on a tuesday morning when the cafe is packed worse than usual. the line stretches all the way past the entrance, your apron is covered in dried milk splatters, and your patience is basically gone.

then in he walks.

satoru gojo is the kind of guy who makes the world bend a little just by existing. cocky without apology, charming in that infuriating way that has people falling over themselves, the type who never hears no because he doesn’t give them the chance to say it. and well he’s rich, he’s brilliant, he’s everything and he knows it, which is exactly why you hated him from the second you met him.

“one of everything sweet you got back there,” he says. “extra whip, extra shots, and throw in a smile for me while you’re at it, yeah? name’s toru by the way.”

you stare at him for half a second. he can’t be serious.

“do you even know how bad that’ll taste?” you mutter, not even bothering to hide the annoyance in your voice. you start slamming cups and pumps because arguing with customers is a quick way to get written up, but god, this one makes it tempting.

the smirk on satoru’s face gets wider, those ridiculous sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose just enough for you to catch a flash of those too-blue eyes.

“aw, c’mon princess. live a little. i like my coffee like i like my company—sweet, messy, and a little overwhelming.”

you nearly drop the cup. the audacity rolls off him in waves and when you finally slide the drink across the counter (extra everything just like he asked), he takes one dramatic sip and makes a face.

“too sweet,” he declares as he sets the cup down. “way too sweet. you tryna put me in a sugar coma or what?”

your eye twitches, “you literally asked for one of everything sweet. that’s what you got. if you wanted plain black coffee maybe you should’ve just said that.”

he leans in closer, elbows on the counter, completely ignoring the growing line behind him. “feisty. i like that, it’s almost cute.”

“cute?” you echo. “buddy, i’m two seconds away from spitting in your next drink if you don’t move.”

satoru throws his head back and laughs, you also notice a few girls in line giggle along with him. he then pulls out his card, taps it against the reader, and winks.

fucking asshole.

“that should be it, princess. and hey—i’ll be back tomorrow! maybe you’ll get my order right next time.”

you watch him saunter out, white hair catching the light, and you mutter under your breath the entire time you’re making the next customer’s latte.

you think that’s the end of it. that he’s just another entitled campus pretty boy who’ll forget your face by the time he hits his next lecture.

but satoru gojo doesn’t forget things that interest him.

and apparently, you just became interesting.

˚⟡˖ ࣪

“hey, new hire starts today. show him the ropes when he gets here. he’s a fast learner, supposedly.”

you nod... you’ve been working at this campus cafe for almost eight months now. started right after your financial aid package came up short and you needed something flexible that wouldn’t kill your gpa. the pay is decent, the tips are better on busy days, and it beats retail. plus the free coffee reallyyy helps.

pops, your manager, has been running this place longer than most of the students have been alive on campus. he’s kind of aloof that borders on comedy, always saying the bare minimum while somehow making it sound like the most profound shit you’ve ever heard. you get along with him in that weird way where you trade sarcasm and he never takes anything too seriously.

“great,” you say, already dreading it. “i’m babysitting today basically”

pops snorts, “this one applied with a resume that looked like it belonged in a fortune 500. probably won’t last, but at least he’ll look pretty while he burns the milk.”

“so you hired him because he’s pretty?”

“i hired him because we’re short staffed and he said he could start today. pretty is just a bonus. try not to scare him off on day one, yeah? i don’t feel like doing interviews again.”

the bell above the door chimes. “oh look, there he is. right on time.”

you turn around and your stomach drops straight through the floor.

no. fucking. way.

satoru steps inside wearing the exact same black apron as you have, name tag already clipped to his chest slightly crooked.

he spots you instantly.

“morning, princess,” he says, voice carrying across the quiet space. “ready to teach me how to make that sugar coma special?”

you just stare at him, mouth half open.

“you’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter.

satoru walks behind the counter, already rolling up the sleeves of his shirt like he’s done this a hundred times. he stops a little too close, that familiar cocky energy filling up the small space.

“what? you told me to try plain black coffee next time. figured the best way to get it right is to learn how to make it myself. plus the tips here looked decent when i was scoping the place out yesterday.”

“play nice, both of you. i don’t want to hear any screaming before ten.”

you pinch the bridge of your nose, already feeling the headache coming on. “this is a joke, right? he’s the new hire?”

“looks that way,” pops says, shrugging. “show him the basics. registers, milk steaming, the usual. don’t let him break anything expensive.”

satoru leans against the counter looking way too amused. “don’t worry, i’m a fast learner. you’ll barely have to babysit. we're gonna be real good friends."

˚⟡˖ ࣪

supervising satoru on his first day turns out to be exactly as annoying as you expected, except somehow worse.

he picks up the register faster than anyone you’ve ever trained. customers love him. older ladies compliment his “lovely smile,” frat guys clap him on the shoulder, and half the girls on campus suddenly decide they need an extra shot in their latte. every time someone tells him his coffee is perfect he makes sure you hear it, tossing the praise your way.

“did you catch that? she said it was the best cappuccino she’s had all semester. guess i’m a natural.”

“she was flirting with you, not rating your foam.”

“eh, same thing.”

he’s extra with everything too, especially the latte art. while you’re trying to keep the line moving he spends an extra ten seconds swirling hearts and little flowers into every cappuccino, sometimes even attempting tiny cats or stars. half the time they come out lopsided but he’s proud of himself.

one girl actually took a photo and posted it right there at the counter. again, satoru made sure you saw it.

“see? people appreciate the details. you should try it sometime instead of just dumping plain foam on top.”

“we’re not an art studio, gojo.”

he just laughs unbothered and keeps going. every time you correct him on something he listens for about five seconds then does it his own way anyway, but he never actually messes up. it’s infuriating how quickly he fits in.

˚⟡˖ ࣪

by the end of the first week you’re convinced satoru gojo was put on this earth specifically to test every last nerve you have left.

he shows up every single shift you’re on. the worst part is he’s actually good at the job. terrifyingly good even. 

you catch him quiet one afternoon working the espresso machine.

there’s something weirdly attractive about how easy he is when he’s focused like this. when he’s not the loud, cocky version that grates on your nerves. the quieter side. the way his shoulders relax, the small smile that sits on his lips when no one’s watching, the brightness that seems to live under his skin even when he’s not talking.

he’s stupidly pretty like that, when he's just simply existing.

it's like the whole world softens around him without him even trying. it pisses you off how much you notice it.

“you know,” he starts, “for someone who claims to hate me, you spend a lot of time staring.”

“excuse me. i’m not staring at you—im looking at the espresso machine.”

satoru steps closer to you. he’s tall, unfairly so, and he knows how to use it, looming enough to make the space between you feel smaller than it should.

“admit it, princess. you’re impressed.”

“sure, most trust fund babies last two days max.”

he laughs, “you think i’m doing this for the money? please. i could buy this whole campus if i wanted.”

did this asshole just flex on you?

“then why are you here, gojo?” you finally look up at him, arms crossed tight over your chest. “you don’t need the tips. you don’t need the experience. so what’s the angle?”

suddenly he reaches out, tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“maybe i like coffee,” he murmurs. “or maybe i simply just like seeing you. either way… i’m not going anywhere.”

your heart beats faster, traitor that it is. you slap his hand away, ignoring the way your skin tingles where he touched you.

“touch me again and i’ll steam your fingers instead of the milk.”

“violent,” he says. “i like that about you too.”

before you can fire back, the bell over the door rings again and a group of students shuffle in, saving you from whatever stupid thing was about to come out of your mouth. you turn away from him fast, busying yourself with the register.

by closing time the cafe is empty except for the two of you. pops already left an hour ago, so now it’s just you wiping down the last tables while satoru sweeps the floor.

you’re stacking chairs when he appears beside you without warning, grabbing the one next to yours and flipping it onto the table. his shoulder bumps yours on purpose this time.

“so,” he starts, casual as ever, “what are you doing after this?”

“going home, i’m pretty tired… uh you?”

“boring, you're boring," he yawns, "lemme walk you back to your dorm to be safe.”

“i’ve walked myself home for eight months, gojo. i think i’ll survive without a bodyguard.”

“yeah, but now you don’t have to.” he continues, “c’mon, princess. one walk. i’ll even try to keep the pet names to a minimum.”

you study him for a long moment.

“fine,” you say finally giving in, “annoy me again and i’m pushing you into the nearest bush.”

“deal.” he holds up both hands in mock surrender. “but just so you know… i’m really good at dodging bushes.”

you roll your eyes at that, he never runs out of bullets. the two of you finish closing up in comfortable quiet. he locks the front door while you kill the lights, and when you step out into the cool evening air together, the campus paths are mostly empty, strung with soft golden lamplight.

satoru falls into step beside you, hands shoved in his pockets. for once he’s not filling the silence with cocky one-liners. he stays at your side, occasionally glancing over like he’s making sure you’re still okay with this.

“you know,” he says after a few minutes, “i wasn’t lying earlier about liking seeing you.”

“seeing me glaring at you?”

“exactly.” he bumps your shoulder lightly with his. “it’s cute. you get this little crease between your brows when you’re annoyed. makes me want to annoy you more just to see it.”

“you’re weird, gojo.”

“and i’m also walking you home like a gentleman.”

you snort, preventing yourself from smiling. you would never hear the end of it if he sees it.

the walk to your dorm isn’t long. when you finally reach the front steps he stops, rocking back on his heels with his hands still in his pockets.

“working tomorrow, right?” he asks.

“yeah.”

“night, princess,” he says as he backs away. “sweet dreams. try not to dream of me!”

˚⟡˖ ࣪

you overslept like an idiot.

your alarm didn’t go off, or maybe it did and you smacked it into oblivion in your half asleep state. either way you’re rushing across campus because you completely missed the lecture you usually go to. now the only option left is this later section if you want any chance of catching up.

you slide into the back row just as the professor starts droning on about macroeconomic theory. you’re busy trying to catch your breath and fish out a pen when someone drops into the seat right next to you.

“well well well,” that familiar voice drawls, low enough not to draw the whole room’s attention. “didn’t know you were stalking me now, princess. following me to my lectures?”

you turn your head slowly and there’s satoru.

of fucking course he’s here too.

“you wish,” you hiss under your breath. “i overslept, this is the only section that still had seats. don’t flatter yourself, gojo.”

he leans in a little closer, “sure, sure. keep telling yourself that. but here you are, sitting right next to me when there’s like twenty empty spots further down the row. coincidence? i think not.”

“there weren’t twenty empty spots when i sat down, genius. and move your arm, you’re taking up half the desk.”

“admit it. you saw my pretty head of hair from across the room and couldn’t resist. it’s okay, happens to the best of them.”

“you’re delusional,” you mutter. “i sat here first.”

“well i was already in this section.”

the professor’s voice fades into background noise while satoru keeps up his quiet commentary, whispering dumb observations about the slides or how the guy in the front row is clearly asleep with his eyes open. it’s annoying. it’s also kind of funny, in a way that makes the lecture drag less.

by the time class ends you’re packing up faster than usual, hoping to slip out before he can say anything else, but of course he matches your pace, rushing beside you as you both head down the steps.

“shift starts in thirty, right?” he asks.

“yeah,” you say, adjusting your bag strap. “you don’t start yours till later. go do better things, please.”

“nah, i’ll come with. what if you fall asleep on the way? need to keep you in check..”

“one, that’s not gonna happen. two, i didn’t fall asleep,” you protest, “i overslept. big difference.”

“same difference when it leads to you accidentally stalking me.”

“gojo.”

“princess.”

you guys keep walking, the silence only lasts a few seconds before he breaks it again.

“so what’s your major anyway?” he asks. “gotta be something serious.”

“business with a minor in econ. figured it was the safest bet for actually getting a job after graduation. plus the classes overlap enough that i can knock out credits without killing myself.”

he hums, nodding slowly. “it suits you.”

“what about you?”

“finance, technically. heavy on the econ side too—market theory, behavioral stuff, all that. my family’s been pushing it since i could walk. boring as hell most days but the numbers click for me.”

“huh,” you say after a beat. “explains why you’re weirdly good at the register. and the latte art, actually. ever think about taking art too? you could probably minor in it without even trying.”

satoru raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised you noticed.

“...art? me?”

he continues, “i doodle sometimes when i’m bored in lectures, it’s nothing serious. but yeah… the latte stuff is kinda fun.”

“just saying you’re good at it. might be worth adding to the schedule if finance ever gets too soul sucking.”

“most people just call it extra.” 

“it is extra,” you clarify quickly. “but it’s not bad extra. customers eat it up and you don’t suck at it. if you like that kind of thing, maybe you should.”

“maybe i will. only if you sign up with me though. can’t have you missing out on watching me be naturally talented.”

you say shoving his arm lightly. “in your dreams, gojo.”

“oh it’s definitely in my dreams,” he shoots back. “speaking of dreams, did you see me in your dreams last night? did i look good? hope i didn’t flutter your heart too much.”

˚⟡˖ ࣪

it’s terrifying how easy it is to fall for satoru gojo’s charm.

you’ve been telling yourself for weeks that it’s just the proximity talking, that anyone would start to soften after seeing the same face everyday. but it’s been a month now since he first showed up and the annoyance you felt on day one is slowly fading away.

it’s disarming in a way that feels unfair, like he figured out exactly where your walls are thinnest and decided to camp there.

the thing about satoru is he never pushes too hard, even when he’s being impossible. sure, he’ll tease you about your order of plain black coffee (because he thinks you’re boring) but then he’ll remember how you take it on the days when you're stressed and slide it across the counter before you even ask. a month of this and you’ve caught yourself noticing the way his little habits. he’s a show off and obnoxiously aware of it, but he’s also the guy who stays late to help you mop even when his shift ended an hour ago, who quotes your professor’s driest slides back to you in a deadpan voice that makes you laugh despite yourself.

“morning, princess,” he greets, handing you a cup of coffee.

you smile as you take the cup, “morning, toru.”

his eyes widen just a little at the name, then the grin returns, brighter than ever.

“careful,” he teases. “keep calling me that and i might start thinking you actually like me.”

you blink. “what’d i do?”

“you just called me toru,” he says.

you freeze. “no i didn’t.”

“yes you did.”

“no. i didn’t.”

“yes you did. you said ‘morning, toru.’ clear as day. i heard it with my own two ears.”

“prove it or it never happened.”

“i heard it. that’s my proof.”

“you hear what you want to hear, gojo. it’s what they call selective listening.”

satoru straightens up, crossing his arms over his chest. a dramatic pout settles on his face. bottom lip jutting out with his brows furrowed, those pretty eyes narrowing at you.

“selective listening? really?” he huffs, the pout deepening. “i’m standing right here, princess. you said it. you finally said it and now you’re taking it back? that’s cold. that’s actually cruel.”

you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. 

“i didn’t say anything,” you reply, “you’re imagining things again. maybe you need less sugar in your system.”

he lets out a dramatic sigh and slumps against the counter. “you’re so mean to me. i make you coffee all the time, i stay late to help you close, i walk you home like a gentleman, and this is how you repay me? denying my existence? denying toru?”

the way he says his own nickname in that whiny tone is ridiculous. “say it again,” he demands, though the demand comes out more like a sulky request. “just once. call me toru again and i’ll drop it. i swear.”

“no.”

“please?”

“absolutely not.”

satoru groans, dragging a hand down his face before peeking at you through his fingers. “you’re killing me. slowly and painfully. i finally get a win… a tiny, beautiful win and you snatch it away like that.” he snaps his fingers for emphasis. “heartless… you’re heartless, princess.”

you can’t help the small laugh that escapes. “you’re such a baby when you don’t get your way.”

“i’m not a baby,” he mutters, “i’m a grown man who just got emotionally devastated by a terrible girl who won’t even admit she likes saying my name.”

you roll your eyes and finally turn back to face him, crossing your arms to match his stance. “fine, satoru. happy now?”

his pout vanishes instantly. “heh i’ll take it.”

all morning the teasing doesn’t stop. every time your eyes meet across the counter he mouths “toru” with exaggerated lips, making you glare at him. you don’t fight him with it though, that’ll be more tiring.

later that afternoon, you remember the big econ test is coming up in a few days.

“hey… have you studied for the test yet?” you ask knowing he has the same class, “the one for macro? i’ve been so buried here i barely looked at the slides.”

satoru glances over at you, one brow raised. “yeah, kinda. skimmed the chapters last night while i was pretending to pay attention in that boring finance seminar.”

you hesitate for a second before pushing forward. “did you happen to take notes for the lecture i missed last week? the one on monetary policy? my notes from the earlier section are trash and i can’t make sense of half the graphs.”

he thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “nah, i don’t usually take notes. everything sticks up here anyway,” he taps his temple with two fingers. “but my bag’s in the back room. go check if you want—there might be some loose papers or something i scribbled on. i’m not promising anything though.”

you nod going right away. satoru’s bag is tossed carelessly on the small table near the lockers. you unzip it carefully, feeling a little weird going through his stuff even if he said it was okay. there are a couple of notebooks, some loose receipts, and a few crumpled pages from lectures.

you flip through them quickly but nothing looks like the notes you need. then your fingers brush against a smaller sketchbook tucked near the bottom. you pull it out without thinking, flipping it open to the first page. it’s an unfinished drawing—pencil lines forming the rough outline of a face. no eyes yet, no mouth, just the shape of cheekbones and the suggestion of hair falling across a forehead. it’s surprisingly delicate, the strokes careful. you can’t tell who it’s supposed to be; the features are still missing.

it’s probably just some random doodle from class, and shove the sketchbook back where you found it. no notes on monetary policy so nothing useful.

you come back out, “couldn’t find anything. your bag’s a mess by the way.”

satoru shrugs, not looking the least bit surprised. “told you i don’t usually bother. you know—” he turns toward you fully, a mischievous glint lighting up his face, “i could teach you instead. i remember most of it. we could go over the graphs and everything.”

you raise an eyebrow, suspicious. “really? you’d do that?”

“yeah, of course,” satoru says without hesitation, “i’ve got the graphs memorized anyway, also will you hate me less after?”

you narrow your eyes at him, “for the record, i don’t hate you. i just think you’re annoying.”

“same thing,” he pouts, already reaching for a clean cup to start scribbling formulas on the side with a sharpie. “consider me your personal tutor, princess.”

and just like that, satoru found another way to get closer to you.

after closing, the two of you end up at a corner table with textbooks and laptops spread out on the table. the cafe lights are dimmed low, only the warm glow of the hanging bulbs left on, and it feels strangely intimate with just the two of you.

“see this curve?” satoru says, tapping the screen of his laptop with his pen. “that’s the liquidity preference curve. when it shifts like this—” he drags his finger across the trackpad, “—interest rates drop even if money supply stays the same. ya following?”

you lean in closer as you nod slowly, even though the words are starting to blur together.

“mmm kinda… keep going.”

for the next hour he walks you through every graph, every theory, every formula that’s been kicking your ass for weeks. he’s good at it. you like that he explains things in ways that actually stick with you.

satoru has always been scary smart. even as a kid, his past teachers would vouch to that. finishing exams in ten minutes, correcting them on accident, winning academic awards he didn’t even try for. now it’s the same. he barely listens in lectures, he literally doodles instead of taking notes, he zones out half the time, and still somehow walks out with good scores. 

when you get a question right he gives you this little proud smirk that you find cute. what’s more is that he doesn’t gloat when you slump back in your chair after a while, letting out a frustrated sigh and staring at the messy notes in front of you.

“god, i wish i could remember stuff as fast as you do,” you admit quietly, “it takes me forever to get things to stick. i have to reread the same slide ten times and still feel like i’m gonna blank during the test.”

“here’s a tip,” he says, leaning forward on his elbows. “stop trying to memorize it all at once. the brain hates that. instead, explain it out loud like you’re teaching someone who knows nothing. even if it’s just to me or the wall. it forces you to actually understand it instead of just cramming the words.”

he continues, “works way better than staring at slides until your eyes cross. trust me, princess. i’ve tested every lazy method there is.”

you look at him, a tiny smile pulling at your lips despite how tired you feel.

“you’re surprisingly good at this teaching thing.”

“only because it’s you. now c’mon, pick a graph and teach it back to me.”

˚⟡˖ ࣪

you come straight to the cafe after the test, the bell above the door chiming as you push it open with your shoulder. you weren’t even scheduled today, but you wanted to tell him how it went.

“....hey? you’re not on today, right? did i mess up the schedule?"

you slide onto one of the stools at the counter giggling, “test went better than i thought. like actually good.”

his eyes light up instantly at that.

“yeah? see that? knew how fucking smart you were.”

you nod, the excitement bubbling out before you can stop it. “yeah, the way you explained everything made it click in my head during the test. i actually remembered instead of blanking like usual.”

satoru lets out a low whistle, smile widening until it takes over his whole face. “that’s my girl. told you explaining it out loud works. see?”

“genuinely thank you.” 

“stay right there. we’re doing something to celebrate.”

you end up staying until closing. when the last customer leaves and your manager waves goodbye on his way out, satoru flips the sign to closed and turns to you with a nod.

“reward time since you aced that test, i helped a little, so we’re getting ice cream.”

“that’s your big celebration?”

“c’mon, there’s that place two blocks off campus that stays open late. they have that ridiculous pistachio with the chunks of chocolate. you’re gonna love it.”

when you reach the little ice cream shop, you find a small table by the window and settle in after ordering, the sweet cold already melting on your tongue. satoru watches you take the first bite with way too much interest, chin resting on his hand.

“good, right?”

you nod, licking a bit of pistachio off the spoon.

“mhm sooo good.”

he laughs softly at first, but then his eyes drop to your mouth as you lick another slow stripe along the spoon to catch the melting edge.

his throat bobs once, “fuck,” he mutters under his breath, barely loud enough for you to hear.

you glance up, spoon still halfway to your lips. “what?”

satoru suddenly reaches out with his thumb, wiping a tiny smear of melted ice cream from the corner of your mouth.

“you can’t just do that,” he says, “licking the spoon like that, it’s unfair.”

“unfair how?” you oblivious ask. 

“because now all i can think about is how that mouth would feel on something else.” he says it so quietly, so casually too. now heat floods your face. you set the spoon down, suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of space between you and him. 

“sorry,” he murmurs, though the small smirk tugging at his lips says he isn’t sorry at all. “too much?”

you shake your head slowly, biting your lip to keep it from smiling too obviously. the warmth in your cheeks refuses to fade.

“.…i don’t mind?”

satoru’s eyebrows lift, surprise flickering across his face. “you don’t?” he echoes, leaning forward a little more, elbows on the table. “don’t do that, i’m already trying really hard to behave.”

“you never behave.”

“hey, i’ve been on my best behavior for weeks,” he protests as his hand finds yours on the table, “just waiting for you to admit i’m not so bad.”

you squeeze his fingers lightly, eyes meeting his. “you’re not.... most days.”

“most days? that’s the best i’m getting?”

“take it or leave it, gojo.”

he laughs under his breath then his free hand comes up, cupping the side of your face, thumb brushing along your jaw. “i’ll take it for now.”

satoru leans in slow enough that you could pull away if you wanted to.

just like that his mouth meets yours, and the kiss starts soft but the second your lips part he doesn’t hesitate. his tongue slips in first, sliding against yours. he tastes like chocolate and pistachio, sweet and overwhelming in the best way. you kiss him back just as eagerly, fingers tightening around his hand on the table while your other hand finds the front of his shirt, curling into the fabric to pull him closer.

satoru makes a low sound in the back of his throat, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, one hand still cradling your face.

suddenly the worker behind the counter clears his throat loudly, “sorry folks, we’re closing up. you two might wanna take that somewhere else.”

you pull back quickly feeling embarrassed while satoru pulls back just enough to laugh, not even a little embarrassed. “man sorry about that,” he says, “can’t help it. i’m irresistible and she’s a bit greedy tonight.”

you hit his arm playfully, face burning as you stand up fast. “toru!”

˚⟡˖ ࣪

the next few days were different in the best kind of way.

well nothing much changes inside the cafe itself. everything is mostly the same. but satoru? he has zero shame now, and you’ve clearly unlocked something dangerous in him.

his clinginess is a whole new beast.

you’re at the register ringing up an iced caramel latte when he appears right behind you, chest brushing your back as he reaches for a stack of lids he absolutely does not need. his chin drops onto your shoulder like it belongs there.

“missed you during that eight a.m. lecture, princess. thought about skipping just to come bother you earlier.”

you elbow him lightly, “we have the same shift, toru. you saw me forty minutes ago.”

“forty minutes too long,” he murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to the side of your neck before he pulls away. the customer gives you a knowing little smile and you feel your face heat up as you hand over the drink.

he does it constantly now.

during the slow hours he’ll tug you into the back room under the excuse of “checking inventory” and then spend the whole time crowding and kissing you.

“we’re gonna get caught,” you whisper.

“let them catch us,” he says against your mouth. “i’ll just tell pops i was giving you mouth-to-mouth.”

you laugh and shove him harder. “you idiot, he would never believe that.”

he only laughs louder and pulls you back in for one more kiss before the bell over the front door saves you.

the worst part (or maybe the best) is how he switched half his schedule just to match yours. you found out when he casually mentioned it during one afternoon, like it was no big deal.

“my advisor was pissed,” he told you, “said something about ‘not rearranging your entire academic plan for a girlfriend.’ i told her my barista girlfriend was non-negotiable.”

you stared at him. “you changed your schedule?”

“mmhm. dropped the early monday seminar and swapped it for the afternoon one. added a useless elective just so i could keep these exact shifts with you.” he shrugged, completely unbothered. “worth it. now i get to stare at you all day.”

you wanted to scold him for being ridiculous, but the way he said it made something warm bloom in your chest. so instead you just flicked his forehead and called him an idiot again. he caught your wrist before you could pull away and pressed a kiss to your palm.

how freaking adorable.

sometimes he’ll slide a stool over so you can sit for a few minutes while he handles few customers alone, shooting you little winks every time you look up from your phone.

it’s how he takes care of you.

and you like when he takes care of you.

˚⟡˖ ࣪

satoru gojo has always been pretty experienced with girls.

he’s never had to chase too hard. regular hook ups, quick flings during freshman year, girls who wanted the thrill of the rich pretty boy who never seemed to take anything seriously. he knew how to kiss, how to touch, how to make them feel wanted for a night without promising more than that. it was easy, fun, but never deep enough to stick.

none of them ever made his chest feel this tight. none of them made him nervous the way you do.

“is this okay?” he asks as his thumb brushes just under the edge of your bra, waiting, always checking even when his body is clearly aching to keep going.

“yeah…. it’s okay, toru.”

that’s all he needs.

he starts kissing you then trails his mouth down—his hands push your shirt higher, bunching it up under your arms. when he finally tugs your bra down, cool air hits your skin for half a second before his mouth is there.

satoru groans softly against you, the sound vibrating through your chest as he takes one nipple into his mouth. he’s gentle at first, lips closing around the peak. his tongue swirling before he sucks. a little harder, a little hungrier. 

your back arches without thinking, a quiet whimper slipping out. one of your hands finds his hair, fingers tightening in the soft white strands as he switches to the other side, giving it the same attention.

“fuck, you taste so good,” he mumbles against your skin, voice muffled.

“mhmm.… it’s so good baby.”

“yeah?”

he presses open-mouthed kisses across the swell of your breast. his free hand cups the other one, thumb brushing over the wet nipple he just left behind, pinching lightly.

he’s thorough with it. every little sound you make seems to spur him on.

“still okay?” he questions, “tell me if you want me to stop, princess. i’ll stop.”

you shake your head, tugging him back down by his hair.

“don’t stop,” you breathe.

satoru’s smile is slow and a little dazed before he leans in again, mouth finding your breast like he never wants to leave. he’s still careful, still checking in with every new touch, but the clingy, greedy part of him is winning tonight.

he’s making sure you feel exactly how much he’s been holding back.

clothes come off slowly after that, piece by piece, until there’s nothing between you. satoru lies back against the pillows, his hands resting on your hips as you straddle him. he’s hard under you.

you take the lead.

your palms press flat against his chest for balance as you shift your weight, lining yourself up. 

“fuck—” he breathes when you start to sink down, the head of his cock pressing inside you. his head tips back, throat bobbing as he swallows hard. “you’re doing so damn good, baby.”

you go slow at first, letting yourself adjust to the stretch. the fullness is overwhelming in the best way, once you’re seated fully, you pause for a few seconds.

then you start to move.

you roll your hips experimentally, finding a rhythm that makes pleasure spark up inside you. satoru’s hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. he contains himself so he doesn’t take over. he wants to let you set the pace, let you ride him exactly how you want.

“that’s it, use me, baby. however you need.”

the words send a shiver through you. you brace your hands on his chest and start moving faster, lifting up and sinking back down. satoru’s eyes stay locked on your face, then drift lower to watch where you’re joined, the way your body takes him in again and again.

his grip tightens on your hips when you start grinding down instead of bouncing, circling your hips so his cock rubs against that sensitive spot inside you.

“a–am i doing good, toru?”

“god, yes,” he pants. “so pretty riding me like this.”

you feel a rush of confidence at his words. you plant your feet on the bed, hands still braced on his chest, and start riding him faster. your hips snap down harder and quicker as satoru’s head presses back into the pillow, a low, broken moan slipping out of him.

“you’re insane f–for this,” he groans, he sounds wrecked.

“shh you’re so big toru.” you whine too, “feel so soo good.”

you don’t slow down, continuing to ride him hard, bouncing on his cock like crazy. 

you feel the thick head of his cock kissing that spongy spot inside you, satoru’s fingers dig harder into the soft flesh of your hips anchoring himself while you use him. his abs tense and ripple beneath your palms every time you slam down.

“fuck baby, slow down or i’m gonna—” his words cut off into a guttural moan when you purposely clench around him. “oh you evil woman.”

you giggle in response letting out a high, needy whimper after. 

“im sorry,” you gasp, voice breathy.. “can feel you everywhere.”

satoru’s eyes roll back for a second. he looks a mess. his white hair sticks to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his mouth falls open on another moan.

“shit h-hahh princess, your pussy’s—ah so greedy tonight.”

you’re breathless, thighs burning, but the ache only adds to the pleasure. you brace one hand on his chest and reach back with the other, cupping his balls gently, rolling them in your palm while you keep bouncing.

oh you are so killing him.

“toru you’re twitching so much inside me,” you tease. “feels so good when you throb like that…”

he lets out a string of curses in response while your breasts bounce with every movement, nipples still shiny from his earlier attention, and satoru can’t stop staring, mesmerized and completely undone.

“i’m—i’m so close,” you say, “toru—come with me please!”

“yeah fuck, yeah— i’m right there with you, princess,” he replies, voice breaking on the last word. his thumb finds your clit, rubbing fast circles that match your crazy pace. “come on my cock, baby. mess with it…shit!”

the pleasure pushes you over the edge first, milking his cock as your orgasm hits you. satoru follows right after you, his back arches off the bed as he comes hard, thick spurts of heat flooding deep inside you. 

finally, you collapse forward onto his chest as both of you gasp for air. satoru’s arms wrap around you instantly, holding you tight against him. he presses open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, your neck, anywhere he can reach.

“holy fuck… you just destroyed me,” he whispers, voice hoarse and awed. “never felt anything like that. you’re gonna be the death of me, princess.” 

you smile against his damp chest, pressing a soft kiss right over his racing heart.

“i think i like being in charge.”

“yeah? then next time you can tie me down if you want. just give me five minutes first. i think my soul left my body for a second there.”

you laugh softly, letting your eyes drift shut while his warmth surrounds you.

˚⟡˖ ࣪

“wait, since when has gojo been a barista?” you hear one girl say, laughing like it’s the funniest thing ever. “him out of all people? no fucking way.”

you’re drying your hands when voices filter in from the stalls behind you. two girls chatting loud enough that you can’t ignore it even if you wanted to.

the other one snorts, “i know, right? i heard from his friends that he only applied there to sleep with one of the workers.”

your stomach twists a little, but you tell yourself it’s nothing.

campus gossip is always exaggerated.

“he’s probably quitting soon anyway,” the first girl continues, “what’s a trust fund baby doing slinging lattes?”

“like play charming until he gets what he wants then bounce?”

their laughter echoes off the tiles as they leave and you're left staring at your reflection again. you rethink everything in the span of thirty seconds—was it all calculated? did he really just do everything to sleep with you? 

you show up to your shift pissy as hell, you hear satoru humming while he wipes down the espresso machine. he looks up waving at you, and normally that makes your chest warm. today it makes you want to throw a cup at his head.

“there you are,” he says, “you look cute when you’re all serious like this—did you run here or something?”

you brush past him without a word, grabbing the rag from the sink and attacking the already clean counter. satoru’s grin falters a little bit, blue eyes narrowing already picking up your mood.

“whoa, okay. bad day?” he asks, reaching out to touch you and you flinch away.

“don’t,” you mutter, keeping your eyes on the counter, scrubbing harder. “just not in the mood, gojo.”

he straightens up, his cocky energy disappearing.

“gojo?” he echoes, “what happened to satoru? you’ve been calling me that for days. did i do something? because if i did, tell me so i can fix it. i’m not above begging, princess. i’ll get on my knees right here.”

“nothing happened,” you lie, because admitting you overheard some random girls in the bathroom is affecting you feels stupid. “i’m just tired, you wouldn’t get it.”

satoru doesn’t buy it. he steps closer anyway, “try me,” he says softly, all the usual bravado dialed down. “i’m good at a lot of things, but i’m especially good at listening to you. baby, please talk to me. did someone say something? because if they did—”

“i said it’s nothing, gojo.” your voice comes out louder than you meant, and you see the way his shoulders tense just a little.

he nods, stepping back with his hands raised in that mock surrender. “alright, message received. whatever this is… we’ll figure it out later.”

well that didn’t happen.

the whole day you did your best ignoring him.

before he could even ask what you guys were doing after shift you made a cheap excuse to pops about how you felt sick (it was an obvious lie) and needed to leave early. pops just shrugged and told you to go rest. satoru watched you grab your bag, mouth opening to say something, but you were already out the door before he could get a word in.

later that night satoru is sprawled on suguru’s couch, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other gesturing wildly as he rants.

“everything was going so well, man. like actually well,” he groans, voice muffled behind his arm. “she's even initiating stuff, now she’s calling me gojo again? dude, fuck gojo. i hate that.”

suguru sits across from him, legs crossed, very used to satoru’s dramatic rants. he’s just not used to it being about a girl.

“so what happened?”

“i don’t know!” satoru sits up suddenly. “she flinched when i tried to touch her. flinched. like i’m some random creep.”

he drags both hands down his face, groaning louder.

“she even left early. made up some bullshit excuse to dip before i could even ask what we were doing after. she’s been staying at my dorm for days, suguru. my bed still smells like her shampoo. i had snacks stocked for her. and now she’s shutting down? i don’t get it.”

“you sure you didn’t do something stupid?”

“i swear i didn’t.” satoru flops back down dramatically. “i’m losing my mind. she went from soft and clingy back to hating me in like twelve hours. what the fuck did i miss? i really like her. like…. a lot. more than i thought i could.”

suguru hums, “if it’s not you, then maybe somebody else?”

“if someone said something to her i’m going to lose it,” he mutters. “i finally got her to let me in and now she’s pulling away again. i don’t know how to fix something when she won’t even tell me what’s broken.”

“look, relationships aren’t always smooth. problems come up, it’s normal. the difference is whether you actually talk about it or let it fester.”

˚⟡˖ ࣪

your morning has been irritating as hell.

you woke up cranky, then you spilled coffee on your shirt while rushing, you had to change, and still barely made it to your first lecture on time. every little thing felt like it was piling up—the crowded hallways, the professor droning on about stuff you already knew, and the constant replay of yesterday, everything was just irritating.

so by the time of your second morning class, you’re already exhausted and on edge.

you pull out your notebook when someone drops into the seat right next to you.

satoru slips into the seat beside you without a word.

he's not even in this class.

he looks exhausted, there are faint dark circles shadowing the usual brightness of his gaze, his white hair is messier than normal like he rolled straight out of bed and didn’t bother fixing it. he probably didn’t sleep much, if at all.

he doesn’t say anything at first. he pulls a small sticky note pad from his bag, scribbles something quickly with a pen, and slides it over to you under the desk.

are you still mad? :(

you glance at the note, then at him. his eyes are already on you, waiting.

you write back, keeping your handwriting small.

no i was never mad

he reads it, eyebrows pulling together. he scribbles again, passing it back.

but you were. look at your mad face right now.

you feel the irritation flare again, but you keep your face neutral and write:

you shouldn’t even be here. im. not. mad.

he huffs softly as another note slides your way.

see. you clearly are. can we please talk after?

you stare at the words for a second longer. part of you wants to stay stubborn. the other part hates how tired he looks.

later.

satoru reads it and nods before tucking the sticky notes away.

the rest of the lecture goes, but satoru stays right there beside you the whole time.

midway through, he opens his notebook and starts sketching again. first he shows you a proper drawing of you. it's the same unfinished face you had seen weeks ago when you dug through his bag looking for notes. now it’s finished. your eyes are there and your mouth curved in a smile.

you admire how pretty he sees you. then he flips the page without warning.

the next sketch is completely different—you again, but this time with a exaggerated angry face. brows furrowed deep, eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a tight line, tiny cartoon steam lines rising from your head. it’s ridiculous and accurate at the same time. he bites his lip to keep from laughing out loud, shoulders shaking quietly as he watches your reaction.

you glare at the page and he quickly flips the notebook shut before the professor notices.

when class finally ends, the two of you walk across campus until you reach a quiet stretch of grass near the edge of the field, far enough from the main paths. you drop down onto the grass first. satoru follows, sitting close but not too close, giving you space.

he reaches over and plucks a small white wildflower growing near his knee. he twirls it once between his fingers before holding it out to you, a tired smile on his face.

you look at the flower, then at him. it’s stupidly cute.

you flick it away with two fingers and the flower flutters to the grass between you.

satoru watches it fall before finally talking.

“okay,” he says quietly, “talk to me. what’s going on? you’ve been shutting me out since yesterday and i’m losing my mind here.”

you pull at a blade of grass, twisting it between your fingers.

“when are you quitting?”

satoru blinks, caught off guard. “quitting what? the cafe?”

you nod, still not looking at him.

he lets out a short, confused laugh. “is that why you’re mad? you want me to quit? because if that’s it, i can—”

“no—” you cut him off fast, finally turning to face him. “did you only start working there because you wanted to sleep with me?”

the question hangs between you. satoru’s expression changes. hurt flickers across his face before he schools it.

“that’s what this is about?” he asks, “you think this whole thing was just some long game to get in your pants?”

you don’t answer right away, the gossip from the bathroom echoes in your head again.

“is that really what you think of me?”

you swallow. “i heard some girls talking in the bathroom yesterday,” you admit, voice low. “they were laughing about how you only took the job to sleep with one of the baristas. that you’d charm your way in, get what you wanted, and then quit once it happened. it sounded… exactly like something people would say about you.”

“fuck,” he mutters. “fucking gossips.”

“look, i’m not gonna pretend i haven’t had that reputation. people assume the worst. and yeah—back in freshman year i wasn’t exactly turning down easy attention. but that’s not what this is. not with you.”

“when i walked into that cafe the first time, i was just fucking around. i saw you looking annoyed and thought it’d be fun to push your buttons. but then you pushed back and i couldn’t stop thinking about it. about you.”

“so i came back. then i applied for the job because i wanted an excuse to see you more. not to sleep with you and bounce—to actually be around you. i stayed because every shift with you made the day better. even when you were glaring at me. especially when you were glaring at me.”

you glance away, toward the empty field. “you could’ve just asked me out like a normal person.”

“and risk you telling me to fuck off on day one? no thanks. working there let me prove i wasn’t just fucking around. also you know that's not me.”

he pauses, then adds, “and yeah, i wanted you. i still do. i want all of it.”

satoru leans forward a little, elbows on his knees.

“i switched my entire schedule around for you. i told you how my advisor thinks i’ve lost it. i turned down better internships because they’d mess with our shifts. if all i wanted was sex, i wouldn’t still be here begging you to talk to me.”

“so no, i’m not quitting,” he says quietly. “not unless you tell me to. and even then i’d probably just sit outside the cafe and wait for you like a loser. but i’m not here because it’s convenient or because i’m trying to win some game. i’m here because i like you. a lot. more than i thought i could like anyone.”

he reaches out slowly, “i’m not gonna push if you need space. but tell me what you need from me right now. yell at me, ignore me, whatever. just don’t shut me out and leave me guessing.”

you stare at his open hand for a long moment. the irritation is still there, tangled up with the embarrassment of letting petty gossip get to you.

finally you sigh, shoulders dropping.

“i hated thinking it was all fake,” you mutter. “that the second you got what you wanted, you’d disappear and i’d be the idiot who fell for it.”

“not fake,” he says immediately. “none of it.”

you hesitate, then reach out and flick his open palm lightly with your fingers, enough to make him smile.

“you’re still annoying,” you tell him.

“yeah?” his grin comes back. “good.... means we’re getting somewhere.”

“you look like shit, by the way.”

“didn’t sleep much,” he admits, shrugging. “kept replaying yesterday trying to figure out what i messed up.”

“sorry for being so gullible.” you says knowing how that’s all on you.

“as long as you stop calling me gojo when you’re mad. hurts more than it should.”

you roll your eyes but the corner of your mouth lifts anyway.

the two of you stay on the field a little longer, the conversation flowing—back to classes, to stupid customer stories from the cafe, to nothing important at all.

when you finally stand up to head back toward campus, he falls into step next to you like always.

“so,” he says after a minute, voice casual again, “still mad?”

you glance sideways at him.

“not as much.”

“progress,” he declares, grinning. “i’ll take it.”

“hey,” he murmurs.

you turn to face him, he’s pouting extra hard....

“can i please kiss you now?” he pleads, “please. please. please”

instead of answering with words, you step forward, slide your free hand up to the front of his shirt, and tug him down the rest of the way.

satoru meets you halfway.

his hand comes up to cup the side of your face as his lips move against yours. he kisses you gentler than usual and you kiss him back just as softly, fingers curling tighter into his shirt.

when you finally pull apart, foreheads still touching, satoru lets out a shaky little breath against your mouth.

“thank you,” he whispers, the words barely there. his thumb brushes your cheek once more. “fuck, i missed that.”

you smile against his lips.

“don’t make me flick another flower at you.”

he presses one last gentle kiss to your forehead before straightening up.

“next rumor, i’m spreading how badly i’m in love with you and how you equally feel the same and can never live without me.”

© splurtz 2026 — all rights reserved.

[ashuzu44]

like atoms can change!?

credit to whoever wrote this on twitter!

xoxo, karina

[sixeyesonathiel]

wife thinks husband cheated, husband thinks he's dead

satoru’s morning goes from pancakes to panic when his six-year-old finds his old sketchbooks full of mystery woman drawings that predate meeting you. now you’re wearing that deadly smile while shia sobs about ruined fairytales, and satoru’s convinced he’s about to die over art that’s really not what it looks like. if only he could stop hyperventilating long enough to explain who the woman actually is.

wc — 3.3k ෆ tags -> domestic fluff, established relationship, misunderstandings, college flashbacks, stalker behavior (but make it romantic), shia is the ultimate wingwoman, humor

the kitchen smells like coffee and vanilla pancakes when chaos decides to make its grand entrance at exactly 7:23 am on a tuesday.

you’re standing at the stove, spatula in hand, humming something that might be a taylor swift song if you squint your ears. satoru sits at the breakfast table in all his domestic glory—rumpled white sleep shirt hanging loose on his frame, snow-white hair doing that thing where it defies at least three laws of physics, and those wire-rimmed reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose that make him look like the world’s most devastating librarian. he’s absorbed in the morning paper like it contains the secrets of the universe instead of grocery store coupons and sports scores, long fingers turning pages with absent precision.

“mmm,” he murmurs appreciatively as you flip a pancake with unnecessary flourish, voice still thick with sleep. “smells incredible, sweetheart.”

“i know,” you reply without missing a beat, shooting him a smile over your shoulder that makes him forget how to read for approximately four seconds. his pupils dilate slightly behind his lenses.

peaceful. domestic. the kind of morning that belongs in furniture catalogs.

then your six-year-old daughter explodes through the kitchen doorway like a tiny, pink-pajama-clad hurricane.

“MOMMY!” she wails, and the sheer volume makes satoru jump so hard his glasses slide down the slope of his nose. “DADDY HAS A GIRLFRIEND!”

the spatula freezes halfway to the pan. satoru’s newspaper crinkles ominously as his knuckles go white around the edges. the pancake starts burning.

“what?” you turn around slowly, voice pitched in that perfectly controlled way that could freeze hell over.

your daughter—sweet, innocent, dramatic little shiyana—stands in the doorway clutching what appears to be a leather sketchbook against her chest like evidence in a murder trial. she’s satoru’s perfect replica, down to the devastating blue eyes and the way her white hair catches the morning light, but softer somehow, like someone took his sharp edges and smoothed them into something precious. her bottom lip wobbles with the devastating tragedy of it all, those massive eyes swimming with tears that could probably end world wars.

“i found daddy’s secret book!” she announces, voice climbing to frequencies that probably register on seismic equipment. “and it’s FULL of pictures of some lady and she’s NOT YOU!”

satoru has gone completely bloodless. his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, and there’s a fine tremor in his hands as he sets down the newspaper with surgical care.

“shia, sweetpea—” he starts weakly, voice cracking like spun glass.

“SHE’S REALLY PRETTY!” shia continues, because subtlety is not in her vocabulary. “and daddy drew her hands and her neck and she’s stretching and i DON’T UNDERSTAND because you always said mommy was your first love and your only love and that you’ve been DEVOTED TO HER SINCE THE DAWN OF TIME!”

something cold and sharp unfurls in your chest. your smile turns crystalline, dangerous in its perfection. “oh,” you say, voice dripping honey over razors. “how interesting.”

satoru makes a sound like a dying animal. his throat works convulsively.

“and—and—” shia’s really working herself up now, gesturing wildly with the sketchbook, “daddy always tells me that your love story is the most BEAUTIFUL FAIRYTALE EVER and that prince daddy waited his WHOLE LIFE for princess mommy and now there’s this OTHER LADY in his secret book and i’m CONFUSED and BETRAYED!”

she dissolves into wails that could probably shatter windows. satoru looks like he wants to crawl under the table and possibly relocate to mars, his shoulders hunching defensively.

you turn off the stove with deliberate precision, each movement sharp and controlled. the click of the dial sounds like a gunshot. “satoru,” you say pleasantly, tilting your head with predatory grace. “darling.”

“i can explain,” he squeaks, his voice jumping approximately two octaves. sweat beads at his hairline.

“oh, i’m sure you can.” the words drip from your lips like poison. “please. explain why my husband has been drawing other women.”

satoru’s hands flutter helplessly, then drop to his lap like broken birds. his mouth opens and closes soundlessly.

“IT’S NOT FAIR!” shia shrieks, throwing herself dramatically onto the kitchen floor like she’s auditioning for a soap opera. “you guys are supposed to be PERFECT TOGETHER! daddy said you were SOULMATES! he said he knew you were THE ONE the first time he saw you and that his heart went BOOM BOOM BOOM like FIREWORKS!”

satoru’s left eye develops a pronounced twitch. “shia, sweetheart, maybe we could—”

“and now he has ANOTHER LADY in his book and she has pretty hands and a pretty neck and i DON’T UNDERSTAND LOVE ANYMORE!”

you crouch down to shia’s level, your smile turning arctic. “show mommy the book, baby.”

shia sniffles and holds out the sketchbook like she’s presenting evidence to a jury. you flip it open with trembling fingers, and—

the first sketch is hands wrapped around what looks like a coffee cup. delicate, graceful, caught mid-gesture. the next page shows a neck, the curve of a shoulder. someone stretching, arms raised. the drawings are soft, detailed, obviously done by someone who was paying very, very close attention.

your chest tightens with something ugly and possessive. these aren’t just sketches—they’re love letters written in graphite and longing.

and in the corner of each page, in satoru’s careful handwriting, are dates.

dates from ten years ago. eleven years ago.

“satoru,” you say slowly, voice deadly quiet. your fingers trace the date with surgical precision. “when did we start dating?”

he swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing. “eight years ago,” he whispers.

the silence stretches taut as a wire. satoru’s breathing has gone shallow, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the thin cotton of his shirt.

“i can explain,” he rasps desperately, reaching toward you with shaking hands before thinking better of it.

you flip through more pages with methodical precision. more hands, more angles of neck and shoulder, someone reading, someone laughing. all drawn with the kind of obsessive attention to detail that makes your skin crawl with jealousy and something else you can’t name.

“daddy drew the mystery lady SO MUCH,” shia wails from the floor. “like, SO SO SO much! there’s like a MILLION pictures!”

“who is she?” your voice could cut diamond.

satoru runs a trembling hand through his disheveled hair, making it stick up at impossible angles. “it’s... god, this is so embarrassing.” he pushes his glasses up with his middle finger, a nervous habit you’ve watched him do a thousand times. “do you remember organic chemistry? sophomore year?”

you blink slowly, trying to follow his logic. “what does that have to do with—”

“you sat in front of me,” he continues in a rush, words tumbling over each other. his cheeks are burning scarlet now. “second row, three seats from the left. you always got there exactly five minutes before class started and you’d put your bag down and pull out this purple gel pen and—”

“satoru.” your voice cuts through his rambling like a blade.

he flinches but continues, gesturing helplessly. “you did this thing when you were concentrating where you’d tilt your head just so, and you’d stretch before exams and your sweater would ride up just a little and i...” he trails off, looking miserable.

the pieces start clicking together with sickening clarity. “these are from college,” you say slowly.

“i may have been... observing you. from a respectful distance. for possibly longer than was socially acceptable.” his voice gets smaller with each word.

“observing,” you repeat, voice flat.

“you smelled like vanilla,” he mumbles, not meeting your eyes. “and coffee. and you had this way of moving your hands when you talked that was just... i couldn’t stop looking.”

something warm and complicated unfurls in your chest, warring with the jealousy. “you were staring at me.”

“respectfully staring,” he corrects weakly. “artisticallу appreciating from afar.”

“for how long?”

“...two semesters?”

“SATORU.”

“you were really pretty!” he blurts out, hands flying up defensively. his glasses slide down again and he pushes them up with fumbling fingers. “and you were so smart and you’d laugh at professor yaga’s terrible jokes and i just... i wanted to remember everything.”

shia has stopped crying and is now looking between you two like she’s watching the world’s most confusing tennis match.

“but daddy WAS drawing another lady?” she asks in a small voice.

satoru’s shoulders slump in defeat. “it’s complicated, shia. the drawings... they’re not of another lady, exactly—”

the sketchbook hits the floor with a sharp crack as you drop it. satoru flinches like he’s been slapped.

“so when you told me i was your first real crush,” you say, voice dangerously quiet, “you were lying.”

“no!” he lurches forward, hands outstretched. “god, no, that’s not... you WERE my first real crush! these drawings are PROOF of that!”

“proof that you were obsessed with some random girl—”

“YOU!” the word explodes out of him with desperate force. “it was you! all of it was you!” his hands shake as he reaches for the fallen sketchbook. “look, please just look—”

he flips frantically through the pages, glasses sliding down his nose. “this is your hand holding that purple pen you always used. this is how you looked when you were thinking about thermodynamics. this is you stretching before the final exam and i memorized the exact curve of your spine because i was GONE for you—”

you stare at the sketches with new eyes, and slowly—horrifyingly—recognition dawns. the tilt of the head, the gesture of the hands, the way the person holds their shoulders...

“oh my god,” you breathe.

satoru nods frantically, relief and terror warring on his face. “i know it’s creepy and stalkerish and probably illegal in several states but i couldn’t help it! you were EVERYWHERE and i was just this pathetic loser who couldn’t even work up the courage to ask you for notes!”

“these are all me,” you say faintly.

“every single one,” he confirms miserably. “two years of pining documented in embarrassing detail.”

shia gasps like she’s been struck by lightning. “DADDY WAS DRAWING MOMMY?!”

“daddy was being a creepy artist,” you mutter, but there’s no real heat in it anymore. something giddy and warm is bubbling up in your chest despite yourself.

“i prefer ‘hopelessly romantic,’” satoru says weakly, adjusting his glasses with shaking hands.

you flip through more pages, taking in sketch after sketch of your own unconscious gestures. your hands wrapped around coffee cups, your profile when you were concentrating, the way you looked when you laughed.

“this one,” you say, pointing to a particularly detailed drawing. “when was this?”

satoru peers over your shoulder, his breath warm against your ear. “that was... god, that was the day you wore that blue sweater with the little pearl buttons. you were laughing at something mei-mei whispered and you threw your head back and i just... i had to capture it.”

“you remember what i was wearing?”

“i remember everything,” he admits quietly. “what you wore, how you did your hair, whether you brought coffee or tea, if you seemed tired or happy or stressed about exams. i catalogued every detail like a complete lunatic.”

the warmth in your chest grows stronger. “satoru...”

“i know it’s weird,” he continues desperately, misreading your tone. “i know it’s probably the creepiest thing ever and you have every right to be furious but i was just so... you were so beautiful and untouchable and i was convinced you’d never look at someone like me twice so i just... i tried to keep pieces of you. in case that was all i’d ever have.”

his voice breaks on the last word, and something inside you melts completely.

“you idiot,” you say softly, reaching up to cup his face. his skin is burning under your palms. “you absolute disaster of a human being.”

he leans into your touch like he’s starving for it, eyes fluttering closed behind his glasses. “i know. i’m sorry. i’m so, so sorry—”

“shut up,” you murmur, and kiss him.

he makes a soft, desperate sound against your lips, hands coming up to cradle the back of your head like you’re something precious. when you break apart, his eyes are glassy and overwhelmed.

“you’re not mad?” he whispers.

“oh, i’m furious,” you say cheerfully. “but also ridiculously flattered that you were that obsessed with me.”

“WAIT!” shia scrambles up from the floor, eyes wide. “so daddy WAS drawing mommy but mommy DIDN’T KNOW daddy liked her but daddy liked her SO MUCH he drew her A MILLION TIMES but was too SCARED to say hi?!”

“that’s... surprisingly accurate,” satoru admits, color still high in his cheeks.

“this is EVEN BETTER than a fairytale!” shia shrieks. “daddy was a SECRET ADMIRER!”

“a very dedicated secret admirer,” you add, still flipping through pages. “jesus, satoru, there are like fifty drawings in here.”

“sixty-three,” he corrects quietly. “i counted.”

“of course you did.” you laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. “you beautiful, obsessive disaster.”

shia throws herself at both of you, wrapping her arms around your legs. “this is the BEST love story EVER! even better than tangled!”

“better than tangled?” satoru gasps in mock surprise, some of his natural dramatics returning now that he’s not facing immediate death. “that’s high praise, princess.”

“rapunzel didn’t have SECRET SKETCHES of flynn!”

she has a point.

you’re still studying the drawings, finding new details in every sketch. the careful attention to shadow and light, the way he captured moments you didn’t even know you were having.

“you really saw me,” you say softly.

“i couldn’t see anything else,” he replies, voice rough with honesty. his fingers find yours, intertwining carefully. “still can’t.”

“even when i’m grumpy before coffee?”

“especially then. you get this little crease between your eyebrows that’s absolutely devastating.”

“when i steal your hoodies?”

“they look better on you anyway.” his thumb traces across your knuckles. “everything looks better on you.”

shia clasps her hands together like she’s watching the most romantic movie ever made. “oh my GOD you guys are being SO CUTE right now! daddy’s eyes are getting all sparkly and mommy’s doing that smiley thing where she tries to hide it but CAN’T!”

“we are not being cute,” you protest, but you’re definitely doing the smiley thing.

“you ARE! you’re being DISGUSTINGLY romantic and i LOVE IT!” shia bounces on her toes. “this is like watching a REAL LIFE FAIRYTALE!”

satoru grins, confidence returning now that he’s not facing immediate death. “your mom’s just realizing how irresistible i am, princess.”

“oh please,” you roll your eyes, but you’re moving closer to him anyway, drawn by some invisible force. “you were the one pining pathetically for two years.”

“pining romantically,” he corrects, arms snaking around your waist. his hands settle at the small of your back, warm through your sleep shirt. “there’s a difference.”

“what’s the difference?” you challenge, tilting your face up toward his.

“the difference,” he murmurs, voice dropping to that low register that makes your knees wobble, “is that it worked.”

shia squeals so loudly it could probably be heard in the next county. “MOMMY DADDY ARE YOU GONNA KISS?! OH MY GOD OH MY GOD THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE!”

“should we give the people what they want?” satoru asks, eyes twinkling behind his glasses as he leans closer.

“the people are six years old,” you point out, but you’re already rising on your tiptoes.

“the people have excellent taste in romance,” he counters, and kisses you soft and sweet while your daughter provides live commentary.

“THEY’RE KISSING! THEY’RE BEING MARRIED AND IN LOVE! THIS IS SO PERFECT I COULD CRY!”

when you break apart, satoru’s glasses are slightly fogged and there’s a dopey smile spreading across his face that makes your heart flutter stupidly.

“okay okay,” shia says suddenly, waving her hands. “i can see you guys want to be GROSS and ROMANTIC so i’m gonna go watch cartoons now and give you PRIVACY for your LOVEY DOVEY TIME!”

she grabs a pancake straight from the plate and skips toward the living room. “but NOT TOO MUCH privacy!” she calls back. “i want a baby brother for christmas!”

“SHIA!” you and satoru shout in unison.

“WHAT?! i’m just SAYING!” her voice carries from the other room. “more babies means more LOVE and more FAMILY FAIRYTALES!”

satoru buries his face in your neck, shoulders shaking with laughter. “she’s definitely your daughter.”

“MY daughter? she’s got your dramatic flair and your complete lack of filter.”

“but your strategic matchmaking skills,” he points out, pressing a kiss to the sensitive spot behind your ear that makes you shiver. “she orchestrated this whole thing, you know.”

“what do you mean?”

“she’s been asking about my old college stuff for weeks. i bet she went looking specifically for something to cause chaos with.” his breath is warm against your skin. “our daughter is a tiny romantic terrorist.”

“and you’re complaining because...?”

“because now i get to hold you while our pancakes get cold and tell you all the embarrassing details about how gone i was for you in organic chemistry.”

you pull back to look at him, taking in his sleep-mussed hair, his crooked glasses, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. “tell me.”

“you want to hear about my pathetic college crush?”

“i want to hear everything.” you trace the line of his jaw with gentle fingers, watching his expression soften. “start with the first time you noticed me.”

“that’s easy,” he says, leaning into your touch. “first day of class. you walked in wearing this yellow sundress and you had a coffee stain on your bag and you looked so annoyed about it that i thought ‘oh no, she’s perfect.’”

“a coffee stain made you fall in love with me?”

“you made this face,” he demonstrates, scrunching his nose adorably. “like you were personally offended by the existence of gravity. it was devastating.”

“and then?”

“then you sat down in front of me and i spent the entire semester memorizing the way you moved.” his hands slide up to cup your face, thumbs stroking over your cheekbones. “the way you’d tap your pen when you were thinking. how you’d stretch your neck when you were tired. the little sound you’d make when professor kim said something particularly stupid.”

“you remember all of that?”

“i remember everything about you.” his voice is soft, reverent. “i still do.”

from the living room comes the sound of cartoon music and shia’s occasional commentary: “oh good, they’re STILL being romantic! this is EXACTLY what a tuesday morning should be!”

you laugh, bright and delighted, and satoru’s expression goes liquid with adoration.

“kiss me again,” you whisper.

“gladly,” he murmurs, and does.

later, when shia is distracted by cartoons, you corner satoru by the coffee maker.

“show me the other sketchbooks,” you demand.

“absolutely not.”

“satoru.”

“some things are private,” he insists, but his cheeks are pink again.

“private drawings of your wife?”

“private drawings of my wife doing very domestic things that make me embarrassingly sentimental.”

“like what?”

“like... reading bedtime stories to shia. and folding laundry. and sleeping in on sunday mornings.” his voice gets softer with each example. “you have no idea how beautiful you look when you’re just... existing.”

your heart does something complicated in your chest. “you’re ridiculous.”

“ridiculously accurate in my assessment of your perfection,” he corrects, stealing a kiss that tastes like coffee and seven years of marriage and the lingering sweetness of a boy who once fell so hard for a girl in chemistry class that he filled sketchbooks with her smile.

“show me anyway.”

“...maybe one more.”

and if that sketchbook contains pages and pages of you being a mother, being a wife, being yourself in a thousand small moments—well.

you’re pretty sure this is the most ridiculous, wonderful love story ever told.

even better than tangled.

[sixeyesonathiel]

mrs. gojo’s terrible, horrible, no good, very good night

pairing — satoru gojo x female reader

synopsis: you’re hiding in the hotel bathroom on your wedding night, having what might be the world’s most elaborate anxiety-induced spa routine while your new husband satoru waits patiently (or not so patiently) in bed. when you finally emerge after two and a half hours of over-conditioning your hair and stress-scrubbing with vanilla body wash, you discover he’s been very much awake and has some opinions about your extended absence. turns out being mrs. gojo comes with certain husband-related benefits that make all that nervous energy very much worth it.

wc — 13.7k ෆ tags -> modern au, fluff, smut, established relationship wedding night, first time, oral sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, praise kink, body worship, dirty talk, mild dacryphilia, multiple rounds, missionary, cowgirl, aftercare, scrumptious art by @/_3aem

a/n: i actually spent this whole weekend writing this beast, so pls clap 😋 very proud of myself for the sheer detail and immersion (and for once, no squirting—personal growth!!). hope you enjoy being wrecked by satoru as much as i enjoyed wrecking my digital keyboard 🫶🏻

you’re going to die in this bathroom.

not from anything dramatic, mind you. not from slipping on the marble floor or drowning in the stupidly deep hotel bathtub. no, you’re going to die from pure, unadulterated cowardice, and they’re going to find your pruney corpse clutching a bottle of complimentary vanilla body wash like it’s a lifeline.

the bathroom has become your fortress of solitude, complete with overpriced hotel toiletries that you’ve been methodically working through for the past—what, hour? two hours? the little clock on the marble counter stopped making sense around the time you started your third full-body scrub routine.

husband. the word sits heavy in your chest, all warm and terrifying and impossible. you keep catching glimpses of the ring on your finger in your peripheral vision and your heart does this stupid stuttering thing every single time.

you’ve washed your hair twice, conditioned it three times, exfoliated until your skin could probably reflect sunlight, and you’re currently working on what might be your fourth round of the complimentary body wash that smells like vanilla and false confidence. the mirror keeps fogging up from your unnecessarily long shower, which is perfect because you don’t particularly want to look yourself in the eye right now and confront whatever expression you’re probably making.

“just making sure i smell good,” you mutter to the pristine tiles, your voice echoing slightly in the marble sanctuary, fingers trembling as they work the lather across your shoulders for what has to be the dozenth time. as if they asked. as if anyone asked. as if satoru isn’t out there probably wondering if you’ve dissolved into the drain or escaped through the bathroom window like some kind of anxious rapunzel.

which, honestly, you’ve considered. you’ve even eyed the window measurements.

the thing is, you love him. love him so much it makes your teeth ache and your hands shake and your brain short-circuit at the worst possible moments—like now, when you’re supposed to be out there being a proper wife instead of hiding behind a locked door like you’re sixteen and scared of your first everything.

because that’s what this is. your first everything that matters.

god, you’re so pathetic it’s not even funny.

another thirty minutes pass in a haze of unnecessary beauty routines. you’ve moved on to deep conditioning your hair (for the second time), applying a face mask you found in the complimentary spa kit, and having a philosophical debate with your reflection about whether it’s possible to die from embarrassment. the water’s been running cold for the last ten minutes, which feels like the universe’s way of telling you to get your act together, but you’re nothing if not committed to your terrible coping mechanisms.

“he’s probably asleep anyway,” you whisper to your pruney fingers, working some expensive hair oil through the ends of your definitely over-conditioned strands. your voice sounds small in the echoing space, almost lost against the gentle patter of water droplets. “it’s late. he had a long day. all that dancing and smiling at your weird relatives and pretending your dad’s jokes were funny. he’s definitely asleep by now.”

you cling to this possibility like it’s the last life raft on a sinking ship.

finally, finally, you run out of bathroom-related tasks to perform without actually dissolving into the marble floor. the robe is fluffy enough to hide in, you smell like a vanilla cupcake, and your skin is soft enough to probably qualify as a health hazard. you take a deep breath that does absolutely nothing for your shot nerves, your hand hesitating on the door handle as your pulse hammers against your throat, and slowly crack open the door like you’re checking for monsters.

the room is dark. quiet. peaceful.

your heart does this stupid little leap of relief mixed with something that might be disappointment but you’re absolutely not examining that feeling right now because that way lies madness.

satoru’s lying on his side of the bed—his side, like you’re actually married now, like this is real life and not some elaborate stress dream—his moon-pale hair catching the faint city light like spilled starlight, each strand gleaming with an almost ethereal luminescence that makes your chest tight. his breathing appears even, peaceful. one long arm stretched across the space where you should be, fingers slightly curled as if reaching for something just out of grasp, like he fell asleep waiting.

the guilt hits you like cold water.

“oh thank god,” you breathe, practically melting with relief as you pad across the stupidly expensive carpet, your bare feet sinking into the plush fibers with each careful step. the hotel room is all warm lighting and soft edges, designed for romance, which makes your neuroses feel even more ridiculous. “i’m so sorry, ’toru,” you whisper to his sleeping form, your voice barely audible as you settle carefully on the very edge of the bed like you’re afraid it might collapse under your anxiety. “i know i took forever. i was just... scared, i guess. which is stupid because it’s you, and i love you more than anything, and i trust you completely, but my brain is just completely broken apparently and i—”

his arm shoots out like a striking snake.

you yelp as you’re suddenly yanked down against his chest, tumbling in an ungraceful heap on top of him, your damp hair cascading around both of you like a curtain. your hands shoot out to catch yourself and suddenly you’re braced against his bare chest, faces inches apart, close enough to see the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheekbones in the dim light. his other arm comes around to trap you against the warm solid length of him, and oh—oh, you can feel everything. the hard planes of his chest, the way his breathing has gone shallow, the heat of him seeping through the thin robe.

his eyes are bright and very much awake in the darkness, pupils blown wide as he stares up at you with the most devastatingly shit-eating grin you’ve ever seen. those impossible blues gleam like summer lightning, electric and dangerous and completely focused on you. there’s something almost predatory in the way he’s looking at you, like he’s a cat who’s finally caught the canary after a very long, very entertaining chase.

“scared?” he purrs, voice rough with what you now realize was completely fake sleep. his thumb traces along your lower lip with deliberate slowness, and you can feel your breath hitch, feel the way your pulse jumps under his touch. “of little old me?”

you’re suddenly, overwhelmingly aware that you’re straddling him. that his hands are spanning your waist with possessive certainty. that there’s nothing but a loosely tied robe between you and—

“you—” you start, face immediately burning hot enough to power the entire hotel, your voice catching as his fingers flex against your ribs. your voice comes out breathier than you intended, barely more than a whisper. “you were awake this whole time?”

“baby,” he laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest where you’re pressed against him, and you can feel the vibration of it everywhere your bodies touch, sending tiny sparks along your nerve endings. his eyes never leave yours, drinking in every micro-expression like he’s been starving for the sight of you, like he’s been counting every second you were apart. “sweetheart. light of my life. did you really think i’d fall asleep on our wedding night? while my wife—” he says the word like he’s savoring something exquisite, his grip on your waist tightening possessively “—was having what sounded like a full spa day in there?”

wife. every time he says it, something flutters dangerously in your chest, made worse by the way his eyes darken every time the word leaves his lips, like it affects him just as much as it affects you.

“i wasn’t having a spa day,” you protest weakly, very much caught and definitely guilty as charged. you try to push yourself up, to put some distance between you and the intensity of his gaze, but his hands keep you exactly where you are with gentle but immovable strength.

“mm-hmm.” one hand comes up to cup your face, thumb tracing your definitely-too-soft cheekbone while his eyes track the movement with laser focus, like he’s memorizing the texture of your skin. “just really, really committed to personal hygiene. for two and a half hours.” his other hand slides up your spine with agonizing slowness, fingers tangling in the damp ends of your hair, the touch sending shivers cascading down your back. “while i was out here going slowly insane, listening to every sound, imagining you in there all wet and—”

“it wasn’t two and a half hours,” you mumble, but you’re pretty sure it actually was, and the way his chest shakes with barely contained laughter beneath you confirms your suspicions.

“i’ve been lying here listening to the water run and trying not to go insane,” he murmurs, and there’s something raw and hungry in his voice now, something that makes your breath catch in your throat and your skin prickle with awareness. his fingers tighten in your hair, not pulling, just holding you in place so you can’t look away from the intensity burning in those crystalline depths. “do you know what that does to a man? knowing his wife is naked and wet just twenty feet away? hearing every little sound and imagining—”

you make some kind of strangled noise that might have been an attempt at words, your hands fisting in the sheets on either side of his head as heat pools low in your belly.

“and now you’re here,” he continues, voice dropping to barely above a whisper, eyes roaming over your face like he’s memorizing every detail—the flush spreading across your cheeks, the way your lips part slightly, the rapid flutter of your pulse in your throat. “and you smell—” he shifts beneath you, pulling you down so he can bury his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling deeply. you feel his lips brush against your pulse point and your entire body goes liquid, melting against him like honey. “—like you bathed in sugar and sin and everything i’ve ever wanted.”

his teeth graze your throat and you gasp, your back arching involuntarily, pressing you closer against him. you feel his sharp intake of breath, the way his hands grip your waist tighter, fingers digging into the soft flesh through the terry cloth.

“how am i supposed to be normal about this?” he murmurs against your skin, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, each touch of his lips leaving trails of fire. “how am i supposed to be patient when you’re shaking on top of me and making those little sounds?”

your brain has officially left the building. “i was nervous,” you admit in a voice smaller than a whisper, and you can feel him smile against your throat, soft and fond and devastatingly tender.

his expression gentles immediately, but his hands don’t stop their slow, torturous exploration of your waist, fingers tracing patterns that make you shiver and arch into his touch. he shifts beneath you with careful precision, rolling you both over so you’re lying side by side, and suddenly you can breathe again—or maybe breathing becomes even harder when he’s propped up on his elbow, looking down at you with those impossibly expressive eyes full of something soft and hungry and completely devoted.

“hey,” he murmurs, free hand coming up to trace the line of your jaw with reverent touches, thumb brushing over your bottom lip like it’s something precious. “we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. we can just sleep. or talk. or i can go back to pretending to sleep if that was working better for your anxiety.”

the sincerity in his voice, combined with the way he’s looking at you like you hung the stars specifically for him, makes your chest tight with affection so intense it almost hurts.

you huff a laugh despite yourself, some of the overwhelming tension melting into something warmer, more manageable. “you’re impossible.”

“impossibly patient,” he corrects with that crooked smile that makes your heart skip, then grins, and there’s that wicked gleam in his eyes again, playful and dangerous and entirely focused on you. “impossibly understanding. impossibly good-looking.”

“impossibly annoying.”

“mm,” he hums, leaning down to brush his nose against yours in the most devastating display of casual intimacy, close enough that you can feel his breath ghost across your lips, “you married me anyway.” his smile goes soft, private, the kind of expression that’s just for you—vulnerable and wondering and so full of love it makes your chest ache. “so what does that say about your judgment?”

“that it’s terrible,” you whisper, but you’re smiling now too, your hand coming up to rest against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm.

“the absolute worst,” he agrees solemnly, then leans in to brush his lips against yours. soft, questioning, sweet, like he’s asking permission for something you’ve done a thousand times before. but somehow this feels different. more weighted, more significant, like you’re crossing some invisible threshold together.

“better?” he asks against your lips, and you can feel his smile, can taste the hint of champagne still lingering from the reception.

you melt a little, like you always do when he kisses you like you’re something precious. “getting there.”

he kisses you again, deeper this time, his hand threading through your damp hair to cradle the back of your head with infinite care. you sigh against his mouth and he takes it as permission, his tongue tracing your bottom lip until you open for him with a soft sound of surrender. the kiss turns heated, desperate, all the restraint he’s been showing finally starting to crack around the edges like ice beginning to thaw.

his other hand finds your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space between you, until you can feel every hard line of his body against yours. you make a soft sound into his mouth and he groans in response, the noise vibrating through both of you like a tuning fork.

“you taste like toothpaste,” he murmurs when you break apart, both of you breathing hard. his pupils are blown wide and his hair is mussed from your fingers, those silver-white strands catching the low light like captured moonbeams.

“i brushed my teeth like six times,” you admit, embarrassed, but he just laughs—warm and fond and completely gone for you, the sound rich and delighted.

“i noticed,” he says, pressing kisses to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the sensitive spot just below your ear that makes you gasp and arch against him. “very thorough. very minty. very you.”

“shut up,” you breathe, but you’re kissing him back now, properly, desperately, the way you couldn’t quite manage to imagine doing an hour ago when you were having your breakdown in the bathroom.

his hands find the belt of your robe, fingers playing with the knot but not undoing it, just threatening to, his knuckles brushing against your stomach in a way that makes your breath hitch and your skin burn. he pulls back to look at you, eyes searching your face in the dim light with an intensity that makes you feel completely seen.

“this okay?” he asks, voice gone lower, rougher, and you can feel the restraint in the careful way he’s touching you, like he’s holding himself back from just devouring you whole.

you nod against his neck, then realize he probably can’t see you properly in the dark. “yeah,” you whisper, then, quieter, more vulnerable: “i don’t really know what i’m doing though.”

something shifts in his expression—hunger mixing with tenderness in a way that makes your chest tight and your core clench with want. “good thing i do,” he says, voice like honey and sin, and there’s something almost reverent in the way he finally, finally tugs the knot loose with careful, deliberate movements.

the robe falls open and satoru goes very, very still above you.

“jesus christ,” he breathes, and his voice cracks slightly on the words, breaking with the weight of his want. his hands hover just above your skin like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he touches you, like you’re something holy that he doesn’t deserve to worship. his eyes roam over you with an intensity that makes you feel like you’re burning from the inside out, taking in every curve, every shadow, every inch of exposed skin like he’s trying to memorize you.

you want to cover yourself, want to hide from the overwhelming way he’s looking at you—like you’re a miracle he never expected to witness—but his expression stops you cold. he’s staring at you like you hung the moon and stars specifically for him, like you’re the answer to every prayer he’s ever whispered in the dark.

“you’re so—” he starts, then stops, swallows hard, his adam’s apple bobbing as he struggles for words, tries again. “god, look at you. you’re perfect. you’re so fucking perfect i can’t—”

his hands finally settle on your waist, warm and sure and slightly trembling, thumbs tracing reverent patterns on your skin like he’s painting prayers across your flesh. you’re both breathing hard now, the air between you electric and charged and ready to snap.

“can i—?” he starts, hands still hovering, asking permission for everything, and the careful restraint in his voice makes something molten pool in your stomach.

“please,” you whisper, and it’s barely audible but it’s enough, more than enough.

his control finally snaps.

his mouth crashes against yours, hungry and desperate and full of months of wanting, and his hands are suddenly everywhere—tracing the line of your spine, mapping the curve of your ribs, learning the shape of you with a patience that makes your chest tight and your head spin. every touch is careful but urgent, like he’s trying to memorize you and claim you and worship you all at once.

“you’re shaking,” he murmurs against your lips, pressing soft kisses to your collarbone, your throat, anywhere he can reach.

“nervous,” you admit, because there’s no point in lying now when you’re spread out beneath him like an offering, your skin flushed and sensitive under his reverent attention.

his mouth pauses against your skin. “want me to stop?”

“no.” the word comes out more desperate than you intended, your hands fisting in his hair, tugging at those soft strands until he groans against your throat. “no, don’t stop. i just—i don’t know what to do with my hands.”

he laughs, warm and fond and completely wrecked, the sound vibrating against your skin. “you don’t have to do anything,” he says, lips trailing down to that sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “just let me take care of you, yeah? let me make you feel good.”

his mouth finds that spot that makes your back arch and you gasp, pressing involuntarily against him. you feel his sharp intake of breath, feel him smile against your skin when you make a soft, needy sound.

“there we go,” he murmurs, voice like honey and gravel, rough with want. “just like that. you sound so pretty when you—”

his teeth graze your throat and you’re gone, completely gone, arching beneath him like you’re trying to get closer, always closer. his hands are mapping every inch of exposed skin with reverent touches, and when he looks up at you through his lashes—those ridiculous white lashes that frame eyes like captured lightning—eyes dark with want and something deeper, you think you might actually die from how much you love him.

“’toru,” you manage, and his name comes out shakier than you intended, like a prayer torn from your very soul.

“right here,” he murmurs against your skin, placing another open-mouthed kiss just below your ear that makes you shiver and arch into his touch. “not going anywhere. you’re stuck with me now, wife.”

and god help you, but when he settles more firmly between your legs with that hungry, adoring look in his eyes—like he’s about to spend the rest of the night showing you exactly what you’ve been missing during your bathroom crisis—you think you might actually be looking forward to finding out exactly what being his wife is going to mean.

he shifts lower with agonizing deliberation, his hands—strong, warm, capable of wielding infinite power but now gentle as they handle you like spun glass—spreading your thighs wider with slow, purposeful pressure that makes your breath catch in your throat. the cool air of the room kisses your heated skin, each molecule a sharp contrast that sends a shiver rippling through you, goosebumps blooming like tiny constellations across your flesh.

his gaze, those piercing eyes like arctic ice lit from within, pins you in place, making your heart race with a heady mix of vulnerability and desire that leaves you breathless. but then he tilts his head, looking up at you through those infuriatingly long lashes that should be illegal, his eyes absolutely wicked with mischief and unrestrained want, and that familiar, devastating grin spreads across his lips, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every second of your surrender.

“you know,” he says, his voice low and conversational, dripping with that teasing cadence that makes your toes curl, as his thumbs trace maddeningly slow, lazy patterns on the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, each brush igniting sparks of electricity that pulse straight to your core, making your muscles quiver with anticipation. “i’ve been thinking about this for months. lying awake at night, restless, imagining what you’d taste like, what sounds you’d make when i—” his words trail off, deliberately unfinished, letting your mind spiral with the possibilities as his thumbs press just a fraction harder, sending a wave of heat through you that makes your hips shift restlessly.

“satoru,” you breathe, his name a broken whisper as your face flushes with warmth that spreads from your cheeks down your neck like wildfire, and he laughs—low, rich, and utterly unrepentant, the sound vibrating in his chest like a predator’s purr, sending a thrill through you that settles hot and heavy between your thighs.

“what? we’re married now. i’m allowed to tell my wife all the filthy things i’ve been dreaming about her.” his mouth presses a soft, lingering kiss to the inside of your thigh, his lips warm and slightly damp, the contact searing as it lingers, branding your skin with heat. then another kiss, higher, closer to where you’re already aching for him, each touch leaving a trail of tingling embers that make you squirm against the sheets. “and trust me, baby, i’ve been dreaming about everything.”

your breath hitches, a sharp gasp that echoes in the quiet room, when his mouth reaches the delicate crease where your thigh meets your hip, his tongue darting out with a slow, deliberate swipe, the wet heat of it making your toes curl and your fingers clutch desperately at the expensive sheets. he hums appreciatively, the sound low and resonant, vibrating through your flesh like a current, as if you’re the most exquisite thing he’s ever tasted. his lips linger, brushing softly, teasingly, before he pulls back just enough to let his breath ghost over the damp patch he’s left, cool against your overheated skin.

“gonna take my time with you,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice a low rumble that sinks into your bones like a sacred vow. his hands slide under your thighs with deliberate care, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he lifts them, draping them over his broad shoulders with a slow, reverent motion. the position opens you completely, baring you to his gaze, every inch of you exposed in a way that feels thrillingly intimate, your core pulsing with anticipation that borders on desperation. “gonna make you fall apart so many times you forget your own name. think you can handle that, wife?”

you open your mouth to answer, but the words dissolve into a broken moan as his tongue drags a slow, deliberate stripe up your center, the sensation overwhelming—wet, warm, and impossibly perfect, sending shockwaves through your entire body that make your vision blur at the edges. pleasure radiates outward like ripples in still water, making your fingers clench the sheets so hard your knuckles go white, your hips lifting instinctively toward his wicked mouth. he groans in response, a deep, primal sound that vibrates against you, and your hands fly to tangle in his hair, tugging at those soft, impossible strands as you surrender completely to the sensations he’s creating.

“fuck, you taste even better than i imagined,” he breathes against your slick skin, his voice rough with desire, the cool exhale making you shudder and whimper his name like a broken prayer. then he dives back in with an enthusiasm that makes your head spin, his tongue working you with methodical precision, like he’s studied every sensitive spot and planned exactly how to unravel you.

he’s thorough—alternating between broad, flat strokes that make your entire body tense with electric pleasure, and focused attention on your clit, his tongue flicking and circling with devastating accuracy until you’re writhing beneath him, hips bucking greedily against his mouth. occasionally, he dips lower, his tongue plunging into you with obscene, wet sounds that make your cheeks burn and your core clench around the intrusion, every nerve alight with pleasure that builds in relentless waves.

when you’re teetering on the edge, thighs trembling around his head like leaves in a storm, your voice a broken chant of his name echoing off the hotel room walls, he pulls back just enough to fix you with those predatory eyes—twin flames in the darkness that seem to see straight through to your soul. his chin glistens with your arousal, a wicked grin curling his lips as he drinks in your desperate whimper, the loss of his mouth agonizing, your clit throbbing and swollen with need. “not yet,” he says, his voice smug and teasing, relishing your need like fine wine. “told you i was gonna take my time.”

he does it again. and again. each time, he builds you up with that sinful mouth, pushing you to the very brink until you’re sobbing with need, tears of pure want streaming down your cheeks, your body so wound up it feels like you might shatter into a thousand pieces. the denial sharpens every sensation—each touch of his lips, each flick of his tongue feels electric, amplified by the sweet torment of being held at the edge. your breaths come in ragged gasps, each one a struggle against the overwhelming desire consuming you from the inside out.

“please,” you gasp, your hands fisted in his hair hard enough that it has to hurt, tugging until he moans against you, the sound low and filthy, as if the pain only drives him wilder. your voice breaks, raw and desperate, a plea torn from the very depths of your need. “satoru, please—”

“please what?” he asks, his tone wickedly innocent as he presses a soft, teasing kiss to your clit, the brief contact sending a jolt through your oversensitive flesh that makes you cry out. the slight suction of his lips is nowhere near enough to satisfy the ache building inside you. “use your words, sweetheart.”

“let me come,” you beg, too consumed by need to feel any shame, your hips bucking up desperately, chasing his mouth with single-minded desperation. your slickness makes everything wet and messy, dripping down your thighs in a way that would embarrass you if you had any coherent thoughts left. “please, i need—i can’t—”

“there’s my good girl,” he purrs, the praise dripping with satisfaction that makes your core clench with want, and finally, finally, he gives you what you crave. his mouth seals over your clit with slow, deliberate pressure, sucking in a rhythm that’s both perfect and utterly devastating, sending you screaming his name as the first orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave. it’s blinding, your vision whiting out as pleasure explodes through every nerve, your body convulsing, thighs clamping around his head as wave after wave of ecstasy tears through you, leaving you trembling and gasping.

but he doesn’t stop. doesn’t even slow. his tongue continues its relentless assault, working you through the aftershocks with a ferocity that sends you spiraling into overstimulation, your body so sensitive it’s almost too much to bear. you’re pliant, completely at his mercy, your hips lifting to meet every flick of his tongue, every suck of his lips, your moans turning into soft, broken whimpers as you surrender to the intensity. “satoru,” you gasp, your voice trembling with awe and desperation, your hands tugging at his hair, urging him closer, deeper, wanting more despite the overwhelming sensation.

“fuck, you’re perfect,” he breathes against you, the words vibrating through your swollen clit and making you cry out as the sensation sends fresh sparks through your overloaded nervous system. “love how you just take it, how you let me do whatever i want to this sweet cunt.” his enthusiasm is infectious, making you arch into him, your body greedy for every touch, every stroke, as he dives back in with renewed fervor.

the second orgasm builds faster, your body already primed and hypersensitive, every nerve singing with electric pleasure. when it hits, you’re crying openly, tears streaming down your face from the sheer intensity, the pleasure so overwhelming it feels like it’s rewriting your very dna. you’re pliant, melting into him, your body arching off the bed in a perfect bow as the climax rips through you, your walls fluttering with desperate need even as you shake and sob, completely undone.

“look at you,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to admire his handiwork, his voice thick with awe and barely restrained lust. you catch your reflection in his blown-out pupils—wrecked and radiant, your face flushed with pleasure, lips parted as you struggle to breathe, eyes glassy with tears of bliss. his chin glistens with your arousal, his lips swollen and wet, and the sight is so obscene it makes your core clench with renewed want. “crying from how good i make you feel. you’re so fucking beautiful like this.”

he slides two fingers inside you with slow, deliberate ease, your body so eager and wet that they slip in effortlessly, your walls welcoming the intrusion with a flutter of pleasure. his fingers feel impossibly long, thicker than your own, reaching deeper and brushing against spots that make you gasp sharply and see stars behind your closed eyelids. he starts a slow, torturous rhythm, curling them just right to hit that perfect spot inside you that makes your back arch off the bed, each movement sending electricity shooting through your veins. his thumb circles your oversensitive clit with feather-light touches, the barest pressure enough to make you jolt and whimper.

“one more,” he says, his voice low and commanding as he adds a third finger, the stretch a sweet, burning ache that makes you keen, your body eagerly accommodating him. you can hear the obscene wet sounds of his fingers moving inside you, your slickness coating his hand and dripping down your thighs, making everything messy and perfect. “give me one more and then i’ll give you my cock. you want that, don’t you? want me to fill you up?”

you nod frantically, words beyond you, your mind too scrambled by pleasure to form anything coherent beyond broken moans and gasps of his name.

he grins, absolutely feral with satisfaction at reducing you to this trembling, needy mess. “can’t hear you, baby,” he teases, his voice a low growl that makes your core clench around his fingers.

“yes,” you sob, your voice hoarse and broken from all the sounds he’s pulled from you, “yes, want it, want you—need you inside me—”

“good girl,” he purrs, and his fingers pick up speed, each thrust hitting that perfect spot with devastating precision while his mouth returns to your clit, the dual assault pushing you toward the edge with terrifying speed. the third orgasm rips through you like lightning, your body convulsing, walls clenching around his fingers as you gush, the wetness soaking his hand, your thighs, the expensive sheets beneath you. you’re crying so hard you can barely breathe, the intensity leaving you trembling and shattered, but you’re still pliant, still aching for more, your body singing for him.

“perfect,” he murmurs, slowly withdrawing his fingers, the loss making you whimper softly. he brings them to his mouth, licking them clean with a deep, appreciative groan that makes your core clench around nothing, the visual so filthy it’s almost enough to push you over again. “absolutely perfect. taste so fucking good.”

he crawls back up your body with slow, predatory grace, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your hip bone, the dip of your waist, the soft valley between your breasts. your skin is hypersensitive, still thrumming from your orgasms, and each brush of his lips sends aftershocks rippling through you. when he reaches your mouth, he kisses you deeply, his tongue sliding against yours, letting you taste yourself—sweet and musky and intimate in a way that makes you moan into his mouth.

“still with me?” he asks softly, his voice carrying a thread of genuine concern even as his cock throbs against your thigh, hard and leaking, the heat of it searing against your sensitive skin. those ethereal strands of hair fall across his forehead like scattered moonlight, and his wedding ring catches the dim light as he cups your face, the cool metal a stark contrast against your flushed cheek.

“yeah,” you whisper, your voice wrecked, raw from moaning and crying out his name. “want you. need you inside me.”

his pupils dilate further, his breathing shallow, a faint tremor running through his powerful frame. “fuck, when you say things like that—” he breaks off, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath hot and uneven against your lips. “you sure you’re ready? you’ve come so hard already, don’t want to overwhelm you.”

your heart swells at his care, but your body is desperate, aching for him with a need that borders on painful. “please, ’toru. want to feel you. need you.”

he reaches between your bodies, wrapping his hand around himself, and you catch a glimpse of him—long, thick, intimidatingly perfect, the tip flushed a deep pink and glistening with pre-cum that beads and drips in the low light. when he positions himself at your entrance, you feel the heat of him, the weight, the promise of what’s to come, and your breath catches, your body already anticipating the stretch and burn of taking him inside you. “gonna go slow,” he murmurs, his eyes locked on yours, searching for any flicker of hesitation, but all he finds is your eager need reflected back at him.

he pushes inside with excruciating slowness, just the head at first, and the stretch is immediate, a burning fullness that makes you gasp, your walls fluttering around him as your body adjusts. his cock is hot, pulsing, the thick tip parting you with a deliberate pressure that feels both overwhelming and perfect, your slickness easing the way but not diminishing the intensity. your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving crescent marks as you cling to him, your breath hitching as he sinks deeper, inch by torturous inch. the sensation is exquisite—every ridge, every vein dragging against your sensitive walls, filling you in a way that makes your toes curl, your hips lifting to meet him instinctively.

his face is a study in restraint, his jaw clenched tight, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple as he fights to keep his movements slow, controlled. those pale strands of his hair—silvered moonlight caught in silk—fall across his forehead in disheveled waves, darkened with perspiration and trembling with each labored breath. his eyes flutter shut for a moment, lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones, a low groan rumbling from his chest as he sinks another inch, the stretch making you whimper, your walls clenching around him greedily. when he opens them again, those impossibly cerulean depths have gone molten, like arctic ice melting under flame.

“fuck, you’re so tight,” he breathes, voice rough, almost broken, fingers trembling against your cheek before his lips brush your skin—your cheeks, your eyelids—soft and grounding, his free hand finding yours, fingers intertwining, your wedding rings clicking together in a sound that makes your chest ache.

“more,” you whisper, your voice trembling with need, chest rising and falling rapidly against his, the burn fading into a warm, full sensation that has you desperate for him to move. your silk chemise, the one you’d chosen specially for tonight, bunches around your waist, the delicate lace trim pressed between your bodies.

he pushes deeper, each inch a slow, sensual invasion, his cock stretching you wider, filling you completely, the sensation so intense it’s almost too much, yet exactly what you crave. you feel every detail—the way his shaft pulses inside you, the slight curve that presses against your walls just right, the slick glide of him as your arousal coats him, making every movement smooth but deliberate. his breathing becomes more ragged, those arctic depths of his eyes never leaving your face, cataloging every micro-expression, every flutter of your lashes.

when he’s halfway seated, you’re panting, your body trembling with the effort of accommodating him, your manicured nails—still perfect from this morning’s appointment—digging crescents into his shoulders, but you’re pliant, eager, your hips tilting up to take more of him.

“breathe, baby,” he whispers, his voice strained, rough with the effort of holding back, those moonlight strands sticking to his forehead as he trembles above you. his lips press against your temple, lingering, and you can feel the tension in his body, his muscles trembling as he fights to keep from thrusting too fast. when you look up at him, his expression is devastating—eyebrows drawn together in concentration, that perfect mouth slightly parted, eyes blazing with something between worship and desperation. “you’re doing so good, taking me so well.”

he sinks deeper, and you moan, long and low, as he fills you completely, his hips flush against yours, his cock seated so deep you can feel him pressing against your cervix, a sweet, aching pressure that makes your eyes water with pleasure. you’ve never felt so full, so claimed, every nerve alight with the sensation of him inside you, his heartbeat pulsing through his cock, syncing with yours. he goes still, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged, those ethereal eyes half-lidded but burning with intensity as he watches your every reaction, like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“you feel incredible,” he breathes against your ear, his voice raw, trembling with need, and you can feel his smile against your skin. “so tight, so perfect. made for me.”

he starts to move, pulling out with agonizing slowness, those pale lashes fluttering as his eyes nearly roll back, the drag of his cock against your walls sending sparks of pleasure through you, every inch igniting new nerve endings. then he thrusts back in, deliberate and deep, each movement hitting that perfect spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyelids, your silk-clad back arching against the expensive sheets. his expression is feral now, pupils blown wide until only thin rings of that impossible color remain, lips parted as he pants, but there’s a tenderness in the way he watches you, cataloging every moan, every shudder, as if he’s memorizing how you look when you’re lost in him.

“you’re so beautiful like this,” he murmurs, his eyes roaming over your face—your flushed cheeks, parted lips, glassy eyes—before drifting down to where your chemise has ridden up, revealing the delicate gold chain around your waist, a wedding gift from this morning. his fingers trace it reverently, the cool metal a stark contrast to your heated skin. “all flushed and perfect, taking my cock so well. my wife.” the word sends a fresh wave of arousal through you, your walls clenching around him, making him curse under his breath, a low, filthy sound that makes you shiver, your pearl earrings catching the lamplight as your head falls back against the pillows.

his thrusts grow deeper, more urgent, his control fraying as he feels you respond, your body pliant and eager, meeting every movement with a roll of your hips. the wet sounds of your bodies moving together are obscene, perfect, filling the room with the slick rhythm of your connection. those moonbeam strands of his hair fall into his eyes, and when he tosses his head to clear them, the movement is so unconsciously graceful it makes your heart stutter. you’re so sensitive, so primed, that every thrust sends sparks through you, building another orgasm faster than you thought possible, your wedding bracelet sliding up your wrist as you reach for him.

“’toru,” you gasp, your voice trembling with awe, hands clinging to his shoulders as another climax builds, unstoppable, your painted nails leaving marks on his perfect skin. “i’m—”

“i know, baby,” he groans, voice rough, desperate, and there’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you, like you’re a goddess he’s been blessed to touch. “i can feel you getting tight around me. gonna come on my cock? gonna show me how good i make you feel?” his words push you over, and the fourth orgasm crashes through you with devastating intensity, your walls clamping down on him like a vice, a broken moan spilling from your lips as your body convulses, pleasure tearing through you while your silk chemise clings to your sweat-dampened skin. he follows with a deep, guttural groan, spilling inside you with hot, pulsing spurts that fill you completely, the warmth seeping into you as you shudder around him, those celestial eyes never leaving your face.

you’re still trembling, your body pliant and boneless, when he lifts his head, those arctic depths now glinting with unrestrained hunger, his hair a beautiful disaster of silver threads. “told you we were just getting started,” he growls, voice rough with satisfaction as he starts moving again without pulling out, your oversensitive walls fluttering around his still-hard length. you moan, your body so responsive that the overstimulation feels like a delicious torment, every thrust sending fresh waves of pleasure through you, your delicate gold jewelry catching the light with each movement.

you’re completely pliant now, your body melting into his, your hips lifting to meet each of his thrusts, eager for more despite the intensity, your chemise twisted and bunched between you. “satoru,” you whimper, voice soft and needy, urging him on as he sets a deeper, more demanding rhythm, each thrust hitting so deep it steals your breath, your wedding ring glinting as you grip the sheets.

“love how you take it,” he growls, his grin wicked as he watches you, those ethereal strands falling across his forehead as he moves, his hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise, guiding your movements. “my perfect wife, letting me fuck you like this.” his pace is relentless now, his cock driving into you with devastating precision, the new angle making him feel impossibly deeper, each thrust sending shockwaves through your trembling body while your silk chemise rides up further, exposing more of your heated skin.

“look at me,” he commands, voice rough with authority, and when your eyes meet his, he grins at your fucked-out expression—your lips trembling, eyes glassy with pleasure, your carefully styled hair now a beautiful mess against the pillows. “there’s my pretty wife. taking my cock so well, falling apart for me.”

his thrusts are rougher now, more primal, his body slamming into yours with a force that makes your breasts bounce beneath the silk, your breath hitching with every impact, the delicate fabric clinging to your overheated skin. you’re lost in him, your body pliant, every nerve singing with overstimulation as he drives you toward another peak, your manicured fingers clutching desperately at his shoulders. “can’t get enough of you,” you moan, voice breaking with need, your walls clenching around him as another orgasm builds, unstoppable.

“that’s it,” he growls, his thumb finding your swollen clit and rubbing merciless circles, the pressure sending sparks through you while those impossible eyes—like winter sky split by lightning—burn into yours. “come for me again, baby. show me how much you love this.” the fifth orgasm rips through you with a raw, broken scream, your body convulsing so hard you nearly black out, pleasure tearing through you like a storm while your silk chemise clings to every curve. he fucks you through it, relentless, his cock driving into you as your walls spasm around him, drawing a deep groan from his throat as he watches you shatter, those moonlight strands dark with sweat.

“beautiful,” he breathes, leaning down to lick the tears from your cheeks, the action so filthy and intimate it makes you clench around him again, pulling another low moan from him as his pale lashes flutter. “absolutely fucking beautiful.”

he comes again with a deep, primal groan, filling you even more, and you think you might get a reprieve, but he’s still hard, still moving, those arctic depths burning with insatiable hunger. his grin is pure sin as he flips you both over with a smooth, practiced motion, settling you on top of him, his cock sinking even deeper as you straddle him, your chemise falling around you like liquid silk. the movement makes you cry out, the new angle overwhelming.

your thighs shake as you try to lift yourself, muscles like jelly from the thorough fucking you’ve received, your wedding jewelry catching the light as you tremble. “satoru,” you whimper, voice trembling with need, but you’re eager, your hips rolling instinctively as you take him deeper, the silk of your chemise brushing against his chest.

“that’s my girl,” he says, hands gripping your waist tight enough to bruise, fingers digging into your soft flesh with possessive strength, his pale hair spread across the dark pillows like spilled starlight. “just let me move you.” he bounces you on his cock with ease, using you like his personal toy, and you’re so pliant, so responsive, that you gush around him, your slickness coating him as he moves you. you brace your hands on his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath your palms, your delicate jewelry sliding with each movement, and let him manhandle you, your body singing with pleasure.

“love how you feel,” he groans, those ethereal eyes drinking in every expression—your parted lips, your glassy eyes, the tears still streaming down your cheeks, the way your silk chemise clings to your curves. “my perfect little wife, letting me use this sweet cunt however i want.” his hands move to your breasts, squeezing and kneading through the silk with a roughness that makes you gasp, his fingers finding your sensitive nipples and pinching, rolling them until you arch and moan, the sensation amplifying the pleasure of his cock inside you.

“so fucking responsive,” he growls, pinching harder just to hear your whimper, the sound making his cock twitch inside you while those pale strands stick to his temples. “these pretty tits were made for my hands.” the dual sensation of him filling you completely while he tortures your sensitive peaks through the delicate fabric has you coming again, your walls spasming around his thick length as you sob his name, the sound raw and desperate, your jewelry catching the light as you convulse.

“that’s five,” he says with smug satisfaction, but his hands never stop, one still tormenting your breast while the other slides down to rub your clit with relentless precision, those impossible eyes—like arctic fire—blazing up at you. “one more, baby. know you’ve got it in you.” you’re too far gone to protest, your body eager, pliant, building toward another peak despite the overwhelming sensation. when it hits, you scream, the sound raw and broken as your body convulses uncontrollably, your walls clamping down on him as pleasure rips through you, leaving you trembling and spent while your chemise clings to your sweat-dampened skin.

he comes with a deep groan, pulling you down flush against his chest, his arms wrapping around you possessively as he fills you again, his cock pulsing inside you. you’re both slick with sweat, breathing hard, and you can feel his cum leaking out around his softening cock, the sensation messy and intimate. those moonlight strands are completely destroyed now, sticking up at impossible angles, and there’s something endearingly human about the way he looks—flushed and breathing hard, no longer the untouchable deity he sometimes seems.

“six,” he says with smug satisfaction, pressing a kiss to your hair, his voice gone soft and wondering. “my perfect wife gave me six orgasms on our wedding night.”

you can barely form words, completely wrung out and shaking in his arms, your silk chemise twisted around you. your voice comes out as barely a whisper, throat raw from all the sounds he pulled from you. “you’re insane.”

“insane for you,” he agrees easily, voice gone all breathy and soft in a way that makes your stomach flutter even now, his fingers already starting to card through your hair with infinite gentleness. his hands have completely transformed—no longer possessive and demanding, but gentle, reverent almost, stroking your back in soothing circles. his touch is feather-light now, careful of your oversensitive skin, and when you peek up at him through your lashes, those ethereal features have softened into something so tender it makes your chest tight. “but i think you’ve had enough for tonight. let’s get you cleaned up.”

his eyebrows—pale as winter frost—knit together in concern when you make a small sound of protest, your body feeling like overcooked pasta as he tries to lift you. there’s something almost comically serious about the way he studies your face, those impossible depths searching for any sign of discomfort, like he’s trying to decode whether you’re actually uncomfortable or just being dramatic.

“i’ve got you, baby,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your temple that’s so gentle it makes you want to cry, his lips warm against your skin. “just let me take care of you, yeah?”

when he stands, carrying you bridal style toward the bathroom with exaggerated care—like you’re made of spun glass and might shatter if he moves too quickly—you can’t help but notice he’s finally showing signs of exertion. those silver strands are completely destroyed, sticking up at impossible angles from your hands, and there’s a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead that catches the light, making his skin look luminous. his chest rises and falls just a little too quickly, cheeks flushed pink in a way that makes him look younger, almost boyish, those celestial eyes soft with satisfaction and something deeper.

“good thing you’ve got stamina,” you mumble against his shoulder, words slightly slurred from exhaustion, and you feel more than hear his laugh—a warm rumble that vibrates through his chest.

he sets you down carefully on the marble counter, hands steady on your waist, thumb rubbing small circles against your hip bones through the twisted silk of your chemise. there’s something almost smug about his grin as he reaches for the faucet, but it’s tempered by the soft way those arctic depths keep darting to your face to check that you’re okay, his pale lashes casting shadows on his cheeks.

“baby, that wasn’t even close to my limit,” he says, and there’s that familiar cocky tilt to his chin even as his cheeks flush darker, those moonlight strands falling across his forehead. “but it’s both our first time, so i was being nice.” his voice drops to something softer, more vulnerable, those impossible eyes suddenly uncertain. “didn’t want to break you on our wedding night.”

the thought of him holding back makes you shiver despite the warm air, your mind immediately conjuring images of what ‘not holding back’ might look like. he notices the shiver immediately, those ridiculous eyes going wide with concern as his hands fly up to cup your face, his touch impossibly gentle.

“cold?” he asks, eyebrows doing that thing where they scrunch together—pale and expressive—like you’re the most important problem he’s ever had to solve.

you shake your head, but he’s already reaching for one of the plush hotel robes, expression so seriously focused on the task of wrapping it around your shoulders that you have to bite back a smile, those silver strands falling into his eyes as he works. “just thinking about you not being nice,” you admit quietly.

his hands still on the robe ties, and when you look up, his pupils have dilated again, those ethereal depths darkening with familiar hunger before he visibly shakes himself, his pale lashes fluttering. “dangerous thoughts, mrs. gojo,” he murmurs, voice rough, but then he’s back to fussing with the robe, making sure it covers you properly. the whiplash between his desire and his care makes your heart skip.

he runs the bath with the intensity of a man performing surgery, testing the temperature obsessively—first with his fingers, then his wrist, then his elbow, brow furrowed in concentration, those moonlight strands falling across his face. you watch him, mesmerized by how someone so chaotic and playful can become so methodical when it comes to taking care of you, those impossible eyes focused with laser precision.

“’toru,” you say softly, and he glances over his shoulder with a questioning hum, those arctic depths immediately softening. “it’s just a bath.”

his expression turns mock-offended, like you’ve just insulted his honor, one eyebrow arching dramatically. “just a bath?” he repeats, one hand pressed dramatically to his chest, those pale fingers splayed across his heart. “this is my wife’s first post-wedding-night bath. there are standards to maintain.”

the word ‘wife’ still makes something flutter dangerously in your chest, especially when he says it with that soft, wondering tone—like he can’t quite believe it himself, those ethereal features glowing with happiness. he turns back to the faucet, adding what seems like an entire bottle of expensive bath oils to the water, his movements precise and careful.

“perfect temperature,” he announces proudly, like he’s just solved world hunger, then spins around with the brightest grin, those impossible eyes sparkling with satisfaction. “ready, beautiful?”

the water is absolute heaven against your overheated, oversensitive skin. you can’t help the little sigh of relief that escapes as you sink into the warmth, muscles you didn’t even realize were tense finally beginning to relax. satoru slides in behind you a moment later, long legs bracketing yours as he pulls you back against his chest, his skin still warm and perfect against yours.

“better?” his voice is barely above a whisper, lips brushing your temple, and you can only nod, melting back against him.

his hands are impossibly gentle as he reaches for the expensive shampoo, and there’s something almost reverent about the way he works it into your hair. his fingers massage your scalp in slow, methodical circles, and you can see his reflection in the mirror across from the tub—tongue poking out slightly in concentration, those pale eyebrows drawn together like washing your hair is the most important task he’s ever been assigned, his silver strands damp and curling slightly from the steam.

“such pretty hair,” he murmurs, voice gone soft and wondering, like he’s sharing a secret with the universe, his fingers working through the strands with infinite care. “so soft. been wanting to do this for ages.” when you let out a small, content sound and let your head fall back against his shoulder, his entire expression lights up like christmas morning, those ethereal depths sparkling with joy. “yeah? feels good?”

you nod sleepily, eyes fluttering closed, and he practically preens with satisfaction. every movement is deliberate, careful, his usual manic energy replaced by something tender and focused that makes your heart squeeze. when he tips your head back to rinse the shampoo out, his other hand automatically comes up to cup your forehead, protecting your eyes from the water, those pale fingers gentle against your skin.

“there we go,” he says quietly, pressing a kiss to your wet temple with a smile so soft it makes you want to cry, his lips warm and reverent. “perfect. you’re so perfect.”

the conditioner gets the same treatment—gentle fingers working through the strands, detangling carefully, never pulling or tugging. then he’s reaching for the washcloth, soaking it in the warm water and beginning to clean you with touches so soft they’re barely there, those impossible eyes focused and tender.

“arms up, sweetheart,” he whispers, and when you comply, he washes under your arms, along your ribs, between your fingers with the kind of thorough attention that makes your heart squeeze. every touch is reverent, worshipful, like he’s memorizing the feel of your skin under his hands, those arctic depths soft with wonder.

when the cloth moves lower, ghosting over your breasts with clinical precision, you tense slightly—still so sensitive from his earlier attention. his movements immediately still, and when you glance up, his face has gone all soft and concerned, those pale eyebrows knitting together in worry.

“you okay?” he asks immediately, free hand coming up to stroke your cheek with infinite gentleness. “too much? i can stop—”

“no,” you whisper, relaxing back against him with a small smile that makes his shoulders drop with relief, those ethereal features melting with tenderness. “just... still sensitive.”

his expression melts into something apologetic and tender, those impossible eyes going soft with understanding. “sorry, baby,” he murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulder, his lips feather-light against your skin. “i’ll be more careful. promise.”

and he is. when he washes between your thighs, his touch becomes impossibly gentle, clinical in the best way—just taking care of you, cleaning away the evidence of your activities with the kind of careful attention that’s somehow more intimate than anything that came before. there’s something about the way he focuses on the task, bottom lip caught between his teeth in concentration, those silver strands falling across his face, that makes your chest tight with affection.

“lean forward for me?” he asks softly, and when you do, he washes your back with the same careful attention, working out knots in your shoulders you didn’t realize were there, his fingers strong and sure against your skin.

by the time he’s finished, you’re completely boneless, practically purring under his gentle ministrations. the water has cooled slightly, but his body heat keeps you warm, arms wrapped loosely around your waist, those impossible eyes soft and content.

“think you’re ready to get out?” he asks after a few more minutes of comfortable silence, lips moving against your hair.

you nod sleepily, and he helps you stand on legs that feel like jelly, hands immediately shooting to your elbows to steady you. there’s something almost comically protective about the way he hovers, like he’s expecting you to topple over at any second, those ethereal features creased with concern. the towel he wraps around you is impossibly warm—and when you give him a questioning look, he grins sheepishly, those pale cheeks flushing pink.

“may have stuck it in the towel warmer while you were soaking,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck, those silver strands sticking up at odd angles. “wanted everything to be perfect.”

the casual thoughtfulness of it makes your heart skip, and when you smile at him—soft and grateful and so full of love—his cheeks flush pink again, those impossible eyes going wide with wonder. “you’re ridiculous,” you tell him fondly.

“ridiculously thoughtful,” he corrects with a grin that’s equal parts smug and bashful, those arctic depths sparkling with mischief. “ridiculously devoted. ridiculously—”

“ridiculously annoying,” you interrupt, but you’re laughing as he gasps in mock offense, one hand pressed dramatically to his chest.

“my wife thinks i’m annoying,” he announces to the bathroom mirror, pressing a dramatic hand to his forehead, though his eyes are sparkling with laughter. “how will i ever recover?”

“by drying my hair before i catch pneumonia,” you suggest, still giggling, and his expression immediately shifts back to serious concern, those pale eyebrows drawing together.

“right, yes, hair,” he says, reaching for another towel with renewed focus, his movements suddenly purposeful. “can’t have my wife getting sick on our honeymoon.”

he takes another towel and begins patting your hair dry with the same careful attention he showed in the bath, his touch gentle and methodical. “don’t want to tangle it,” he explains quietly when he catches you watching him, and something about the casual intimacy of it—this powerful, overwhelming man being so careful with your hair—makes your eyes prick with unexpected tears.

he notices immediately, free hand coming up to cup your cheek, those ethereal depths immediately filling with concern. “hey, what’s wrong?”

“nothing,” you whisper, leaning into his touch, his palm warm against your skin. “just... you’re being so sweet.”

his expression goes soft, thumb brushing away a stray tear with infinite gentleness. “you’re my wife now,” he says simply, like that explains everything, those impossible eyes soft with wonder. “of course i’m going to take care of you.”

wife. the word makes your heart stutter like it always does, especially when he says it with that soft, wondering tone—like he still can’t quite believe he gets to call you that, those arctic depths glowing with happiness.

when you’re dry, he disappears briefly into the main room with a quick “be right back!” thrown over his shoulder, and you can hear him rummaging around, muttering to himself. he returns moments later with one of his t-shirts and a pair of your favorite sleep shorts, looking ridiculously pleased with himself, those silver strands still mussed from sleep and steam.

“lifted them from your apartment last week,” he admits with a grin that’s equal parts sheepish and unrepentant when he catches your questioning look, his cheeks flushing that pretty pink again. “wanted to make sure you’d be comfortable tonight. may have also grabbed your favorite pillow, that body wash you always use, and those weird face masks you love.”

your mouth falls open. “you planned this? the aftercare supplies?”

his cheeks flush pink, and he rubs the back of his neck with a bashful smile, those impossible eyes suddenly shy. “maybe researched a little. wanted to do it right.” then, with a return of his usual cockiness: “first time for everything, but i’m nothing if not thorough.”

the shirt is huge on you, hanging almost to your knees, and it smells like him—clean and warm and safe and home. the shorts are your favorites, the ones that are almost too soft from years of washing, and the fact that he noticed, that he thought to bring them, makes something warm bloom in your chest.

“you’re completely ridiculous,” you mumble, but your smile is so wide it hurts your cheeks, and when he sees it, his whole face lights up like he’s just won the lottery, those ethereal features practically glowing.

“ridiculously prepared,” he corrects, scooping you up again with exaggerated care, those impossible eyes soft with affection. “ridiculously considerate. ridiculously—”

“if you say ‘ridiculously handsome’ i’m filing for divorce,” you threaten, but you’re giggling against his neck as he carries you back to the bedroom.

“was gonna say ‘ridiculously in love with my wife,’” he says quietly, and the sudden sincerity in his voice makes your breath catch, those arctic depths going soft and vulnerable. “but handsome works too.”

the bed has been completely transformed—fresh sheets that smell like lavender and luxury, pillows fluffed and arranged like something out of a magazine. there’s a glass of water on your nightstand, along with what looks like the entire contents of the welcome basket, and you’re pretty sure those are your favorite chocolates from the little shop near your apartment.

“when did you—?” you start, but he just grins, settling you carefully against the mountain of pillows like you’re something precious, those silver strands falling across his forehead.

“called housekeeping while you were turning into a prune,” he says proudly, those impossible eyes sparkling with satisfaction. “told them my wife needed the full romance package. emergency priority.”

“an emergency,” you repeat, fighting back a laugh at his completely serious expression, those pale eyebrows drawn together earnestly. “my need for clean sheets was an emergency.”

“the most important emergency,” he confirms solemnly, then breaks character to flash you that ridiculously charming grin, his whole face transforming with joy. “my wife’s comfort is a matter of national security.”

there’s that word again. wife. you don’t think you’ll ever get tired of the way it sounds in his voice, especially not when his eyes go soft and wondering like he still can’t believe you said yes, those ethereal depths glowing with happiness.

he disappears into the bathroom again, and you hear the sound of running water, then he’s padding back with another warm washcloth and an expression so sweetly uncertain it makes your heart squeeze. “just in case you want to, um...” he waves the cloth vaguely, cheeks flushing pink, those impossible eyes suddenly shy. “you know. if you need to freshen up more or anything. no pressure.”

the thoughtfulness of it—giving you the option, not assuming you’re okay with how thorough he was—makes you fall a little more in love with him. “come here,” you say softly, reaching for him, and his face immediately transforms into the brightest smile, those arctic depths lighting up.

“don’t need it?” he asks, tossing the cloth aside and practically bouncing onto the bed next to you, the mattress dipping under his weight.

“just need you,” you tell him, and watch his expression go all soft and devastated, those ethereal features melting with tender emotion. “stay?”

“not going anywhere,” he promises immediately, settling beside you and opening his arms in invitation. when you curl up against his side like you belong there—head on his shoulder, one leg thrown over his, hand splayed across his chest—his entire body relaxes like this is what he’s been waiting for all night, those impossible eyes going soft and content.

his skin is still warm and slightly damp from the bath, and he smells clean and familiar and absolutely perfect. one hand finds your hair immediately, fingers combing through the damp strands with gentle, repetitive motions that make your eyes flutter closed, those pale fingers infinitely careful.

“better?” he asks softly, and when you nod against his shoulder, you feel more than see his smile, his chest rising and falling peacefully beneath your cheek. “good. my wife should be comfortable.”

the possessive way he says ‘my wife’—like he’s still testing the words, still amazed he gets to claim you—makes warmth bloom low in your chest. you’re both quiet for a moment, just breathing together, his heartbeat steady under your ear while those gentle fingers continue their soothing motion through your hair.

“water,” he says quietly after a moment, voice soft but brooking no argument as he reaches for the glass on your nightstand. “need you to drink some for me, okay?”

you make a small sound of protest—a petulant whine that makes him smile, those impossible eyes crinkling at the corners—not wanting to move from your perfect position against his chest. “don’t wanna move.”

“don’t have to,” he assures you, adjusting his hold so he can bring the glass to your lips himself, his movements careful and practiced. “just drink. let me take care of you.”

the water is cool and perfect, soothing your raw throat, and you drink until he seems satisfied, those ethereal eyes watching your face carefully for any sign of discomfort. when he sets the glass aside, his free hand comes up to stroke your cheek with reverent touches, those pale fingers gentle against your skin.

“good girl,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, and the praise makes something warm and content settle in your bones even now, when you’re too exhausted for it to mean anything beyond pure affection.

“chocolate?” he offers next, already reaching for one of the fancy truffles with an eager expression that makes you think he’s been looking forward to this part, those impossible eyes bright with anticipation. “got your favorites from that little place you love.”

“too tired,” you mumble against his shoulder, but you’re smiling at his thoughtfulness, feeling the way his chest rises and falls beneath your cheek.

“mm, that’s fair,” he says, carefully placing the chocolate back with exaggerated precision, those long fingers delicate with the wrapper. “we’ll save them for breakfast then. gonna feed you chocolate in bed tomorrow morning like a proper honeymoon.”

the casual way he talks about tomorrow, about all the tomorrows stretching ahead of you, makes your chest tight with happiness. you’re quiet for a while after that, just breathing together, his hand never stopping its gentle motion in your hair, those pale fingers working through the strands with infinite tenderness. gradually, all the overwhelming sensations from earlier fade into a warm, sated glow, your body finally relaxing completely against his.

“you okay?” he asks quietly, his voice carrying that thread of uncertainty that makes your chest tighten. the question hangs between you like something fragile—like he needs reassurance that he did everything right. his fingers trace idle patterns along your spine, movements hesitant despite their tenderness. “wasn’t too rough? too much? i know we were both figuring it out as we went...” the last words tumble out in a rush, his usual confidence nowhere to be found.

you lift your head to look at him properly, your palm flat against his chest where you can feel his heart still racing. there’s a worried crease carved between his brows, and those impossible eyes of his—like winter sky caught in crystal—search your face with an intensity that makes you feel exposed. his hair is completely wrecked, strands falling across his forehead in disheveled waves that catch the lamplight like spun moonbeams. there’s something endearingly uncertain about his expression, the way his teeth worry at his bottom lip like he’s suddenly second-guessing everything despite the fact that he just thoroughly rocked your world.

“it was perfect,” you tell him honestly, your voice still slightly hoarse as you reach up to smooth away the worry lines etched into his forehead. your thumb traces the furrow there with gentle pressure. “overwhelming and incredible and perfect. you were perfect.” the words come out breathier than intended, but you mean every syllable.

his expression transforms immediately—tension bleeding from his shoulders as relief floods his features. but then heat creeps up his neck in that pretty pink flush that makes your stomach flip, and he grins with that devastating combination of relief and smugness that’s so uniquely him. “yeah?” he asks, and there’s something almost shy in the way he ducks his head slightly, chin tucking down.

“yeah,” you confirm, pressing a kiss to the hollow at the base of his throat where his pulse jumps under your lips. “though maybe next time warn me when you’re planning to completely destroy me. i might need to do some mental preparation.” your fingers play with the fine hairs at the nape of his neck as you speak.

he throws his head back and laughs—loud and delighted and completely unrepentant, the sound vibrating through his chest where you’re still pressed against him. his adam’s apple bobs with the force of it, and when he looks back down at you, there’s mischief dancing in those crystalline depths. “where’s the fun in that? i live for catching you off guard.” his expression turns predatory for just a moment, pupils dilating as his gaze drops to your mouth. “you make the prettiest faces when you’re surprised. and the prettiest sounds when you’re—”

“terrible,” you interrupt before he can finish that thought, but you’re giggling against his skin, the sound muffled and warm as your shoulders shake with barely contained laughter. your wedding ring catches the light as you gesture dismissively. “absolutely terrible husband.”

“terrible husband?” he gasps, his free hand flying to his chest in a gesture so dramatic you half expect spotlights to appear. his eyes go wide with mock horror, mouth dropping open in an exaggerated ‘o’ of shock. “on our wedding night? the betrayal! the scandal!” he clutches at his heart like you’ve delivered a mortal wound, and the theatrics are so ridiculous you snort.

“the worst husband,” you clarify solemnly, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from breaking character as you lift your chin with mock disdain. “definitely filing for divorce in the morning.” you even cross your arms for emphasis, though the effect is somewhat ruined by the fact that you’re still sprawled across his chest wearing nothing but his t-shirt.

his grin turns absolutely wicked—all sharp edges and dangerous promises—and suddenly he’s rolling you both over in one fluid motion that steals your breath. the sheets tangle around your legs as he pins you beneath him, hands braced on either side of your head so his hair falls like a curtain around your face. this close, you can see the individual lashes framing those devastating eyes, can count the barely-there freckles scattered across his nose. “guess i’ll have to convince you to keep me then,” he murmurs, voice dropping to that register that makes your toes curl as he leans down to brush his nose against yours in an eskimo kiss. “think i’m up for the challenge.”

your breath catches at the gentle intimacy of the gesture, so at odds with the predatory gleam in his eyes. “i think i can live with that,” you whisper, your hands coming up to frame his face, thumbs stroking along his cheekbones.

“good,” he says, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head that’s soft enough to make your heart ache. his lips linger there, warm and reverent. “’cause i’m never letting you go.” the words are muffled against your hair, but they carry the weight of a vow.

his hand moves from your hair to trace patterns on your back over his t-shirt—lazy circles and spirals that raise goosebumps in their wake. every touch is gentle, soothing, designed to relax rather than arouse. his fingers map your spine like he’s memorizing each vertebra, touch reverent and unhurried.

“can’t believe you’re my wife,” he murmurs after a while, voice soft with wonder as he shifts to pull you more securely against his side. his chest rises and falls in a rhythm you’re already learning by heart. “keep thinking i’m going to wake up and this will all be a dream.” there’s something almost fragile in the admission, like he’s afraid speaking it aloud might make it true.

you press closer to him, if that’s even possible, your leg slotting between his as you nuzzle into the hollow of his throat. “not a dream. i’m really here. really yours.” your voice is barely above a whisper, but in the quiet of the room it might as well be a shout.

“really mine,” he repeats, like he’s testing the words, rolling them around on his tongue to savor their taste. his arms tighten around you possessively. “and i’m really yours.” the wonder in his voice makes your chest constrict with emotion.

“really yours,” you echo, and it feels like a promise, like a vow more sacred than the ones you spoke in front of all those people earlier today. your wedding dress hangs forgotten in the closet, but this moment feels more binding than any ceremony.

you’re drifting on the edge of sleep when he speaks again, voice barely audible in the darkness. “love you so much it scares me sometimes.” the confession is soft, vulnerable, like he’s not sure he meant to say it aloud.

your heart clenches, and you tilt your head up to meet his eyes through the shadows. even in the dim light, you can see the uncertainty flickering there, the way his throat works as he swallows hard. “why scared?” you ask gently, your fingers finding his jaw to trace the sharp line of it.

he’s quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing your cheekbone with feather-light touches that make you shiver. when he finally speaks, his voice is rough with emotion. “never loved anyone like this before,” he admits quietly, those winter-sky eyes refusing to meet yours. “never had anyone who was mine completely. sometimes i can’t believe you chose me.” the last words come out barely above a whisper, like he’s afraid you might change your mind if he says them too loudly.

the vulnerability in his voice makes your chest tight with emotion. this is satoru without his masks, without his cocky grins and endless confidence—just a man who loves you so much he can’t quite believe it’s real. his hair is still mussed from your fingers, falling across his forehead in silver threads that catch what little light filters through the curtains.

“hey,” you whisper, reaching up to cup his face with both hands, your thumbs stroking along those sharp cheekbones. “i choose you every day. chose you before the ring, before the wedding, before any of it. just you. always you.” your voice is fierce with conviction, and you watch his pupils dilate as your words sink in.

he closes his eyes, leaning into your touch like it’s a lifeline, like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. his lashes flutter against his cheeks—so pale they’re almost translucent—and you can feel the way his breathing stutters. “promise?” the word comes out cracked, desperate.

“promise.” you stretch up to kiss him, soft and gentle and full of every ounce of love in your chest. his lips are warm and slightly chapped, and he kisses you back like you’re oxygen and he’s been drowning. when you pull back, his eyes are bright with unshed tears that make them look like fractured ice, and his smile is soft and real and just for you. “you’re stuck with me, remember?”

“best thing that ever happened to me,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion as one of those tears finally spills over. you catch it with your thumb before it can fall, and he turns his head to press a kiss to your palm.

“the feeling’s mutual,” you whisper back, then settle against his chest again, ear pressed to his heart where you can feel the steady rhythm that’s already becoming your favorite sound. the beat is strong and sure beneath your cheek, grounding you in the reality of this moment.

you’re almost asleep when you feel him shift, his arm reaching across you for something. when you crack your eyes open, he’s fumbling with some fancy remote, tongue poking out slightly in concentration as he dims the lights. the room is bathed in soft, warm darkness that makes everything feel intimate and cocoon-like.

“sleep,” he murmurs, arms tightening around you protectively as he settles back against the pillows. his voice is already thick with approaching sleep, but there’s something fiercely protective in the way he holds you. “i’ve got you.” the words rumble through his chest where your ear is pressed.

and you do sleep, safe and warm and thoroughly loved, dreaming of white dresses and gentle hands and the promise of forever with the man whose heartbeat has become your favorite lullaby.

when you wake up hours later, it’s to the feeling of soft lips pressing kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your nose. sunlight is filtering through the curtains, painting everything in shades of gold and amber, and satoru is propped up on his elbow beside you. his hair is even more disheveled than before, sticking up at impossible angles that make him look endearingly rumpled. those crystalline eyes are soft with sleep and something deeper as he watches you wake up, looking completely besotted.

“morning, beautiful,” he says softly, voice rough with sleep and deeper than usual. there’s a pillow crease on his cheek and his eyes are still slightly puffy, but he’s never looked more gorgeous. “how are you feeling?” his free hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from your face, touch gentle and reverent.

you take inventory—pleasantly sore, thoroughly satisfied, and so completely in love you can barely stand it. your body aches in the most delicious way, and there’s something deeply satisfying about the slight rasp in your voice when you speak. “perfect,” you tell him honestly, stretching like a cat in the morning sun. “absolutely perfect.”

his smile could power the entire city—bright and unguarded and so full of joy it makes your heart skip. “good. because i was thinking...” he reaches over to the nightstand, movements still languid with sleep as he grabs one of those chocolate truffles from last night. when he turns back to you, there’s mischief dancing in his eyes again. “breakfast in bed?”

you laugh, the sound bright and happy in the morning light as it bubbles up from your chest. your wedding ring glints as you gesture, and you’re struck again by the surreal reality of it all. “you know what? that sounds absolutely perfect.”

and as he feeds you chocolate—his fingers lingering against your lips with each bite—and coffee appears via room service and he pulls you into his lap to steal kisses between bites, you think that maybe, just maybe, being mrs. gojo is going to be the adventure of a lifetime.

[xqce]

YOU'RE THE BRIGHTEST 𝒮𝒯☆ℛ I SEE

sweet boy ── ˙‎♡₊˚ 💐 ̟ !!

── MY SIRIUS. its your first year of university and you meet a strange boy obsessed with astrophysics—your worst subject. you two form a transactional relationship, agreeing to teach each other your respective skills. yet as this relationship builds, you find yourselves wanting to become a lot more than just study buddies.

𝜗ৎ nerdjo x fem!reader

𝜗ৎ content; slow burn, mutual yearning, mentions of anxiety, cursing, FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF, comfort, satoru is very easily flustered, satoru is an astrophysics major, reader is into literature, implied fem reader, kissing, little ooc satoru, making out, sfw (no explicit smut) ㅤᵕ̈

𝜗ৎ word count; 5.6k

your first day of university was shit, to put it bluntly. too many people, too few friends, professors that you can already tell would be the bane of your existence for the semester, and to top it all of you received homework. on the first day. dozens of textbook questions awaited you, from all sorts of random ass classes. (seriously, how the hell did they manage to assign 20 textbook questions from an underwater basket weaving course? you’d only taken it because it sounded so ridiculous you thought you could just treat it as a spare period!)

safe to say, this semester was going to be hell. you’d resigned yourself to the library for the entire afternoon, going over every topic from microbiology to leo tolstoy to the most malleable waterproof fiber. but what really had you stuck in the library for so long was astrophysics. it was the most confusing shit you’ve ever seen, you think you’ve fallen asleep at least four times while trying to read the first page of primordial black holes—a concept.

just as you were about to call it a night and accept your fate of failing physics, you spot a boy in the corner of the library. and he was reading one of your favourite books of all time. and by the looks of it, he didnt seem to be enjoying it very much. 

with too much caffeine in your system and too little shits to give you approach him.

“hey! is someone sitting here?” you ask as politely as possible.

. . .

he doesn't even bother to glance at you as waves his hand a bit. you narrowed your eyes in annoyance. was that an invitation to sit down or a silent way of saying fuck off? either way you simply sat. by his reaction you could tell his intention was the latter. 

okay, rude much? is this guy an asshole or does he just have 0 social skills?

“um. can i help yo-” he starts, his gaze sweeps over you and and his eyes widen, his mouth shuts closed when he sees the textbook you’re carrying, his expression suddenly brightening.

“primordial black holes?! no way! someone else is interested in them! they’re so cool, the way their density fluctuates but the fact they could be completely hypothetical-” 

you snort, slightly guilty to confess, “yeah, um, i don't mean to disappoint, but i don't really understand shit about them. it’s for a class.” and you feel a little pang in your heart when you see his expression sink, 

“what about that book though!” you quickly recover “its short but its such an amazing classic. had me sobbing for a good hour-” but now its his turn to cut you off

“i, um, don't really understand anything about it either." he quips back, still deflated from the knowledge that they started teaching one of his passion subjects just as homework, “it feels more like riddles than dialogue. im also just reading it for a class”

okay, touché. mr. asshole.

“well it gets better as you go along, i promise” you try to explain, you’ve seen too many people drop this literary masterpiece because the beginning was too ‘challenging to understand’ seriously, has the quality of literature really gone so down these days that people can't even recognize a few metaphors?

satoru doubted that it would, but he just started the semester, and he had zero friends. so he decided to at least try and make you hate him a little less, since he’s aware he came off as a total douche

“what if i explain primordial black holes to you, and in return you translate the dreamer’s backstory into normal english” he thought it was a pretty good plan, more of a gamble than an actual transaction, but he wasn’t picky.

to be honest, he just really wanted to nerd out about his passion. knowing that you were on the cusp of one of the most exciting concepts of mankind but not pulling through with it was something he had to make sure didn't happen. nobody would ever listen to him for more than 5 minutes at a time when he started talking physics, but you didn't really have a choice, did you?

“y’know what? fine. ill make you realize how much of a masterpiece this book is.”

“and ill make you realize how cool black holes are.”

“fine then.” “fine.”

and from there, your purely academic transactional friendship blossomed. he explained physics in such a way that it felt more like a story or a beautiful novel rather than real concepts, and you explained heavy literature in a way that totally engaged him. he even bought a collector’s copy of white nights to frame on his dorm shelf. 

as the weeks progressed, you two grew into even closer friends, you both had underwater basket weaving together (finally that class is good for something) and you had the same spare period. you two would usually spend afternoons together teaching each other english or physics respectively, or mutually struggle with how to create the perfect plait, twine, and coil for good quality baskets, which was strangely a lot harder than it sounded, you were learning to respect underwater basket weavers more and more by the day. the fact that they could go through this hell and still manage to find their passion in it was astounding to you.

when you came back to him one day with an A on your physics assignment, he was so overjoyed that—ignoring the fact he was in a cramped library—he picked you up and spun you around, getting you guys kicked out for accidentally knocking down a shelf of books (it’s not like anybody read those ones anyway! who even reads narcissistic autobiographies dressed as ‘self-help’ books? yet the librarian wasn't buying into your defense, and threatened to blacklist you guys from the library if you didn’t leave)

satoru was laughing all the way back to the dorm rooms that day, you couldn't tell if he was so giddy about you acing a physics assignment because of him or because you and the librarian were going back and forth for a solid ten minutes. either way, it was worth it, you loved seeing him so carefree like this. he used to be so stuck-up and stoic, but seeing him come out of his shell over time and feel comfortable enough to laugh with you made your chest feel warm.

over time, you could easily establish that satoru’s love language was gift-giving. he would always buy you coffee before your library study times. it was ridiculous, really. the coffee was insanely expensive and he would go out of his way to add toppings as well.

he started out the whole tradition with vowing to get you every drink on the menu until he found your favourite. you’d insisted that he didnt have to get you anything from that overpriced coffee shop and you were more than satisfied with your homemade coffee, but he wouldn't have any of it. after two weeks of trial, he’d finally established that french vanilla lattes with extra sugar were your favourite (to his delight, as he loved sweets, and would always steal sips from your drinks) and would bring it to you every day on your spare period, despite the fact that it cost a solid $8. 

he would often get you little trinkets or souvenirs every now and then. he missed a day of studying together? he’d come back the next with a handwritten apology note and a little jellycat keychain, the one that you’ve kept dangling on your backpack because you really loved it. and how a gentle smile would grace his face every time he saw it on your backpack.

he bought you a little spaceship pencil and matching eraser from when he went to the NASA space center for a course trip, and you’ve been using them ever since. 

but what really touched your heart was when he went on a trip to europe, as he got you beautiful special edition copies of a few of your favourite books from the livraria lello, you were so happy that you burst out crying—much to his panic.

he thinks that the day he realized he really fell for you was when he took you out to a concert of your favourite artist. when he told you he bought the tickets, you screamed so hard he didn't think his ear drums would ever recover. and he wouldn't have it any other way. you were so beautiful to him, singing your heart out to your favourite artist and bursting into tears in the middle of your favourite song. he’d been practically ready to cry himself, the pain in his chest was excruciating, he’d never felt this way before.

he’d never impulsively bought so much stuff for someone before despite the fact that he was a broke college student. he’d never purposely humiliate himself to make another person laugh until their stomach hurt before. he’d never cheer up instantly at just the thought of a person before. he’d never put himself through torturous hours of reading unintelligible literature to see someone’s face brighten up before. and at the end of the day, it was you who had brought out all of that in him, and he’d only realized that while hearing you screech out the lyrics to your favourite song. what an idiot i am.

he’d never seen himself as an [artistname] fan ever, but after that concert, just their association to you was enough to make them his favourite too.

by the time exams rolled around, you were both in academic weapon mode, sitting side by side for hours without a word uttered, simply focused on studying. you loved it though, the intimate environment, the reassurance of someone facing the same daunting task as you, and having them willing to help out where you struggled, it was comforting.

during the exam, you never thought you’d been so nervous in your life. prior, every subject was fine except for astrophysics, which was why satoru devoted so much of his time to tutoring you. mid-exam, the full anxiety hit. your leg was bouncing up and down so fast it couldve compared to gamma ray frequencies, you were chewing the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted metal. this anxiety that overtook you was so painful that you considered leaving and just failing the exam. but at the thought of failing, your stomach churned anew. your face paled and you were on the cusp of hyperventilating...

your eyes darted around frantically, but suddenly you were snapped out of your trance when you saw the spaceship-themed pencil in your hand, and the ivory-haired boy sitting a couple rows down who had given it to you.

focus, y/n, remember everything he taught you. just breathe.

satoru spotted you in his peripheral vision, and glanced up when he saw you shaking. when he saw your pale, panicked face staring down at your paper, he almost stood up and abandoned his exam right then and there just to comfort you. what he was already doing was dangerous enough, as in this prestigious of a school, just looking at you was enough to get him flagged for cheating, but satoru couldnt give a flying fuck about his exam right now, not when you were sitting there looking so shaken.

come on, my strong girl, i dont need you to remember everything i taught you right now, i just need you to breathe.

you both locked eyes, and a small, comforting smile graced his face. a strange calm washed over you. how does he have this kind of effect on you? you cant remember the last then when anyone else has made you feel so safe. you take a deep breath and calm your mind. you couldn't give up on this exam now, you couldn't let your combined hard work go to waste. you needed to pass this exam, if not for you, then for him.

upon seeing the determined look on your face, satoru’s shoulders visibly relaxed, and he was able to finish the rest of the exam with no difficulty. after you two left the exam hall he insisted on taking you out for the rest of the day. you two ended up going to a random sushi restaurant and eating away the lingering stress, then going back to your place to watch movies and eat ice cream.

it was the little things like this that you cherished so much about satoru. he saw you. he would take you to a sushi restaurant that he knew you loved, would buy your favourite ice cream, and pick out the movies you wanted to watch. despite your constant nagging for him to be selfish just once and pick a movie he wants, he always insisted that ‘i’m happy if youre happy’

when you two got your exam marks back, you were too nervous to even open the package, instead letting satoru look at it first and deciding whether or not you should be concerned based on his reaction.

“you sure, y/n? this feels like an invasion of privac—”

“just open the damn letter, satoru.”

he huffed out a sigh and muttered something about so bossy while unfolding the page, skimming over it to find your grade. you held your breath so hard you felt lightheaded. you saw the quirk of his eyebrows when he finally found your grades

...

he slowly looks and stares at you with as stoic of an expression as he could muster, and when you finally feel like you're going to burst into tears from the anticipation, his face lights up in happiness, an 'i told you so' laugh bubbling from his chest.

“cmon, you have to look at this, y/n! you did incredible! probably better than me!”

“what?!? give me that shit!”

you grabbed the paper out of his hand and skimmed over it.

. . .

Astrophysics Final Cumulative — 89%

you practically jumped out of your skin.

“oh-oh my God! satoru! this is insane??” you squeal.

you’re so ecstatic you don't even realize you’re jumping on him for a bear hug, the intimacy of it lost on you with the excitement 

“this is all because of you, yknow that? thank you so much, toru! you’re such a lifesaver!

the intimacy, however, was definitely not lost on him. he felt a flush rising to the tips of his ears from the praise. he wasn't even going to begin to think about the nickname you’d picked for him—he’d go insane. his arms hung loosely by his side for a second but then slowly found themselves supporting your weight off the ground. 

“what are you talking about?” he laughs breathlessly, “y/n this was all because of your hard work, not me. i knew you would do amazing, my smart girl.” he was so proud he couldn't even describe it, even if he flunked all his exams now it wouldn't matter to him anymore, nothing could ruin this moment for him.

the hours of satoru drilling equations in your head paid off! to be honest before opening your grade package you were more scared of letting him down than failing the course and having to retake it, but it all ended out okay. 

satoru ended with a 100 in astrophysics (obviously), and much to your annoyance he got a 96 on his english final, and then proceeded to brag to your face for hours as you had only received a 92 and you’d taught him literally everything he knew.

the day after the results came out, you two received your schedules for the new semester, to fortunately find out that you two shared almost every class! not that the workload would be easier, you already had an essay due for “ethical hacking,” a course satoru had convinced you to take, as it was just “coding but for polite people.” the only class you two differed was him taking advanced astrophysics and astronomy (yuck??) and you instead took classic literature as an art.

he invited you over that day, texted you saying how there were "urgent matters to be attended to,” yeah right, he probably just wanted to show off another long ass physics problem that he’d finished before anyone in his class. 

regardless, you still ended up getting dressed to go over anyway, why? you didn't know, neither would you admit it to yourself. 

after a while you show up at the door to his dorm, he took a solid minute to answer, despite you telling him that you’d be over in 5

30 seconds.. 

45 seconds..

“y/n! you’re here” he exclaims breathlessly with a shit-eating grin on face, “come inside! like right now! i wanna show you something!”

"did usain fucking bolt chase you to the door? why are you so out of breath?"

"it's nice to see you too" he quips back, unbothered

your lips quirk up and you huff, letting him drag you inside like a giddy child. his bedroom is dark, with the curtains drawn and a lazy fluorescent glow coming from the moon outside, illuminating the small space. his messy white hair and gray, worn out digimon hoodie doing nothing to stand out from the literal geek-fest that was satoru gojo's dorm room.

“well, what is it satoru? y'know i have a project due, like, next week that i should really be writing up right now-” 

he flicks on the light switch.

you freeze.

the sight before you is gentle and unimaginable. soft stars, ethereal in their beauty, slowly spinning around the room. you marvel at the sight around you, a makeshift planetarium, all of the planets of the solar system and more shining like crystals. it takes a solid minute before you can conjure up any words.

“cool, isn't it?” satoru asks excitedly, “i made it myself! d’ya like it??” 

you stare at him wordlessly, like it? like it? you've never seen something like it in your mouth. a strangled gasp leaves you before you laugh breathlessly 

“wow.. toru…” you choke out "how—? when—?"

he smiles so hard you think you can see your reflection in the whites of his teeth. 

“come stargaze with me” he says gently, patting a spot on the ground beside him, beckoning you to sit. there’s snacks lazily strewn all across the room. kitkat wrappers, sugary energy drinks, and an unopened pack of your favourite sour skittles, the one he definitely wont tell you he was saving just for you despite them being his favourite candy too. he notices your eyes catching on it and grabs it, looking away while he passing it to you. if you didn’t know better you’d say he looked.. nervous, right now.

“its so beautiful satoru, really” you assure him, noticing his anxiety. his lips quirk up into a soft smile and you can feel his head tilt towards you, white hair whispering against the blankets thrown across the floor. he hums, and his voice is soft, stripped of all its usual stoicness

“arent they?” he murmurs, eyes tracing the star clusters with uncanny focus, “the real stars fit together so perfectly, like puzzle pieces..”

the room suddenly feels close, intimate. your arm brushes his, and his warm, solid presence makes something in your gut clench. satoru points above you somewhere on his star map, fingers tracing invisible lines across the ceiling, “thats capella, the most luminous star in auriga.”

"whats auriga?"

"you're telling me you got an A on your physics exam and you don't even know what auriga is? i knew you must've cheated" he quips.

"whatever, i forgot all that shit the second i left the exam hall."

"it might 'just be an exam' to you, but to me, it's everything." he murmurs, so earnestly that you can't help but glance over at him

his voice is barely above a whisper now, his gaze still distant like he can see something you can’t.

you see his lips tilt up into a lazy smile, a quiet sense of pride in it “yknow, i bought the projector, spent weeks messing around with it ‘till i got it just right, and just now does it feel like i finally completed it."

he doesn't say why, he doesn't need to, but your thoughts fill in the gaps anyway. a makeshift planetarium in the middle of exams. late nights, dark circles under his eyes, hair always a mess, coffee-stained sleeves.

“has anyone seen it in action before this?” you ask hesitantly, would that sound too possessive, oh no, you didn't want to give him the impression that only you were good enough to see it and—what the hell? since when did you overthink your interactions with satoru so much?? these stupid stars must be doing some physics shit to your brain.

“nah” he hums, “you’re the only person ive asked” he remarks casually, so casually that you don't see the way his shoulders tense when you scrutinize him. before you could comment on it, he switches the subject again, adding abruptly,

“yknow what lyra means?”

“nope, what's it mean?”

“lyra,” he says, turning back to the ceiling, “was a harpist. for the greek god orpheus.”

he points a finger up at the constellation, tracing its lines like he could play a melody across them.

“some say she became the constellation when she died. so she could be his muse forever”

his voice was quiet, almost reverent, and the words hung in the air. something in the way he speaks makes your heart flutter, he seemed so passionate about this. where he was all math and stars, you were all literature and art. yet it didn't matter, the way he explained things made it feel like you’ve known this information your whole life.

he continues to ramble on about greek mythology and their correlation to the night sky, meanwhile you just lay on your stomach with your head resting on your hands and your feet casually kicking back and forth, tossing skittles into your mouth as he talks about orion and the pleiades. this goes on for the better portion of a half hour. 

as he talks you focus more on him than his words. his bright cheerful eyes that you've only seen glimmer like then when he speaks of the night, his arms gesticulating wildly, as if he were to draw out the information from the world with his hands alone. he tells you about star clusters and binary systems, ancient constellations and the stories behind them. he points at the stars, tracing them with long, pale fingers, like he’s the one who hung them up in the heavens. 

you listen attentively to him while toying with the jellycat keychain on your backpack, but you can’t look away from him for longer than a few seconds because his enthusiasm is nearly contagious; he’s so invested, so utterly passionate even if you don't quite grasp most of the concepts. when he finally gets to a point where he’s run out of things to say, he freezes. realizing that he’s just been talking your ear off for a good 30 minutes.

“god, i'm so sorry, i didnt mean to bore you. i-i talk too much i know-” he starts frantically.

you cut him off, shaking your head, “nah” you say softly, shifting closer without realizing it. he’s warm, radiating heat like a living furnace, and you have to resist the urge to press even closer. “i like listening.”

he hums, laying his head back and tilting it up just slightly to look at you, “most people zone out after a couple minutes” he says with a tired laugh, fingers picking absently at a loose thread on the blanket.

“well most people are morons, you told me that yourself” you counter back, earning a tired snicker from him.

satoru lets out a sigh, closing his eyes momentarily. he seems more vulnerable this way, less like the untouchable genius and more like a weary young man who’s been running on too much caffeine and not enough sleep.

“y’know,” he murmurs, “sometimes i wonder if any of this is even worth it. with astronomy and everything”

his voice is soft but flat, devoid of cockiness. its a rare moment of vulnerability, and you want to hold it gently in your palms and never let it go.

“it is,” you find yourself chiding softly, “the stars, the theories, the knowledge… it’s brilliant. you are brilliant.”

he opens his eyes again, turning his head to look at you with an expression you can't quite read. his face is closer now, only inches away. you can count the freckles on his nose bridge if you tried to.

for a moment, you think you see a flash of insecurity in his eyes, a hint of something raw and unguarded. but then its gone, replaced with his usual lazy grin.

“flattery, huh?” he quips, and there's a teasing edge to his tone, "didn't think it was your style.”

you roll your eyes, swatting his arm playfully, “oh, shut up.”

he doesn't move away—just lets you swat him, his grin widening, alive and brilliant. There's something undeniably alive in the way he looks at you now, a childishness only you could bring out of him

“yeah? make me then.” satoru challenges lowly, almost absentmindedly, voice laced with amusement. his fingers twitch against the blanket like he’s restraining himself from reaching out

oh.

oh?

the air between you two is thick with something unspoken and electric. you can feel your heartbeat thudding loud enough to drown out the hum of the projector above you both. satoru firmly presses a pillow to his chest to make sure the sound of his head racing wouldn't be audible—as if that would do any help.

upon realizing your silence, he suddenly backtracks. satoru’s expression shifts from smug to surprised when he realizes the implications of his own words. a hint of red tinges his cheeks and the tips of his ears, an unfamiliar sight, and it's kind of adorable how such a simple statement could throw him off. a prodigy, a teenager who recreated the galaxy in his dorm bedroom just to impress you, and yet he’s thrown off by the implication of kissing you.

he clears his throat, trying to regain his composure, but his gaze keeps flickering to your lips—just brief, fleeting glances that betray his sudden unease.

“i-i didn't mean-i don't want-” he starts, but you’re already grinning in anticipation

“oh, i think you did.”

fuck. 

satoru’s entire face flushes—a rare, glorious sight. his usually effortless composure cracks like thin use under the weight of his own thoughts. he uses his knuckle to push his glasses back up his nose, and chews the inside of his cheek nervously.

he opens and closes his mouth twice before letting out a strangled noise. “i—that was not what i meant.”

shit, he thinks, if she keeps looking at me like that, i wont be able to survive it.

you lean towards him. and his glasses slide back down his nose slightly as he jerks back, but there is no real escape now. you’ve got him cornered between blankets and your smug little grin. the stars above you both don't move fast enough to hide the disaster in progress.

“oh?” you laugh, enjoying this moment of docility from him. seeing satoru so flustered, so taken aback by his own slip-up, sparks a kind of perverse joy within you. you shift closer, leaning in until your faces are mere inches apart. you can smell his shampoo, can see every fleck of color in his irises. you wonder if he can feel your breath of his chin. 

“then what did you mean?” you murmur, the question laced with a teasing challenge.

satoru swallows repeatedly, a flush on his cheeks spreading to the tips of his ears. he looks away and fidgets with the ridiculous jellycat keychain that he’d bought you attached to your backpack. if i knew you liked stuffed animals so much, i would've bought you more he thinks absentmindedly

he’s never been this flustered, always holding his own—in a conversation, in a room—hell, he’s talked to some of the most advanced rocket scientists in the world without floundering as helplessly as he is now. you look beautiful smug, so unbearably pleased with yourself, and he should be annoyed, he really should.

but that's not what he’s feeling right now.

“i just-” he stutters, trying and failing to come up with a believable excuse, he completely blanks, failing to find anything to deny what his heart so yearns for at this moment. with a sigh, he breathes out,

“i just really, really want to kiss you right now.” shit, shit, shit!

…

you freeze, the sudden burst of blunt honesty catching you off-guard. you’d been ready for his denial, excuses, even more flustered deflection. this was a game you got used to, pushing him into a corner and watching him justify his way out of it, a memorized dance. not this raw, unfiltered confession.

for a moment, you just stare at him, your heart doing somersaults in your chest. you can see the flicker of panic in his eyes, like he’s scared that he’s said too much too fast and you wouldn’t reciprocate. oh my sweet boy, you think, as if i would do something that cruel to you

with a huge goofy smile finding its way on your face, you find yourself whispering, “so do it, then.”

it’s like his brain does a record scratch. he practically short-circuits. his eyes widen comically, the flush spreading across his cheeks deepening to a beautiful scarlet. he looks stunned, like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.

then, without another word, he practically pounces on you. 

his mouth meets yours in a kiss that feels like a supernova. explosive, messy, overwhelming. he was clearly inexperienced, but if anything that only made you giddier. his hands slide into your hair, tangling tight as he draws you closer. his kiss is hungry, desperate like he’s been holding back for his whole life.

satoru freezes mid-kiss—his lips still pressed against yours, warm and achingly soft. his hands stay tangled in your hair like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

then, slowly, he pulls back just enough to look at you. his glasses are askew again (how do they keep doing that?), his breath uneven. the stars above don't seem nearly as bright anymore—not compared to the devastating smile on his face.

“...was-was that okay?” he murmurs softly after a beat—so quiet it almost sounds unsure coming from someone usually so confident in his words.

“more than okay, ‘toru.” you point to a random huge star on his ceiling, "what's that one?” you ask with a sly grin as you pull him back into another kiss.

he makes a strangled noise in his throat. totally thrown off. under normal conditions he’d be able to tell you everything about any star, hell, probably even its current latitudinal and longitudinal coordinates. but right now the only thing he could get out is 

“our s-sun.. that’s mmf just the sun..”

you giggle against his lips and point at another one, seemingly more niche than the literal sun. “yeah? and what about that one?”

satoru chokes on a laugh against your lips, his entire body shuddering. his grip tightens in your hair like he’s trying to anchor himself—like if he lets go, you’ll both spiral into some inexplicable black hole of sheer chaos.

“y-you want me to—to name planets right now?” his voice is wrecked already, uneven and breathless between kisses. he tries (and fails) to sound indignant when all you can feel is how fast his heart is pounding under your palm where it presses against his hoodie.

satoru’s eyes follow your finger to the ceiling, his gaze landing on a random star cluster. “that one?” he rasps out, breath still uneven, “uh-”

his already muddled brain stutters as he wracks through his mental catalogue for information. even through the haze of you—your proximity, your vanilla perfume, the way your body is pressed against his in a way he’d never thought he’d admit he wants this badly—he manages to pull out some details.

“ursa minor,” he pants out. “small, part of the little bear constellation.”

“little bear? sounds cute. tell me more about it.” you grin

oh surely you must be trying to kill me 

he groans so hard that you think he’ll just give up, but then—ever the show-off, even in this state—he manages

“its got some notable stars,” he manages, trying desperately to focus anywhere other than the way your body is pressed against him. “like polaris, the north star, and kochab-”

his sentence breaks off into a low moan as your fingers brush the sensitive nape of his neck, sending a shiver of electricity across his skin. 

he tries to continue, but it’s difficult with you touching him like this. “I-I—”

he lets out a strangled gasp, his hands gripping at your shoulders like a lifeline. “i cant—i cant think, i cant—”

you pull away for all of two seconds, and satoru lets out a deep shuddering exhale, his chest having like he’s been in a marathon. his cheeks are flushed, his lips kiss-swollen and his glasses are nowhere to be found.

he knows he must look like a mess. his hair is tousled, sticking up in a way thats more ‘i just rolled out of bed’ and less ‘i just made out with the girl i’ve been crushing on for months”

he’s snapped out of his half-dream stupor when he hears you laughing hysterically next to him, as much as he loves the sound, he gets the sinking feeling that he’s the butt of the joke.

“satoru.. PFFT—were-were you holding in your breath the whole time?!” you burst out in giggles again, “no wonder why your face was getting so pale!”

his already flushed cheeks turn even darker at the teasing. he’d forgotten that he did that—held his breath, like a moron.

he mutters something under his breath, something that sounds vaguely like a protest about how he couldn’t exactly help it. he tries to find his glasses, but the area is too large and he could honestly admit that they weren't his top priority right now

you just keep giggling, and even though it was at him, it didn’t make him dislike the sound any less. if anything, he was happy, happy that he had a factor in your joy, he could live as the target of the joke his entire life if he could always see you smile like this. without even realizing what he’s doing, he lifts his arm to gently trace your soft lips, feeling a wave of boldness wash over him.

“you’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, “i can’t comprehend it.” he was so so gone for you, so whipped.

well he must be trying to put you into cardiac arrest, because now it’s your turn to fluster like a schoolgirl. “‘toru,” you mutter sheepishly, “a little warning next time?” he just smiles at that, bright and radiant, deciding now was an appropriate time to comment on the nickname you’ve given him over the past few weeks 

“toru, hm? i really like it when you call me that, y’know.”

“you almost socked suguru in the face last week for calling you that” “i said i like it when you call me that,” he clarifies. you roll your eyes but can’t hide the growing smile on your face

“there we go,” he says, noticing your shifting expression, you couldn’t describe the look in his eyes if you tried to, utter devotion, “my beautiful girl.”

you don’t even try to deflect this nickname this time, opting to parry back instead, “aw, don't get all sentimental on me now, sweet boy.”

he laughs and chucks the spaceship eraser at you, both of you lay back down against the sheets, watching the planetarium slowly move above you. satoru, the boy whose head was always lost in the stars, has finally found his.

a/n ; hi gang gang this was so much fun to write (anything except studying for exams lmaoo😭) i’d appreciate any feedback on my writing for the future as this was the first fic i’ve ever written!! i love u so much!! tysm for readinggg:)

[gojover]

— conventionally yours

when your childhood best friend, gojo satoru signs you both up for a couple event to win a hatsune miku figurine, you brace yourself to fake it, win the prize, and never speak of it again. unfortunately, neither of you account for the gameshow digging up past feelings and twisting your friendship into something a little more intimate

pairing: nerd!jo + childhood best friend gojo x reader

content: childhood best friends to lovers, first kiss, pure fluff, satoru (and you) are weebs at a convention 9k+

note: mainly posting this to link drop that you can be added to my taglist by filling out this google forms !!

of all the ways gojo satoru could have ruined your saturday, you had not expected publicly declaring himself your boyfriend in front of three hundred people and a cardboard cutout of hatsune miku to rank so high.

your best friend rarely has good ideas, so the fact you even agreed to walk through the anime convention on a weekend that could have otherwise been productive and not surrounded by sweaty, smelly people in cosplay, was a miracle. 

one second, you’re following him through the convention hall with a drink in one hand and your tote bag slipping off your shoulder, and the next, he’s catching your wrist and pulling you to an abrupt stop around a few busy stalls.

“okay, before you say anything, i need you to stay calm,” he says, a frequent precaution to many of his actions. “and by stay calm, i mean don’t make that face at me, because i can tell you’re about to make that face.”

around you, people stream past in costumes and wigs and carefully crafted props. someone dressed like a magical girl nearly takes your eye out with a glitter-covered staff. somewhere to your left, a loudspeaker announces the beginning of an important ‘sweetheart showdown event’ again, whatever that meant. somewhere to your right, a group of people is arguing whether you can discuss spoilers of an old anime series considering it’s been decades since its release.

slowly, you look up at him.

satoru stares back through his thick-framed glasses, silver hair more unruly than usual, university hoodie half-zipped over a graphic tee that says i paused my game to be here. he has the expression he always gets right before saying something so profoundly stupid that you have to question why you’ve stayed his friend for so long. the reason hits you begrudgingly; you’ve been locked into the title of “satoru’s childhood best friend” since you were five and your parents have no intention of letting it end.

you narrow your eyes. “what did you do?”

he winces immediately. “see, that tone is exactly what i was trying to avoid. if you open with that, it makes me feel like you’re not giving me any room to explain myself.”

“satoru, when have you ever needed room to explain yourself? you usually just keep talking until people get tired and let you continue to yap.”

“that’s weird, it’s almost like you’re suggesting people don’t like talking to me.”

you snort, finding nothing humourous about his statement. “don’t deflect, answer the question.”

he glances over your shoulder toward something behind you, and then back at your face.

“all right,” he says, exhaling through his nose. “so, in my defense, i didn’t think it would sound that serious when they said it over the speakers. it was just meant to be a joke.”

your stomach drops a little and despite the urge to look for yourself what has him so frightened, you do not turn around yet. instead, you look at him more suspiciously. “when who said what over the speakers?”

he gives you a smile so guilty it makes you want to hit him in the stomach.

“well,” he says carefully, “they may have just announced that the sweetheart showdown participants should report to the main stage.”

you blink. “the what?”

“the sweetheart showdown.”

“you can’t just repeat it like i’d suddenly know what that is. those words mean nothing to me.”

“it’s a couples event.”

the convention noise seems to recede for one long, terrible second as you stare at him. he, useless as ever, only stares back. you look around. shoko and utahime hadn’t tagged alone so what couple is he referring to?

then you say, very evenly, “tell me you didn’t.”

“technically, i haven’t told you anything yet.”

“satoru.”

“okay, yes, i entered us, but before you overreact—”

“overreact?” you repeat in disbelief.

“yes,” he says, holding up a hand. “because i can already feel you gearing up to become evil, and i really need you to hear the full story before you decide to kill me in a building full of witnesses. for one, i’m pretty sure i saw a conan cosplay so the chances of you getting away are very slim. and for your mother’s sake, i don’t want her to freak out when you get put behind bars.”

you let out a long, slow sigh at his rambling. “explain yourself, satoru, and maybe you won’t end up on the end of that magical girl’s sword.” 

“is that sayaka?”

“yeah.”

he shifts his weight, messenger bag sliding against his side. if you didn’t know him as well as you did, you might miss the nerves. but you do know him, you’ve known him since you were small enough to fistfight over crayons and dramatic enough to stop speaking to each other for two days because he told your class you cried during that one dinosaur pixar film. you’ve known him since he was small enough to climb up the side of your house and through your window, offering you his shiny pokemon cards with large watery eyes, already having cried his little eyes out when you gave him the silent treatment at school.

you know the signs. the slight tension in his shoulders, the way he keeps pushing his glasses up his nose even though they aren’t slipping. the twitch at the corner of his mouth that means he’s trying to construct a joke that will be his lifeline out of this blunder (he hopes).

unfortunately for him, you also know exactly how much trouble that means he’s in.

“why,” you ask, “would you enter us in a couples event?”

“because,” he says, like the answer should be obvious, “the grand prize is a convention-exclusive limited edition figure, and i need you to be a reasonable person about this. look, it really isn’t all that bad!”

“oh, really? please, tell me just how not-bad it is that you signed us up to a dating show.”

“well, it depends on how attached you are to your personal freedom.”

you stare, unimpressed. “satoru.”

“and your dignity.”

“you are not selling anything to me right now.”

“and, like, your legal last name.”

“excuse me?”

he places his hands out as if they alone are enough to hold you back if you so choose to throw yourself at him. “i also told them we’ve been dating for five years and are engaged!”

“five years?” you do the maths. “did you tell them we were high school sweethearts?”

satoru shrugs as best as he can without dropping his hands. “i’m sure you can see where i got the inspiration. sweetheart showdown, highschool sweethearts.”

you stare at him for another second, horror and disbelief evident like you’re waiting for his face to give and to open into a burst of laughter. hell, you wouldn’t even mind if he laughed and pointed right in your face if it meant he could end the moment with ‘oh my god, i’m just joking! you should have seen the look on your face!’. but then you look over your shoulder toward the nearby stage, where a large screen flashes promotional art for the event and your hopes and dreams die at your feet. because right beside the screen in a glass display case, sits the prize.

it takes you less than three seconds to understand exactly why this is happening.

“you signed us up to fake date in public over a hatsune miku figurine.”

he puts a hand to his chest. “first of all, don’t reduce her like that. second of all, yes, but in my defense, this is a limited, collectors edition. if nothing else, think about how much we could earn if we sold it. not that i would, but imagine.”

you point toward the display. “i swear i’ve seen a million of these in that one anime store we go to.”

“those are all bootleg. just goes to show how important it is.”

“important?” you snort, eying how little clothing the figurine is wearing. “or how appealing it is to the male gaze?”

“it’s summer themed,” he corrects hastily. then, at your expression, “and when you say it like that, you make me sound shallow. you’re one to talk, you have bikini figurines in your room too.”

“you are shallow.”

“you know, i contain depths you’ve never even tried to understand.”

“i’ve known you since kindergarten. i know every depth you have, and most of them are frankly very embarrassing.”

that makes him grin, quick and helpless, because it’s true and you both know it. you were there for every one of his humiliating phases. the year he wore fingerless gloves because he thought they made him look cool. the month he got obsessed with card games and kept trying to teach you the rules during lunch. the awful era where he insisted he had powers similar to an anime character he looked up to and kept saying really embarrassing power moves out in public. that one still makes you wince when you remember that you had to be the one to stand next to him and the only one conscious of the stares.

he’s seen you at your worst too, which is probably why he looks so annoyingly calm even now, albeit a little defensive.

“exactly,” he says. “that’s why this works. nobody on this planet knows me better than you do. you know my favorite characters, my most humiliating middle school phase, the name of the first game that ever made me cry—”

“nier automata.”

“see? and i know yours. i know what snacks to buy when you’re in a bad mood, i know you still rewatch the same three comfort movies every exam season, and i know you pretend to hate fantasy rpgs even though you put forty-two hours into one over winter break.”

you narrow your eyes, still slightly huffy despite how satoru has always managed to wear you down. “it wasn’t even that much, like twenty-four hours at most.”

his grin sharpens and he lowers his hands, knowing he’s got you. “but no defense for the fact that you were elden-ring pilled? looks like that’s a win for me.”

“there is nothing to win.”

“there is,” he says, tipping his chin toward the stage again. “there is a figure with removable accessories and crazy good paintwork waiting for me to claim her, and all i need is for you to stand there and look like you can tolerate me romantically for twenty minutes. please. that’s all i ask.”

you’re probably going to say yes. still, you hold onto your fraying dignity for as long as you can because if there’s anything that you are, it’s stubborn. “you can’t say that like it’s an easy ask.”

“for you, it should be.” he tilts his head. “you already tolerate me.”

“oh, so you know?” you hate that, out of everything he’s said, that is the line that almost gets a laugh out of you. you school your features immediately after. “it’s not willingly, trust me.”

“no, but you’ve been pretty consistent with it.”

you make a show of consideration, finger tapping on your bottom lip before you straighten, watching as he brightens along with you. 

“yeah, no.”

his face falls at once. it’s dramatic, of course, because he’s him, but you don’t miss the flicker of something potentially genuine beneath the pouting.

“oh come on,” he whines. “don’t say no that fast. at least pretend to think about it, so i don’t feel like i’ve built our entire friendship on a lie that you actually care about my interests.”

“our entire friendship was built on our mothers’ friendship. and the fact that you ripped my princess wig off my head that one time when we were like, two. all because you wanted to be the princess.”

he shrugs like he doesn’t find that particularly worth talking about. “i was always the prettier one growing up.”

“right, like that’s going to make me say yes to your stupid gameshow.”

he exhales, glancing toward the stage again as another announcement crackles overhead.

“all participants for the first round of the sweetheart showdown, please report to the main stage in three minutes!”

he shuts his eyes. “okay, that’s more urgency than i wanted.”

you stare at him. “what even was the process of all this? i doubt you suddenly went up and signed us both up.”

he opens one eye. “well, remember when you needed to go to the bathroom and left me alone?”

you groan, reminding yourself to never leave him to his own devices again.

“you’re focusing on the wrong thing,” he’s quick to say. “the important point is that we qualified. very impressively, by the way. they said we have good chemistry.”

your best friend doesn’t say much else after that, choosing to instead stare at you pleadingly. 

that’s another irritating thing about satoru. for all his noise, for all his ridiculousness, and for all the random anime quotes he says on the regular, he knows exactly when to stop pushing and simply let you think. people who don’t know him well never notice that part, nor do they often reach it considering his walls. they only assume he’s all restless energy, all ego and all talk. but they don’t know how quiet and observant he can get, pretty blue eyes peeking past his glasses to hold you in his gaze, waiting for that crack.

it takes a little longer than he had calculated, but you eventually sigh. “what do i even get out of this?”

he brightens instantly, clearly having been waiting for that opening. “i’ll shout you crepes and one merch item under seventy dollars. and i’ll carry your bags for the rest of the day.”

“cheapskate.”

“be serious, we’re at a convention.”

you hum. “under eighty.”

“fine,” he concedes. “under eighty. but if you pick something massive and fragile and i have to be the one to carry it, then you can’t say shit about me complaining.”

with a long-suffering sigh, you adjust your tote bag on your shoulder. “if this becomes the most humiliating experience of my life, you owe me that eight dollars anyway.”

the relief that flashes across his face is almost enough to make you regret agreeing, because it softens him in a way you are not prepared to deal with in a convention this overstimulating. still, you can’t completely suppress your small smile. 

then, just as quickly, he’s grinning again.

“you’re my hero,” he says, catching your wrist once more and tugging you toward the stage. “you’re also, for the next twenty minutes, allegedly very in love with me, so maybe try to look less like you’re being led to an execution.”

you let him pull you along for exactly two steps before digging your heels in. “if you say one embarrassing thing up there, i’m telling everyone about the naruto running incident from year seven.”

he narrows his eyes. “that was one sports carnival, and i was committed to the bit. everyone was doing that because of area whatever number it was.”

“but you were the only one that tripped over your own shoelaces in front of the entire grade.”

“because the field was uneven.”

“please, like the real reason isn’t because you were twelve and embarrassing and running with your arms behind you like it helps with the speed.”

satoru huffs, rolling your eyes. “and here i was thinking fake dating would bring us closer.”

you smile sweetly. “if anything, it’s reminding me why this should never be real.”

something flickers across his face at that. it’s probably the shadow of the enormous fursuit you just walked past, something so incredible you pull your eyes away from satoru to watch as they disappear into the crowd. 

“did you see that?”

he recovers easily enough, grin returning as he tugs you a little closer.

“sure,” he says lightly. “keep telling yourself that.”

“what? i was talking about the furry.”

before you can decide what exactly he means by that, he’s already guiding you up the steps toward the stage, bright lights spilling across the floor and the crowd noise swelling around you, and suddenly the two of you are standing side by side in front of a microphone while the host beams at you. 

“welcome, welcome,” the host says, sparkling blazer catching the stage lights. “our final pair has arrived which means we can go ahead and begin!”

satoru immediately lifts your joined hands in the air. you try to yank it back but he squeezes, just once, quick and sly as he leans down slightly without looking away from the crowd. 

“commit to the bit,” he murmurs. 

you grind out around an awkward smile, “this better not be for nothing.” 

“hatsune miku is on the line. just do it for her. we can share, you can have her on every other weekend.”

“co-parenting or divorced?” 

“sure.”

the host interrupts your hush conversation by stepping forward, hands gesturing to speak into the mic. “introduce yourself to the audience!” 

“gojo satoru,” he says, and then he places one hand lightly at the small of your back, casual enough that it could almost pass unnoticed if you weren’t suddenly aware of his every touch. “and this is y/n.”

the other finalists are lined up to the side, multiple couples in coordinated cosplay which makes you and satoru by far the least convincing visually. you’re in regular clothes and he’s in his stupid hoodie. there is no universe in which you should be the couple people root for yet you receive a steady polite applause anyway. 

the host explains the rules. first, fandom trivia. then the sweetheart sync challenge where couple compatibility is tested. then, if necessary, a final lightning round between the top two pairs.

satoru leans slightly toward you. “see. easy. this is basically just an average tuesday for us, except now there’s a microphone.”

you eye the device warily. “sure, if our average tuesday also involves having our compatibility tested publicly in front of strangers.”

he hums. “you’re right, usually people just assume it.”

the host begins reading the first question. and, honestly, you’d like to say that from then on, the event is a stumbling hot mess of stuttering answers to questions you hadn’t prepared for because what it meant to be in a relationship with satoru shouldn’t feel natural nor easy. unfortunately, reality is often there to smack some sense into you because you and satoru are devastatingly good. 

it turns out that years of being his friend, if you can call your deeply hostile, weirdly affectionate arrangement since birth a friendship, has exposed you to so much niche information that your brain is a bank of all kinds of niche anime lore. 

“in detective conan, which detective’s name does shinichi combine to create the alias conan edogawa?”

satoru raises his hand quickly, that nerd. “arthur conan doyle and ranpo edogawa.”

“in puella magi madoka magica, what is the name of the witch born from sayaka miki’s despair?” the host asks.

“oktavia von seckendorff,” you answer instantly.

“correct again.”

while the host begins explaining the next question, you turn to satoru slightly. “wait no, because sayaka makes me so sad. she’s my favourite character in that show.”

he smiles softly down at your subtle pout. “i know.”

by question five, you’ve developed a lead you never expected, putting multiple couples in the dust. by question eight, you’re tied with one of the coordinated cosplay couples in first and by question ten, you’re the only one whose hand shoots up to guess the name of a soundtrack correctly. even satoru laughs, throwing you an amused glance amidst the applause.

“it only played for, like, two seconds. and you get on my ass for listening to the digimon theme song when you’ve clearly been studying that anime’s soundtrack.”

you huff. “you can’t call yourself a true fan unless you’ve searched the soundtrack on spotify.”

the host laughs. “i’m starting to see why you two made it this far.”

satoru grins and wraps an arm around your shoulder, drawing you in close until you bump against him. it’s not like you’ve never touched him like this before. he’s always been there to hold you in his arms when you’re down, whispering soft words of comfort against your hair, and he’s the first face you look for in a crowded party on your birthday, bringing him in to blow out your candles together because your birthdays share a night. sometimes you grab him and give him a squeeze when you finally defeat a boss in your darksouls esque game, and he isn’t afraid to hold you close and steal your warmth on cold, winter mornings, draping himself over your back, chin on your head and his cold, sneaky hands finding yours in your coat pocket, making you yelp.

despite all these memories filling your mind and reminding you of just how casual this should be, you still feel a tingle in your chest. 

the trivia round ends in a tie between you, satoru, and the cosplay couple dressed as rangkiku and gin. they look annoyingly photogenic and a little too prepared for something called the sweetheart showdown.

the host claps. “all right, now for the fun part. sweetheart sync!”

dread fills you as whiteboards and markers are handed out by staff appearing from the sides.

“oh no,” you say quietly.

beside you, satoru makes a similar face. “yeah, this is where the friendship goes to die.”

the host raises the first card, reading off into the mic. “what is your partner’s favorite food?”

without sparing any time to think, you uncap your marker and press the black tip onto the whiteboard. 

you write: anything overpriced and full of sugar.

beside you, satoru writes with an equally horrifying level of confidence.

“reveal!”

you both spin your boards around quickly, head swiveling not to gauge the audience’s expression, nor out of curiosity for what others may have written, but towards each other’s answers. 

his reads: whatever i’m eating if i look too happy about it.

laughter plays from the audience as the host begins to read through the boards starting from the right and you huff softly, taking the moment to talk to satoru. 

“that’s not even a food. if you don’t know, then just write that you don’t know, dummy.”

“it absolutely is.” satoru tuts, wagging a finger at you. “do you remember that one mixer we went to together? you said you didn’t want any of the finger food because your fingers will get greasy but then you immediately stole my fries anyway.”

“because you were making it a big deal and eating it all up in my face.” you recall the memory for yourself. “what even happened to that mixer? neither of us managed to get a date. i swear one of the guys was interested in me but he never asked for my number in the end. you were talking to him a bunch that night, what happened to him?”

your best friend only shrugs as the host comes around. they laugh a little at satoru’s answer, raising the card in their hand in your pair’s favour.

“i’m counting both as correct.”

the next question appears and a similar trend follows. 

“what is your partner’s most annoying habit?”

you put pen to whiteboard and write immediately. 

you reveal: talking during movies like the characters can hear him.

he reveals: pretending she doesn’t care and then texting me ‘home yet?’ every time i go out at night.

the audience lets out a collective coo that makes you want to fling yourself off the stage, though not before bashing his head in.

you turn to him in disbelief. “is it my fault for being worried about you? i swear you have the survival instincts of a capybara, i literally almost watched you run into a pole yesterday because you were too locked into a brawl stars game.”

“still counts.” your best friend shrugs. “i couldn’t really think of anything that annoying about you. and for the record, your movie answer is super duper rude. my commentary is valuable.”

“save it for your letterbox review. and anyway, we only really watch thrillers so it’s just you trying to call the plot twist before we get to it.”

“i’m killing it, by the way. i think i’m about thirty-nine out of sixty-two with getting them right.” 

the third question is favourite comfort show.

you get his right, though you hesitate between two because he cycles through them based on what exactly he needs comfort from. he’s almost offended you take so long to flip your board considering he gets yours right immediately.

“you remembered that?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

he looks at you like the question is ridiculous. “of course i remembered that. you think i don’t notice you putting it on when you’re feeling overwhelmed? i don’t even like the acting in it but we’ve watched it together at least twenty times.”

you hold his gaze for a second too long, words failing you, before jerking your head to face the front. 

satoru isn’t so quick to look away and you can feel his gaze burn into the side of your face until the host, mercifully oblivious or perhaps delightfully aware, moves on to dream vacation, favorite fictional character, worst childhood phase, and ideal weekend.

the embarrassing part is not that you get almost all of them right (failing only at celebrity crush), the embarrassing part is how easy it is.

you know that his worst childhood phase was the year he got into old samurai dramas and started using outdated, overly dramatic japanese like he was born in the edo period instead of suburban tokyo. he knows your ideal weekend includes a bookstore, a café, and being left alone by society at large. you know he still wants to visit akihabara with a budget too irresponsible to speak aloud and that he’ll beg to have you tag along. he knows you hate hiking but enjoy scenic trains and that you like silly sweet treats every now and then, sweeter too when you don’t have to pay for them. 

every answer peels back another layer of shared history for the audience to laugh over, and every time the crowd reacts, it drives home the same awful truth: the reason you and satoru are doing so well is because there are very few corners of each other left unexplored.

you find yourself having fun, though only after you’ve pushed that strange feeling to the back of your mind. you’re laughing along with the crowd at silly answers, reminiscing old inside jokes with a smirk, and giggling harder than you should at satoru’s corny jokes. he grins back, face a reflection of your own happiness. 

it’s so much fun that when the last question is read out, you’re not nearly as prepared as you should be. 

the host smiles too sweetly, drawing everyone’s attention with the tap of their mic. “last question and probably the most important of them all! what was the moment you realised you liked your partner?”

it’s a predictable question for an event called ‘sweetheart showdown’ and yet, you freeze, breath holding still. beside you, you can make out the sudden rigidity in satoru’s shoulders as he flinches. 

for the first time all day, neither of you has something smart to say.

you look down at your board as the crowd cheers and the couples around you write. 

there are a hundred fake things you could write, a hundred joke answers. or maybe, if you really wanted to give off the impression that you wanted to win, you might write something stereotypical. something about how pretty and soft his hair is, how he has that endearing habit of pushing up his glasses, how he has the most alluring eyes you’ve ever seen. you could even write about the time he won some casual magic: the gathering tournament in high school and took home absolutely nothing except a ten-minute bragging streak and a permanent reputation as the biggest nerd in your cohort. he’d come straight to you afterward, grinning hard, bouncing on the balls of his feet while he talked over himself because, for some reason, your approval had always been the one he wanted first. 

you could say something by the book about how his laugh is like music to your ears, and also his ears apparently considering how much he loves to laugh around you, how his smile is the only thing guaranteed to make you smile back.

instead, before you can talk yourself out of it, you write the first thing that comes to mind.

when the host counts down, you both turn your boards.

yours read: when he climbed the fence after we fought and sat outside my window until i forgave him.

his says: when i realised she kept every stupid little thing i gave her and thought i wouldn’t notice.

the crowd breaks into laughter and cheers at that, the host immediately launching into some delighted commentary as they start reading the other pair’s boards first. but you barely hear any of it. the noise seems to flatten at the edges, swallowed up by the fact that satoru is no longer looking at the audience or the judges or even the stupid whiteboard in his own hands. he’s staring right at yours.

then, after a second, he lets out the softest, most disbelieving little laugh. 

“climbed the fence?” he reads, and though he says it like a tease, there’s something thinner under it, something almost fragile. “why would i ever do that when i could’ve just opened the gate?”

heat creeps up your neck instantly and burns the tips of your ears.

you keep your eyes fixed on his board because you’re not sure what he might see if he looks at your face.

“at that age you weren’t tall enough,” you mutter.

satoru falls into a silence that does absolutely nothing good for your already fraying nerves. if anything, it makes everything worse. the air between you feels too warm, too thin, and suddenly the stupid little whiteboard in your hands is the only thing keeping you from running off stage. 

you quickly re-read his board and say, “what did you notice that i kept from you?” 

satoru’s eyes flick down to his own board and then back to yours, like he still can’t quite believe either of you wrote what you did. 

“you kept the little cat charm from the shrine trip,” he says. “the one i won from that stupid festival game and gave you because i said it looked grumpy.”

god, you’re just digging your own grave by asking for more details. because yes, you had. it had hung off your school bag for nearly a year before you took it off to keep it from getting scratched or stolen, and even now it still sits in the little dish on your desk with your keys and hair ties and other things too small to matter to anyone else.

you try to be dismissive. “it was a souvenir." 

the corner of his mouth lifts, but the smile doesn’t quite settle into his familiar grin. “and you kept every birthday card i gave you.” 

“sentimental value. i keep everyone’s.”

“you kept the toy ring from year seven,” he says finally, and now there’s a little more life in his voice again, though it still sounds gentler than usual. “the ugly one from the fair, the one that turned your finger slightly green. i only noticed because you kept it as a necklace for months.”

you look away, feeling fidgety and weird all over. “it’s still jewelry at the end of the day.”

satoru laughs then, but it’s quiet and warm around the edges, so unfairly fond it makes your stomach dip. “yeah, i know. i just liked that you kept a ring i gave you.”

the host fans themselves with the cue card. “is it just me or is it getting warm in here? let’s move on to results! clap your hands everyone, as we find out who will be crowned the sweethearts of all sweethearts!”

the crowd laughs again, eager to reach the climax of the event.

you are also eager, though it’s more because you’re grateful for a breather. 

the judges tally the scores while you try very hard not to look at satoru and fail at it almost immediately. when you do glance over, he’s already looking at you, and his expression is unsettled in a way you don’t often see on him. when he sees you’ve caught him, he looks away and pushes up his glasses. you don’t get a chance to sit in that for long.

“we have a tie!” the host announces. “lightning round!”

your head snaps to look at the scoreboard and notice that one of the coordinated cosplay couples had indeed caught up and were now tied with you and satoru. having this drag out for even longer makes your heart plead for mercy but there’s nowhere to run and you’re honestly too close to the hatsune miku figurine to quit now. as they say, 100% of losers quit before they hit it big. 

“all right,” they say, pacing the center of the stage with the microphone clutched in one glittering hand, “our final two couples are neck-and-neck, which means it’s time for the deciding challenge. and because our judges are evil romantics—”

the audience cheers like they have been waiting their whole lives for exactly this sentence.

“—the last round is all about physical chemistry!”

you’re not sure what you did in a previous life to deserve this, but it’s here now. 

you could honestly answer questions about satoru in your sleep. you could fill out an eighty-questions quiz on his day-to-day life and not only would you solve it with time to spare, but your name would appear in most answers. 

touching him is just as common, but suddenly the thought of having him in your personal space is enough to make you break out into a slight sweat which isn’t optimal, especially not when he might be touching you. 

the host claps their hands. “final round rules are simple! each pair will draw three prompts from the intimacy bowl. you must perform the prompt naturally enough to convince the judges you are a real couple and then, obviously, the best overall score wins.”

satoru hesitates beside you. he steps forward toward the host, hand reaching out to catch their attention. “like… a kiss on the cheek?” 

you almost choke as the host snorts. “obviously. maybe even more.” 

satoru looks back at you quickly. “hey, it’s okay. we can just go. we can, like, just be weird on purpose and make it obvious so we can lose. get kicked off the stage and you can call me an idiot and a dummy in the carpark and i’ll still get you crepes. i don’t really care about hatsune miku anyway, i just thought because i played project sekai once i should—”

you cut him off by sticking your hand in the bowl when it comes around. your fingers brush folded paper and then close around the first slip before you can think too hard about what you’re doing. 

‘prompt one: fix something on your partner’s face and hold eye contact for three seconds’.

this nothingburger of a prompt. if the two of you hadn’t spent the last few minutes stumbling your way into something dangerous, you could’ve done it without a second thought. but now that there’s this strange, terrible warmth lodged in your chest, threatening to swallow you whole and burn through you from the inside out, even the idea of holding eye contact sounds like hell. 

the host gestures invitingly. “whenever you’re ready.”

there is no universe in which you will find yourself ready. 

you can see satoru turn toward you from the corner of your eye but you don’t glance over, eyes trained instead at the giant cardboard hatsune miku just off stage and try to remember a time in your life when things were simple and you did not have a crush on your childhood best friend. but you weren’t one of those babies blessed with photogenic memory so you don’t have a single memory where that’s not the case to ground yourself with. 

“we can still tank it,” satoru whispers just for you to hear, even as he steps closer and lifts his hand. 

the offer is so soft it makes something twist low and mean in your chest because of course, even now, he’s trying to give you a way out. 

you look up at him then, not because of the prompt or the crowd or the stupid bright convention stage lights, but the fact that he would rather lose publicly than make this harder on you. his hand is lifted, hovering just shy of your face as he waits for your response. 

if only he was smug instead, if he was laughing or if he was being his usual awful self about this, then you would have something to fight against. but instead, he chooses to be sweet. and kindness has always been your weakest point when he is concerned. 

so you swallow once and say, “just get it over with.” 

and this is ridiculous. 

you have known this boy nearly your whole life. you have shared train rides and convenience store dinners and sick days and fights over game controllers and one horrible period in high school where he insisted on explaining the plot of every one piece episode you’d missed. he has sprawled all over your bedroom floor. you have patched scrapes on his knuckles. he has stolen bites off your plate and barged into your room with no restraint. there should be absolutely nothing destabilising about him being a little too close to you.

his hand caresses the side of your cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing just beneath your eye, and he does it so gently that you hold your breath. 

the host counts cheerfully into the microphone. “one, two, three—”

you know his face, you know every angle of it, every stupid expression, every little shift in his mouth before he says something arrogant on purpose. you know the look he gets when he’s trying not to laugh, the one he gets when he’s tired and pretending he isn’t, the rare, awful softness that appears when he stops performing in front of others and simply sits with you in your presence, content to do nothing important at all. 

“okay, now kiss!” the host continues and you both turn away from each other in an instant. 

“excuse me?”

“you said no kissing in the pamphlet!” satoru stutters. “not on the lips anyway!”

“you’re a couple, what’s there to be shy about?” they narrow their eyes, ping ponging their gaze between the both of you. “unless there’s a specific reason why kissing in front of an audience of people is unsettling for you?”

you make a gesture of your hand as if to ask if they’re serious. “that is the reason why it’s unsettling.”

the host makes a thoughtful noise before shaking their head. “what a shame, looks like the underdog couple has sadly been disqualified! everyone, please give them a round of applause as they exit the stage!” 

“just like that?” you question, incredulously. 

“if it matters, i was rooting for you guys.” the host pats you both on the back shortly before gesturing for people to guide you off the stage. 

you and satoru stand off to the side away from the sweetheart showdown, both stewing in silence. and god, is it a truly spectacular silence. 

certainly not the comfortable kind nor the easy silence you sometimes find yourself in when it comes to satoru. this one feels hot and cramped and absurdly loud for something made out of nothing at all. the convention still rages on somewhere behind you—distant cheering, microphone feedback, music bleeding in from another event hall—but here in the little pocket of hallway just off stage, it’s just you and him and the participatory key chains the staff had shoved into your hands before kicking you out. 

satoru is the first to look at his consolation prize.

the acrylic keychain dangles from his fingers, the tiny white cat in sunglasses swinging with every little movement of his hand. he stares at it for one long second, then lets out a short, helpless laugh under his breath.

“a runner-up gift, huh?” he chuckles. “doesn’t feel that good when you compare it to first place’s prize.”

you look down at your own, the black cat with the bow and the little spoon. “tell me about it.”

you fiddle with the edge of the plastic, more so to give your hands something to do than because you care about the cute, though cheap, prize. beside you, satoru rubs the back of his neck, then drops his hand, then shoves it into his hoodie pocket like even he’s run out of ideas for where to put the bundle of nerves responsible for this tension.

“you could have just kissed my cheek,” you start. “it’s not like we’ve never done that before. when we were kids.” 

and you’re not sure why that makes your heart picks up so fast. it’s not like he’s going to lean over and do it now, right? not when there isn’t a prize to win or a crowd to please or a host forcing the moment into existence.

“no,” he says and your heart drops. “i couldn’t have just done that.”

your throat tightens. “right, sorry. we’re not kids now anymore, are we? so it wouldn’t have made sense anyway. just—forget i said anything, that was stupid.” 

you push off the wall too fast, smoothing out your shirt with shaky hands just to have something to do. “i’m getting kind of sleepy, i’ll head back to the hotel room if you want to keep looking around—”

“if i kissed you up there, i would’ve meant it.”

everything inside you goes still. life seems to go on, the audience from the gameshow shrieks with laughter, someone jogs past the mouth of the corridor lugging an impressive scythe, and distantly there’s a baby crying in the background because you can never really avoid them. and still, somehow, the world narrows down to just him. 

satoru looks down for a second, hands clenching and unclenching before he looks up, something like determination on his face. 

“i know that sounds really pathetic,” he says, voice quieter than you’ve heard it all day. “there's nothing i can do about that. but i just—i really couldn’t do it like that, not as a joke or for some stupid figurine. definitely not with everyone watching. there’s no way i’d settle for that after i’ve been trailing after you for so many fucking years just to have the pay off be in front of a microphone.” 

your eyes widen at his words. years? there could have been something between you two for years?

you bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to almost hurt. “what are you trying to say?” 

“i’m trying to say that…” he trails off, mouth gaping as if there’s more he wants to say but the words keep catching before they can make it out. he lets out a rough little groan and ducks his head, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. “shit, this wasn’t how it was meant to go either.” 

“it’s okay,” you whisper, stepping forward to close the distance. “say it. i want to hear it anyway.” 

he looks back at you and makes a face though, its chances of passing off as nonchalant fails due to the pink dusting his cheek. “can we just go get crepes? i think the nerves are making me really hungry and something smells really good right now. okay, yeah, let’s just go get crepes.”

he closes the distance between you, not with the press of his lips against yours but with his hands on your shoulders, gently guiding you to turn around. “you know what we haven’t checked out yet? the artist alley. we should totally check in the artist alley.”

you dig your heels into the ground, unimpressed and unmovable. “satoru.”

“yes?”

“isn’t there something else you should saying to me right now?” 

satoru’s eyes freeze in their frantic jittering, finally settling on you. you watch his throat work as he gulps particularly hard, all deer-in-headlights and wrapped around your pinky finger. “i’m really craving those crepes?”

you smile and hit him in the stomach. he coughs, folding slightly around the hit with a noise of betrayal. “what the fuck—”

and while he’s doubled over, rubbing a hand over his stomach like it actually hurt, you step right into his space, cup his face in both hands, and kiss him. 

satoru makes the softest startled sound against your lips but his hands come up almost too quickly, one landing at your waist to pull you in, the other hovering before deciding your cheek, the side of your neck, your hand on his cheek, all of it is somehow too much and not enough at once. 

the kiss is clumsy with surprise and inexperience, though still warm, and there’s nothing hesitant in the way he kisses you back after that first second. 

you’re not really sure when to pull back, you always thought it would be a little more intuitive than it really is, and you think you might have pulled back a bit too early since he chases your lips a bit before realising. 

you open your eyes to find him staring, and frown. “wait a minute, did you even close your eyes during that?”

“um,” he starts before clearing his throat. “no?”

“you must be kidding.” you blush all the way to the tips of your ears, mind whirring with how you must have looked dazed out of your mind, lips pressed against his. “satoru, it’s kissing 101 to close your eyes!”

he shakes his head, eyes unfocused as he stares at you. “give me a moment. nothing is making sense in my head right now.” 

you cross your arms, a feeble attempt at regaining your dignity. “how long is that going to take? because i might as well go first. satoru, ever since we were kids, i’ve—”

“i’m in love with you.” 

the words are said with so much clarity that you struggle to believe it’s coming from your flushed face, dorky childhood best friend until he opens his mouth to continue. 

“i think i’ve been for a while,” he says at all once, speaking quicker now that the worst has already been done. “long enough that it’s not something dramatic but something that’s always been a part of my life. like, of course i save things to tell you first. of course i wait for you. of course i know what drink to get when you’re sick and which lectures you’ll want to complain about and what new movie releases you’re excited for. i think i’ve gotten so used to you being a part of everything i didn’t even notice when it stopped being friendship and started becoming something else.” 

you blink at him. he mistakes your silence for rejection immediately, something like panic seeping into his hurried words. 

“and yeah, okay maybe i orchestrated the whole showdown thing because you never seemed to look at me as anything but a best friend. that really sucked. but i’ve never thought of you as just that and i needed you to know. so no, i couldn’t have just kissed you on the cheek. it wouldn’t have been how i wanted it to be.” 

you still don’t say anything, too busy standing there with your pulse hammering stupidly in your throat and your entire body trying to catch up to the fact that this is real, that he it, that he means it.

satoru lets out a frustrated breath and drags a hand through his hair. “i mean getting punched in the stomach wasn’t the go-to either but i can’t ever figure you out so i’ll take it.” 

that makes you laugh. it bursts out of you all at once, breathless and startled, and the second he hears it, his whole face changes. the panic doesn’t immediately disappear but it certainly falters, teetering into a desperate kind of hope. 

“sure, like that's not going to hurt my feelings,” he says weakly. “okay. is that a good laugh or a bad laugh?”

you shake your head, still smiling helplessly. “it’s a you’re-an-idiot laugh.”

“right.” he watches you carefully. “as long as it isn’t a i’m-rejecting-you laugh?” 

“it’s definitely not that. those two sound very different and i’m not that cruel.” you look at him, at the boy who used to climb your fence because he was too short to work the latch properly and refused to go home angry, cute little frown between his brows suggesting he won’t give up, not when it comes to you. 

and the words come easily, as though you’ve said them a hundred times before. 

“i’ve liked you for ages too.” 

satoru’s lips part in wonder, shoulders slumping with the loss of a stubborn tension keeping him upright.

“i mean, i figured that’s what you were going to say earlier but this still feels unreal. really?” he breathes out, the corner of his mouth quivering. “are you serious?”

“is my sense of humour so bad that you think i’d joke about this?” you tease softly. 

“no, i—” he breaks off, pressing a hand flat to his chest to stop his heart from beating out. “no, hold on. you can’t just say that and make fun of me for being so shocked. you like me? like, like like?”

“like like like.” 

he presses a hand to his mouth which is definitely not the gesture you were expecting. maybe a kiss, or a hug, definitely not this sudden quickening of his breathing. 

“what the hell is wrong with you?” 

he shakes his head, clearing his throat aggressively.

your frown only deepens. “hey, are you okay? should we find somewhere to sit down?” 

satoru waves his hands in front of him as he pulls away, leaning one forearm against the pole of a nearby vacant stand, other hand clutching his heart. his shoulders lift on an inhale and stay there for a second too long. when he exhales, it’s shaky around the edges in a way that would be concerning if not for the fact that he’s smiling at the concrete ground, dopey and dazed. 

“satoru,” you say. 

he glances back at you over his shoulder, and the look on his face is so painfully relieved, so openly, stupidly happy, that it makes your own stomach flip. 

“i feel like i’m going to throw up,” he says, voice thin and breathy. “i’m so relieved i almost feel sick. which i get isn’t a cool thing to admit right after getting confessed to so i need you to sympathesise with me and don’t say anything at all.”

you stare at him for a still moment before laughing.

he closes his eyes. “i knew asking you nicely wasn’t going to work.”

“what the hell?” you repeat between chuckles. “you’re acting like that was your first kiss.” 

“that’s because it was, you know this,” he grumbles, still catching his breath. “oh my god, the world is spinning. is there an earthquake or is it just me?”

“definitely just you.”

“it’s unfair that you aren’t as affected.” 

you shrug. “it helps when there’s someone else more nervous than you are.”

“it almost sours the whole thing,” he says while looking at you from the corner of his eye, lips slightly jutted out and your heart swoons. 

“come here.”

he pushes off the stall and turns back to you, though his hand stays over his chest for one more second like he’s still trying to make sure his heart doesn’t leap out of his chest. you look up at him, laughter trailing off into soft giggles and then to nothing at all, just a sweet smile. 

you look at the flush lingering over his ears, the slight way his hair is messed up from when you grabbed his face, to the ridiculous little cat keychain he still has clutched in his hand. he looks like a disaster, a pretty one at that. 

reaching up, you fix his bangs from poking into his eye. “you were that nervous?” 

he laughs softly under his breath, tilting his head into your hand until it feels natural to cup his cheek. “you have no idea.” 

“i think i have some idea.”

“no, because if you did, you’d be a lot kinder to me right now.” his eyes flicker down to your mouth, doing a double take when he’s about to look up to meet your eyes because you lick your lips at his gaze. “can i kiss you again?” 

you don’t answer right away, not because you’re trying to be cruel nor because you don’t know the answer. this is your satoru, though that thought still feels too dangerous to hold properly, and he’s standing in the ugliest, most overstimulating hallway in the building with pink at the tips of his ears and one hand still hovering near his chest like his own confession had nearly killed him. 

you hadn’t let yourself picture something like this. no, that wasn’t quite the truth either. you had pictured it, of course you had, because you are only human and he has always been the one for you. you had pictured this that one time he had showed up to your house, asking your parents sweetly if you were in, plastic bag on his arm full of notes and your favourite drink, acting like it was no big deal to sit on the ground by your bed and play his ds while you were sniffly and snotty curled up in bed and watching over his shoulder. you had pictured this when he let you fall asleep on his shoulder during exam season and didn’t move an inch, even when you started to drool on his shirt. 

but at some point you had started burying those thoughts the second they appeared. 

because he got older and easier to want, especially after he swore off bowl cuts after his dad had given him a shitty one and he had cried to you while you struggled to not laugh. haircuts on guys really did wonders for their appearance. it had started to feel pathetic to like him, almost childish in a way like some embarrassing crush you should have outgrown before puberty but hadn’t because you were too sentimental, too soft, too far gone to call it what it was.. 

so you pushed it down and folded it into safer shapes and titles; he’s just your best friend, we just have history. 

you want to slap your past self across the face. but because time travel hasn’t yet been invented and you can’t give yourself a mean scolding, you settle for simply smiling and nodding. 

“you’re asking as if i’m going to say no.”

satoru’s mouth twitches, but the softness in his face doesn’t move. “i feel like i’m owed caution. you’ve been saying no to me all day.” 

you roll your eyes. “that was before.”

“before what—”

you kiss him again because if there’s one thing you know about satoru, is that his mouth is a motor and he never stops talking, not without some sort of divine intervention. 

your lips move smoother against one another, tasting the sweet drink he had chugged before the whole showdown incident. the warmth of his mouth, the slight tremor in the breath he takes when you shift closer, the way he seems almost reverent in the small pauses between kisses like he still can’t believe he has you in his arms. 

you kiss him back a little deeper and something inside you finally, finally unclenches. 

when you pull back, you don’t go far. his forehead drops lightly to yours, and for a second neither of you say anything. the convention noise swells and fades somewhere far away, distant enough to feel unreal. 

you can hear him breathing, can feel it even, feel the shape of his smile before he speaks. 

“yeah, i definitely feel a little sick.”

“satoru, if you throw up on me i’m going to hit you again.”

“romantic.” he leans forward to steal a quick peck, face beaming when he pulls back because now he has every right to kiss you whenever he gets the urge. “but i think i’d rather have that instead.”

“verdict on your stomach?”

he winces. “unsteady. maybe i need some more exposure therapy?”

you laugh because he’s testing his luck far too much. “nice try. you still owe me that eighty bucks.” 

satoru chuckles softly and lets you step back, though his hand finds yours and holds it lightly as if to keep you within his proximity. “and if i remember correctly, i think i still owe you those crepes. man, i am really killing it with this boyfriend thing already.” 

he grins, but his ears go pink again, which is so stupidly endearing that you have to start walking before you do something embarrassing like kiss him in the corridor again. 

he follows happily, ever the obedient little puppy until something catches his eyes and he digs his heels in, making you stop. you follow his line of sight automatically.

there’s another stage set up farther down the convention hall, smaller than the sweetheart showdown one but definitely louder, all flashing lights and too much pink. a host in a glittery jacket is currently shouting into a microphone while a crowd of people packed around the barricades cheers back. above them, hanging from a sign shaped like a heart with cat ears, are the words:

MIKU MANIA COUPLES CHALLENGE — SPECIAL BONUS ROUND

you close your eyes for one brief, exhausted second. “you have got to be kidding me.”

“come on,” he says, eyes bright enough to rival the stage lights. “let’s go win hatsune miku properly this time.”

you look at him then, really look at him, at the pink still clinging to his ears, the stupidly hopeful grin on his face, the hand wrapped around yours like he’s already sure you’re coming with him. and all at once, all you can think is that maybe saying yes to satoru’s terrible ideas was always going to be your favorite habit.

a/n: i am always going to be a fan of childhood bestfriend slop i fear. im so sleep deprived rn if i messed up ur tag please lmk! i have a scene where they fuck and satoru’s in a miku cosplay so also lmk if ure a freak and wanna see

taglist: @rikhotta @gojoswaterbottle @creamflix-main @livexkc @scrutinyunmatched @geniejunn @rain-market @tinyrat6 @moonysmelody @qquishe @kuro-omi @biapluto @belchyra @wvnkoi

[mjsatoru]

bf gojo x gf reader

warnings – explicit language and smuy (cock warming, oral sex, penetrative sex etc)

18+ mdni

in the confined space of the elevator, you stand with your arms tightly crossed over your chest, staring at the doors, refusing to look at him. satoru leans against the opposite wall, his one ankle over the other with his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. his jaw is clenched and ticking every now and then. neither of you have spoken until you both left the car.

the argument you both had started off quite small, and stupid – highly unnecessary. you had a terrible day at work today, you don't even want to think about it. to make things even worse for you, satoru had decided to show up ten minutes later to pick you up. he apologised in the parking lot sincerely, but you were already too mad to listen to what he had to say.

you snapped at him. "if you can't be on time, just tell me so i can take the damn train."

his eyes narrowed at you, brows furrowing. "i'm here, aren't i? i always come get you. i don't know why you're acting like i left you stranded."

"oh my God, satoru. it's not just about that. i was out waiting in the cold like an idiot while you-"

"while i what? work my ass off all day too? fuck's sake, y/n, i'm not your chauffeur."

and yeah, that's what caused it. whatever negative feelings you've both been feeling in the week all surfaced. by the time he parked in the garage, your voices were raised and yelling at each other.

now in the elevator, the silence between you feels worse. you can feel him staring at the side of your face, and as much as you hate to admit it – it intimidates you. 

when the doors finally open, you storm out first. satoru follows a step behind you with the house keys jingling in his hand. when you reach the door, you wait with your arms crossed refusing to turn around. he unlocks the door without a word, pushes it open and lets you walk in first. the second he locks the door; you turn around furiously to look at him.

"i actually don't think i'm done talking about this." you say while kicking off your uncomfortable work shoes. "you think just because you showed up eventually makes it okay? i'm exhausted, satoru. i always am, and the one thing i expect from you is that you're there when you say you'll be."

he basically throws the keys onto the counter, the unnecessarily loud sound it makes emphasises his own anger. 

"and as i told you, i got held up at work. it isn't like i was out drinking with my friends. i was working. you know, that thing we both do to pay for the apartment you're currently yelling in for no good reason?"

you laugh bitterly, reaching behind to unzip your skirt, "oh, what the hell are you trying to say, huh? you think i don't work just as hard as you do? well i do, and i would never do something like this to you."

you pull your skirt down your legs until it pools at your feet. you step out of it, so you're left in just your blouse and underwear. satoru's gaze wanders over your figure and his eyes darken. you see the way his tongue licks across his bottom lip, and it pisses you off more because he's clearly not interested in what you said since he's checking you out.

"why the hell are you looking at me like that?" the disapproval is clear in your voice.

he takes a step closer, shrugging off his jacket and carelessly letting it fall on the floor. "like what?"

"like you wanna fuck me instead of talking about this."

he huffs out a low laugh. "can't help it. you're sexy as hell when you're mad."

you roll your eyes and turn towards the bathroom to get away from him, unbuttoning your blouse as you go. he's right behind you, and when he catches up with you, you feel the hardest, most possessive smack on your ass. you gasp and spin around, hand flying to your ass cheek that now stings deliciously,

"satoru!"

he doesn't even look sorry, he just stares down at you with dark, heavy eyes with a smirk on his face. "i can't even lie. i wanna fuck you," he says with genuine honesty in his deep voice. "been thinking about it since you started raising your voice in the car."

your face heats up at that, and your body traitorously feels aroused too, despite how angry you still are.

"no," you say firmly. "not happening until you apologise properly ."

he scoffs and runs a hand through his hair. "you want to apologise for something that isn't my fault, something i already apologised for anyways? fine. i'm really sorry y/n. now come here."

"that's not a proper apology, you're being cynical." you turn again, walking into the bedroom, opening the last buttons of your blouse. once it's fully unbuttoned, you take it off so you're left in your bra and panty. even though it's freezing cool, you purposely take ages so satoru can see you like this and wish.

you hear his footsteps behind you again, and then his hands are on your hips, pulling you back against his chest before you can move away. he's warm and you feel his erection pressing against your ass. he dips his head down, so his lips brush your ear.

"i want to fuck you." he murmurs again needily. one of his hands slides up your stomach to graze the side of  your breast. "wanna bury myself inside you and make you forget why you're mad."

you shiver, hating how good that sounds, hating how much easily he gets you weak for him.

"no," you say, and it comes out embarrassingly weak. you turn in his arms and push at his hard chest. "not until you actually mean that you're sorry,"

his eyes search yours, frustration is evident in his eyes, but of course the hunger is more noticeable. he lets out a slow exhale, looks as if he's contemplating something, then he gives you a little smirk.

"okay," he says calmly. "let's make a deal, hmm?"

you narrow your eyes, growing suspicious. "what kind of deal?"

he steps back and starts unbuckling his belt. your throat goes dry as he opens a button before unzipping it.

"cock-warming. you sit on my dick," he says, eyes locked in yours. "just sit. no moving or anything. we stay like that until one of us can't take it anymore. whoever thrusts, grinds or anything too physical has to apologise. properly."

your breath hitches and you feel some wetness at your core at the thought of his filthy ultimatum and the challenge in his voice.

"you've lost it. why would i do something so demented?"

he pushes his jeans and boxers down his legs enough to free his cock. it's so hard and lengthy, it's got you mentally salivating. he holds it in his hand, giving himself a few strokes, and damn you're jealous that you're not the one doing it for him.

"scared you'll lose, baby?"

you swallow hard, you're stubborn but then again there's an ache between your thighs wishing to be satisfied. this is probably the dumbest deal you're about to agree to, but it does sound interesting in way you're unable to comprehend.

"fine." you say firmly.

"get on me then."

you stand there for a second, re-thinking your decision. where on earth does one even come up with this idea? satoru walks back to sit on the edge of the bed. your eyes voluntarily drift down to his cock, hard against his stomach with the tip glistening. he carries on fisting himself while looking up at you with a little smirk. your pride is screaming at you to leave and not give him what he wants, but of course, the demon inside you is ovulating and very curious.

you huff out a breath and approach him, climbing on his thighs to straddle him. you're stubborn as ever, so you don't touch him more than you have to. your knees sink into the bed on either side of his thighs. once you're properly on him, he reaches out for your panties to help you get them off. his little touch is enough to have you aching for more of it, and that pisses you even more because you don't feel like being a sucker for him tonight.

"don't" you snap, slapping his hands away. "i don't want you looking at me, i don't want you touching me. let's just do this stupid thing."

his eyebrows shoot up, surprise and maybe a little bit shock evident on his face. "yes, ma'am." he murmurs.

he tilts his head back immediately, looking at the ceiling like it's the most fascinating thing to exist – which of course, it isn't. you are. you're undoubtedly the most fascinating thing satoru could lay his eyes on. but now, he has to make believe that the ceiling is interesting since you're forbidden him from looking at you. his drops his hands on the mattress, fingers fisting into the sheets.

you sit up a little to get your panty off, and it sticks to your core, showing you how pathetically soaked you are already. you feel your arousal dripping down the inside of your thigh, landing on satoru, just above his knee. his throat bobs hard and his jaw clenches tightly. he moves a bit so the tip of his cock brushes against your inner thigh leaving a small smear of pre-cum.

you glance down and he's painfully hard, his veins standing out today. your mouth goes dry. you're annoyed that your first instinct is to hold him in your hands and tease him before giving him the sloppiest head. instead, you sit back on his thighs, keeping some space between your core and his cock. his eyes are still glued to the ceiling, lips slightly parted as he breathes slowly, trying to remain neutral.

you slide one hand down your stomach, going down to your clit. satoru quickly glances at what you're doing and his breath hitches when he sees your fingers rubbing yourself slowly. you're drenched enough that when you circle your clit, the sound is very audible to him. you let out a little moan as your fingers move through your folds, you're very sensitive so your touches feel so good. satoru's hips involuntarily jerk and he lets out a low, frustrated groan.

"fuck," he whispers softly, squeezing his eyes shut.

you slip a finger into yourself, pumping inside slowly. the wet and filthy sounds fill the room, tormenting satoru. you add another finger inside, imagining that it's him. though your fingers are absolutely nowhere near as pleasant as satoru feels. he finally brings his head forward to watch you finger-fucking yourself. he makes a noise that makes you clench around your fingers. he drops his head back down on the mattress, letting out a shaky breath.

even though you're enjoying the pleasure you're giving yourself, you pull your wet fingers out and bring them up between you. without a word, you press them to his lips. he doesn't hesitate; he opens his mouth so you can insert your fingers inside for him to lick them with a satisfied groan. he licks them clean while finally staring into your eyes, sucking harder on your two digits.

when he finally lets your fingers go with a soft pop, he hoarsely speaks, "fucking hell, you're so soaked."

you don't answer him, you move forward, rising on your knees until you're hovering over him. he gets the hint and wraps a hand around his cock, holding it steady for you. you lower yourself onto him torturously slow, coating him with your arousal. he hisses, head falling back again. you finally sink down, and the stretch is perfect. your breath catches in your throat, and you moan out shakily as satoru groans loudly.

"f-fuck," he breathes out. "so warm and perfect."

once you're all the way down, neither of you move for a while. he's buried so deep inside you, pulsing while you clench around him. your hands find his shoulders for balance, nails digging into his skin – it stings a little, but satoru loves the feeling. his eyes are locked on your face now, gauging your reaction to this, taking note of the pleasure you're unable to hide, and the way you're clearly displeased with just sitting on him. you're his girl, he knows you through and through. you're always in the mood to fuck him or to get fucked by him, he knows very well that you're eager for some action. but of course, you're way more stubborn so you both end up sitting still, staring at each other.

the atmosphere between both of you is very tense. considering the fact that you're both still quite pissed off at each other. you're both still frozen in place, bodies intimately joined together but refusing to move. his cock throbs deep inside you and every time you clench around him, you both let out frustrated noises, putting much effort into staying still.

satoru leans back on his elbows so he can get a good look at you. the movement causes his hips to move a bit, making his cock shift inside you, nudging a spot that has your toes curling. you whimper softly, nails digging harder into his shoulders. 

"don't move."

he grunts lowly. "trying not to, baby. fuck, this was a stupid fucking idea."

his eyes are dark and glassy, fixed on you in a way that makes you feel very intimidated. you can feel the way he's obviously holding back, see the way his abs flex and the way his thighs tense under you and the way he's trying to remain perfectly still. you lean forward, trying to steady yourself on him and the movement causes him to drag along in your walls.

"shit," he curses. "you're dripping down my balls, y/n. tell me the truth, does fighting with me get you this wet?"

he asks huskily with some teasing in his voice, and maybe even some triumph as if he's just found out something dirty about you. your cheeks burn, but you won't let him win that easily. you lean in close, lips brushing against his.

"oh, please. look at you. you're hard as fuck. literally throbbing inside me like you're about to come from me just sitting on you. so don't act like you're not just as turned on by this."

he narrows his eyes at you, tongue in his cheek as he stares st you for a moment before speaking. "i'm a guy. you're naked, soaked and sitting on my dick. of course i'm hard."

he admits shamelessly, perhaps his excuse is valid, but you're still feeling the need to be bitchy. 'bullshit." you say.

 your hips move the tiniest bit, enough to make both of you feel tingles, but not enough to count as moving. he sucks in a sharp breath, eyes fluttering. 

"you were hard in the elevator. you were hard the second i started yelling at you in the car. admit it - you like it when i'm pissed at you."

he lets out a low laugh, elbows digging into the bed as he sits up a bit more. you both let out moans when the shift causes his hips to roll again.

"fine," he rasps. "yeah, i like it. i like when you get all fired up and talk back to me. turns me the fuck on. happy?"

you swallow hard, trying to ignore the way your body responded to his confession by clenching hard around him. his eyes darken and a groan slips out of him.

"but that doesn't mean i'm gonna apologise first," he adds quickly, matching your stubbornness. "you're the one who started going off about me being a few minutes late."

"those few minutes felt like hours when i was freezing my ass off waiting for you- " you abruptly stop because he purposely flexes inside you, making your thighs tremble. 

"satoru," you warn but it comes out needy and desperate.

he smirks at you. "what? i didn't move, did i?"

"you're so damn infuriating."

"really?" he licks his bottom lip when his eyes drop to where you're both joined, before looking back up at your face. "come on, baby. move. i know you wanna ride me. i can feel how bad you want it."

yes, you absolutely do want it. you want to slam down on him and ride him hard. your pussy is throbbing, swollen and desperate. but you're not about to break first.

"no. you move, you apologise."

he groans again, closing his eyes shut as if he's praying for strength. when he looks at you again, his eyes are dark.

"you're pure fucking evil." he mutters.

his hands twitch at his sides and he has to fist them to prevent himself from grabbing your hips and fucking into you.

minutes pass by, both of you are breathing hard while staring at each other, trembling with the effort of not giving in. your hands ended up on his hard chest, feeling his heartbeat. satoru's hands hovered uncertainly for a long time, but eventually they settled on your hips, caressing with his thumbs. you're trying not to clench around him, but every time you do, his eyes flutter and his fingers tighten on you.

you bite down hard on your bottom lip, trying hard to stifle the little whimpers trying to escape you. the still feeling of him is so overwhelming, it's making you insane, every time his cock pulses inside you has the demon inside you wanting to move.

satoru's jaw clenches so tight you can see the veins standing out on his neck, and the sweat dripping down his forehead despite the cool weather. satoru looks completely ruined, and the sight of him like this would have you feeling so victorious if you weren't feeling just as tortured as him.

finally your pride cracks and you plead with him. "move," you whisper. you didn't mean to say it out loud, it just slipped out.

for a moment you think he might put you out your misery and fuck you, but he doesn't.

"no," he says roughly. "you move and apologise first."

you laugh, but it's frustrated and annoyed. "you know you want this, satoru. even more than i do."

"says the girl who's shaking on my dick." he shoots back. "you want this more than me, angel."

to prove that he's right, your body betrays you by tightly clenching around him again as if you're trying to pull him deeper inside you.

"y/n, stop fucking doing that-"

when you look at him, you notice that his eyes are almost wet, like he's on the verge of losing it. seeing him like this – satoru, who's always so controlled and usually dominant – almost knocks the air out of you. you're so wet, it's embarrassing, arousal coating his cock, dripping down onto his skin. 

you lean forward so your forehead touches his and lips brush against his as you speak . "this is killing you, isn't it?"

he swallows hard, adam's apple bobbing. "you have no idea."

"i do," you admit. "because it's killing me too."

his hands slide up your sides, caressing your skin and stopping under your breasts. you bite your lip harder, feeling the urge to roll your hips and please both of you.

after a long while, both of you still refuse to give into each other. you just stay there frustrated in place.

"i don't get it, y/n." he mutters, eyes searching yours. "why are you so fucking stubborn? i didn't do anything wrong. i was late one time. traffic was shit, i apologised in the parking lot. why can't you just say sorry and let this go?"

he raises his voice, startling you since he never ever does that. you get the urge to cry. your shoulders drop, and the fight suddenly drains out of you. your eyes start to sting and blink a few times, trying to keep it together. but your tears fall anyways. satoru's expression breaks, his anger and frustration are replaced by deep concern and regret.

"baby-?"

you shake your head, voice wobbly when you speak. "today was awful." you whisper. "everything went wrong. my boss made me look stupid in front of the whole team, he always does that to me... i don't even want to talk about it. and then i waited out in the cold forever, and i just... i didn't mean to take it all out on you. i've been so stressed, satoru. i'm tired. i'm sorry."

+you've never mentioned your boss and the hardships you face at work to satoru. knowing that he'd lose his shit. but today had been a lot, too much for you. thinking about what happened causes your tears to fall faster.

satoru sits up fully, his cock shifts in deeper and both of you want to moan at that, but now isn't the time. his hands go around you to pull you against his chest.

"hey, hey, no-don't cry. shit, i'm sorry." his voice is soft and guilty. "i didn't know it was that bad. i should've asked and listened instead of getting defensive."

he cups your face, wiping away your tears with his thumbs, but more keeps coming. he leans in and kisses them away, kissing all the way down to your jaw.

"i'm sorry, baby," he murmurs against your skin. "sorry for being later. for raising my voice just now. for not seeing that you weren't okay. i'm really fucking sorry."

he kisses you properly after his most sincere apology. his lips are soft and gentle against yours, tasting the salt from your tears. you sigh into his mouth, your hands sliding around his neck to pull him closer to deepen the kiss since you've been desperate for it. you start moving, rolling your hips and grinding down on him making you moan into each other's mouth.

"i'm sorry too," you whisper against his lips, as you lift up and sink back on him, taking him deeper. "i love you. i love you so much."

he groans, hands tightening on your waist to help guide you now as you start riding him faster now.

"fuck, i love you," he says, eyes locked into yours. they're dark and wild, making your breath hitch. "i love you, my stubborn, infuriating, perfect girl."

you laugh softly and he kisses you again, swallowing the sound. your hands are everywhere, holding his shoulders, caressing his abs and chest. his hands roam just as greedily as yours. one cups your breast, thumb playing with your nipple, the other grips your ass, fingers digging in as he helps you bounce on him.

you ride him for a long time. both of you let out loud, pleasant sounds, whispering filthy praises and apologies between kissing.

suddenly, he lifts you up and flips you over. you're on your back now, he holds your thighs firmly and makes you wrap your legs around his waist as he settles between them. he thrusts back inside you deeply, making your back arch off the bed.

"satoru-oh-God-"

he groans at your sweet sounds, his forehead dropping against yours. 

"need to fuck you properly." he murmurs.

he starts moving faster and harder, the feeling of him has you seeing stars. he grips your thighs, bringing your leg higher around his waist and grabs a handful of your ass, squeezing it hard as he pulls you against him to match his thrusts.

you touch him everywhere – hands in his hair, nails raking down his back. his mouth is everywhere on you, sucking marks onto your skin, kissing your lips hungrily. he doesn't stop fucking you perfectly. every time he pulls out and slams back in has you moaning his name out loud.

after a while, you release first, practically screaming against his shoulder. he follows a few seconds later, thrusting into you sloppily now before burying himself deep inside you and staying there while filling you up.

he half collapses on you, though he's careful not to crush you. his forehead rests on yours as you both of you pant into each other's mouths. for a while neither of you move from that position. eventually he pulls out, you both groan at the feeling of how sensitive you both are. he rolls onto his back beside you, hooks an arm around your waist and pulls you against him. you turn in his arms to place your head on his chest and throw your leg over his thigh. he holds you tightly, leaving kisses on your temple and the top of your head.

soon, you fall asleep in what you think of as your favourite and safest space – wrapped in satoru's embrace.

                                                     ୨ৎ

the next morning, you stir awake slowly, eyes fluttering open. once you're fully conscious, you notice satoru's gaze on you. he's propped up on one elbow, his head resting on his hand, watching you with the softest expression you've ever seen on him. his hair's a mess, and the sheet has slipped down to his waist, revealing the red marks you left on his chest and abs. he looks so peaceful, possessive and utterly in love. it's like he's been staring at you for a long while, watching you sleep. 

you smile sleepily. he leans in slowly clearly wanting to kiss you, you mumble something about not brushing your teeth yet, but he clearly does not care. he kisses you deep and hungrily, tongue sliding inside your mouth. you a soft, embarrassed sound but he just hums, pleased and kisses you harder. his hand caresses your cheek before going under the covers to hold your waist and pull you right against him. you melt into the kiss despite your earlier grumbles about not brushing your teeth and your worries from last night about his absence.

when he finally pulls back, your lips are swollen and you're both breathing hard.

"morning," he says in that rough morning voice you love, his nose brushing yours.

"morning," you whisper back, cheeks heating up.

right after that, his mouth trails down your jaw and neck, licking and nipping at your skin. he goes down lower, kissing your collarbone, between your breasts and your nipples. you gasp at the sensation, arching into him.

"satoru-"

"shh. let me make you feel good." he murmurs.

he disappears under the sheets, moving down your body. once he's settled between your thighs, he pushes them apart gently, then kisses along your inner thigh, teasing.

after his gentle kisses, he licks you all the way from your entrance to your clit. you moan out loudly, hands gripping the sheets when you hear his hum in approval. he goes straight to work, licking you hard and circling your clit. you're soaked, arousal mixed with his saliva. you grip his hair, needing something to hold. he slides two fingers inside you, finger-fucking you slow and deep while simultaneously sucking on you.

soon enough, you're releasing while moaning his name. he doesn't stop, only when you're weakly tugging at his hair from oversensitivity does he crawl up your body, kissing wherever he can as he comes back up. once he's back up, hovering over you, he kisses you slowly. you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down to kiss him even deeper.

"let's take a shower, hmm?"

he doesn't wait for you to answer him, he just picks you up and carries you the bathroom for a shower. in the shower, he helps you by washing you up, soaping your body, washing your hair and massaging his scalp. you return the favour, soaping his back, his chest and down his abs, teasing him by going lower until he catches your wrist, pins you to the slippery wall and kisses you dizzy.

soon the both of you finally come out the shower, wrapped in towels while trading lazy, loving kisses that he tries to turn dirty. you playfully swat him away so you can get ready for work.

every single morning, satoru is always much faster than you are – already dressed in suitable work clothes while you run around like a headless chicken. he makes you coffee while you dry your hair. and every time he comes to check on you, you notice how he looks at you in the mirror. it's not like the playful and flirtatious way he usually does, instead it's more observant and watchful. 

when you walk into the bedroom to get dressed, he's already sitting on the edge of the bed with his phone in his hand. he dims his screen as you step in and his eyes lift to you immediately. he watches you as you change into your work clothes, eyeing your body with an intensity that makes you heat up.

"you're staring at me, you creep." you play it lightly.

he huffs out a small laugh, since keeping his eyes glued onto you. "can't help it. you're beautiful." 

you smile shyly and reach for your blouse. as you button it, satoru leans forward with his elbows on his knees, fingers laced together.

"hey," he says softly. "can i ask you something?"

you nod, glancing at him in the mirror. "yeah?"

"your boss." he says carefully. "the one you say has been giving you a hard time. what exactly does he do to you?"

you stomach drops at the question and mention of him. some stupid part of you hoped that satoru wouldn't have asked. but of course, he would. he's so protective over you, way too protective. you finish sliding your arms into the sleeve, focusing on the buttons so you don't have to meet his eyes.

"it's nothing," you say, trying to brush it off with a little shrug. "just typical superior bullshit, deadlines and nitpicking. the usual."

"Y/N."

the tone he uses makes you glance up at him again. his expression is calm, but there's something deeper underlying.

you force a smile. "really, toru. it's fine. and i don't really wanna talk about this. can we not do this right now?"

you focus on changing into your skirt and neatening up your hair. in the reflection you see him still watching you, his tongue is his cheek - the thing he does when he's usually pissed off and holding himself back. he relaxes himself and nods slowly.

"okay." he says without looking away.

you finish getting ready, and when you lean over the dresser to put your earrings on, he stands up and walks behind you. his hands settle on your hips, chin resting on your shoulder as he meets your eyes in the mirror again.

"you look perfect," he says, nibbling on your earlobe now.

you lean back into him. "thank you." he leaves a deep kiss on your neck before letting you go.

inside the car, he drives with one hand on the steering wheel and the other tracing circles on your thigh just as he usually does, except this time his hold on you is firmer and feels more protective. 

 ────୨ৎ────

it's been a few nights since yours and satoru's silly argument and the insane deal that followed. at home, with him, things have been great. he's been on time for you every evening after work – sometimes waiting outside your workplace minutes before you even clock out. you know that being early for you might be challenging for him, because realistically his workload is a bit more demanding than yours is. but he loves you more than enough to go to that length to please you. of course, in return you reward him with sloppiest head or whatever else he finds pleasant. and whatever he finds pleasant – you do too. so basically, you two have spent the last few days fucking like rabbits.

you wake up slowly and a bit disorientated. your body is aching in best way possible. of course, the first thing you do is reach out for satoru craving his warmth, but you're met the feeling of the empty sheets instead. you lift your head, seeing that the time on the clock is 2:18AM. his side of the bed is empty and cold, as if he's been gone for a long time, it makes you feel uneasy.

you sit up, rubbing your eyes, trying to listen for any noise to indicate that he's around. but there's nothing, just silence. you get off the bed to stand up and head toward the door with the intention of going downstairs to hopefully find him there. but just as you open the door, satoru's already opening it from outside. you scan him immediately, sensing something off. even in the dark, you notice that his attire – he's in outside clothes, like he's just been out somewhere.

when he notices you, he jumps, startled. your stomach drops, not liking his reaction.

"hey," you say softly. "where were you?"

he's stunned for a few seconds, then forces a small smile. "just stepped out for a smoke. couldn't sleep, didn't want to wake you."

you instantly catch in that he's lying. he doesn't smell like smoke. he could've gone to smoke on the balcony. and who in their right minds would dress up just to go out to smoke?

you step toward him anyways, reaching out for a hug since you're still desperate for his warmth you couldn't have due to his strange absence. but he doesn't meet you halfway to bring you into his embrace, instead he leans in to press a quick kiss to your forehead, then your lips before you can fully process it.

"go back to bed, baby." he murmurs. "i'll be with you in a minute."

you search his face in the darkness with your heart beating a little too fast. "toru..."

"i'm just gonna shower quick," he says, already walking past you toward the en-suite bathroom. "just wanna wash up. go lie down, okay? i'll be right there."

he closes the door behind him before you can say anything. you stand there, staring at the closed door, listening to the shower starting up...

soon, you climb into bed and pull the covers up to your chin, lost in thought. where has he really been? and why is he lying to you?

      ୨ৎ

later on, you wake up feeling satoru's lips on your shoulder, he leaves a kiss there, then another on the nape of your neck. his arm is over your waist, fingers drawing patterns on your stomach.

"morning, beautiful." he murmurs in his rough voice.

he leans in to kiss the tip of your nose, your forehead then your lips. you hum into the kiss, enjoying it, but your mind wanders to how he lied to you in the early hours of the morning – how he was supposed to be in bed cuddling you but was absent in bed, and walking in from somewhere else instead.

but right now, you don't want to think of that, he's kissing you so affectionately and loving, it has your mind going blank. 

he breaks the kiss to speak, "sleep okay?" he tucks strands of hair behind your ear.

"yeah," you lie a little, but smile anyway. "you?"

"slept so good after having you back in my arms." he kisses you deeper again, rolling you onto your back so he can hover over you, one of his thighs slide between yours. "you feel so good in the mornings. i could stay here all day."

you laugh softly, fingers threading into his hair. "we have work, unfortunately."

he groans loudly at that, burying his face in your neck. "unfortunately, we do."

he kisses you one more time, then rolls out of bed, stretching - you eye his delicious figure as the shirt rides up, revealing his body underneath it. you watch him walk out the room and down the hall. your suspicions from the morning aren't so worrying now. maybe you just overthought it, maybe he really just needed air.

you get up eventually, already dreading this day. you love your job, just hate your boss. over the past few years, you've been working at your job, he's tormented you and made most of your days a living hell. all because you refused to sleep with him. you could've reported him to hr, but it's unfortunate that the old hag is too powerfu. any of the poor other women who had gone through what you do and were brave enough to report it ended up jobless.

you've worked so hard to get to where you are, yes, you're qualified and deserving of a higher position, but the bastard has rejected you many times. your current position is forced to suffice, and it's something you can't afford to lose, so you have to endure all that he puts you through. the idea to tell satoru has always called out to you, but he's way too crazy over you. if he knew what goes on, you're sure he might end up a killer. so, you've stupidly decided to keep to yourself.

you shower, do your hair and change, and by the time you're done, satoru is as well. he's leaning against the counter sipping coffee, eyes lighting up when he sees you.

"fuck," he says quietly, setting his mug down. "you look way too good for that place."

"flattery won't get me to call in sick."

he steps close, hands going to your hips to pull you into him.

"worth a shot."

satoru fixes your collar while you button his sleeves, you neaten his hair while he zips your skirt up properly, his fingers lingering on your thighs as you two have a small make out session.

by the time you make it to the car, you're both a little untidy and laughing at nothing. he drives with one hand on the steering wheel and the other intertwined with you to leave kisses on your knuckles every now and then. 

once he parks outside your workplace, he turns to you. "come here," he instructs.

you lean over the console, expecting a quick kiss but it's definitely not quick. his hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you deep. his tongue slides into your mouth, tasting you. you gasp into the kiss, fingers fisting into his shirt, making him groan before kissing you harder. he squeezes your thigh, pulling you closer.

your lipstick is definitely smudged and your hair's probably a mess. you giggle breathlessly when he pulls back to let you catch a break.

"satoru," you laugh, wiping his bottom lip with your thumb.

"you're gonna make me look unpresentable."

"that's okay," he says before stealing one deeper kiss from you. "then everyone will know you're mine."

you roll your eye with a racing heart, but of course you have to leave with one last peck. afterwards you get out the car, neatening yourself up before making your way inside. he watches you the whole way with a soft, possessive smile on his face.

the office feels different when you walk in. it's quiet in a weird way. your desk is still the same, everything exactly in place. but it's devoid of its usual tense, suffocating atmosphere. people glance at you as you pass, some offer small smiles. but no one is gossiping as they usually do. your boss's office door is closed with the lights off.

"hey," your only friend here at work says as she appears at your cubicle holding two coffees. "you okay?"

"yeah?" you say, confused. "why wouldn't i be?"

she leans in, lowering her voice when she speaks. "did you hear about mr ren?"

your stomach tightens at the mention of his name. "no...what happened?"

"i heard he called in this morning. said he had a 'family emergency' and won't be in all week. but-" she glances around before whispering softer. "someone said he was at urgent care last night. bruised and bloody... looked like he got attacked or something."

your heart stops, lia keeps going, oblivious. "weird, right? he's never missed a day...and hr sent an email - assignment of duties. everyone's freaking out a little."

you stare at your computer screen, fingers frozen on the keyboard. for some unknown reason satoru's face flashes in your mind... or perhaps, deep down the reason isn't entirely unknown, but you're choosing not to consider it.

                 ୨ৎ

during the day, you've buried yourself in emails and reports. at about 3pm, you receive a new email, subject : reassignments. the email comes from director sato – director sato who's levels above your boss. to say you're nervous to meet with him is an understatement, but anyways you smooth your skirt, and make your way to the executive floor.

director sato's assistant smiles when you arrive and waves you right in. inside, director sato stands to greet you before gesturing to the chair across from his desk. the kindness and bright smile on his face eases your nerves immediately.

"y/n, thank you for coming. i'll get straight to it." he slides a folder across the table.

"effective immediately, you're being moved the senior strategics projects role. heard it's something you've applied for before."

your soul leaves your body – from hearing the greatest news. that role. the one you've always dreamed of getting. the one your prick of a boss rejected you for, even though you were perfectly qualified for it and suited for the roll.

"i... i don't understand," you manage to say in disbelief. "i thought the decision was already–"

he holds up his hand. "things changed. after an incident that i'm unable to get into detail about, i've done reviews on the workers here and find that your work is exceptional. you've really earned this, miss y/n."

tears prick at your eyes, you blink hard, trying to keep it together.

"this is... this is everything i've wanted. thank you. thank you so much."

he smiles, sliding a tissue over to you.

"congratulations. hr will send the formal letter this afternoon."

          ୨ৎ

by the time work is over, you're practically on cloud nine. you rush out the doors, eager to see him and bear the news. satoru is leaning against his car in the pickup zone with his hands in his pocket with a smile already on his face as if he knows a little secret.

you start running toward to him, he pushes off the car just in time, catching you as you launch yourself at him. your legs wrap around him and he holds you steadily under your thighs as you bury your face in his neck.

"i got it, satoru, i got it," happy tears fall onto his neck. "the promotion. the one i've always wanted."

he pulls back to look at you, grinning happily. "baby–" he laughs, spinning you around before setting you down but keeping you close. "holy shit, i'm so fucking proud of you."

you're crying happy tears again, laughing through it. "i can't believe it, toru."

he kisses you hard and you kiss him back, not thinking for a second that he may be one of the reasons you've so suddenly gotten this promotion.

                             ୨ৎ

at home, satoru cooks your favourite dinner and gets out the most expensive wine you have to celebrate properly.  you both eat together then sip the wine until you're both tipsy and giggly. after some time, you both sloppily kiss each other. satoru can't stop touching you, pulling you onto his lap with his tongue down your throat. when he pulls back, he's looking at you as if you're his everything and more.

"you're glowing," he says, staring at you with glassy eyes. "i've never seen you this happy."

you straddle him fully then, arms around his neck with your forehead against his. "because of you too. with you, everything is possible." you slur a bit.

his hands tighten on your hips; he looks so utterly satisfied hearing those words. again, he kisses you deep and passionately.

later on, when the wine bottle is empty, he carries you to bed. both of your clothes are taken off in record speed since he's eager to fuck the living daylights out of you.

he fucks you slow at first, eyes locked on yours as he said the sweetest things to you, about how beautiful you are, how much he loves you, how proud he is of you and how no one else could ever compare to you. after that, he goes faster and rougher. his hips thrust into you so passionately, you screamed out.

he'd take you in so many positions, had you in so many different angles, you discovered just how flexible you are. you and satoru are always adventurous in bed, and with him you've discovered just how feral you truly are in bed. but tonight you've shocked yourself by how long you're going on for, you've released so many times. yet you can still go on.

he's got you on your back again, thrusting into you. his forearms are braced on either side of your head, caging you in. he's sweaty, the red marks you left on his chest are standing out completely - you don't think you've seen something so ethereal in your entire life. again, his eyes don't leave yours, he's staring down at you with that proud and possessive lovesick look he's had all night.

you're already so close, thighs trembling around his waist. gasping every time he bottoms out. your hands grip onto his shoulders, sliding up to tangle in his damp hair to pull him down for a messy kiss. he groans into your mouth, pounding into you harder.

"my perfect girl," he rasps against your lips roughly. "you're finally getting everything you deserve."

you whimper, arching into him, too lost in the overwhelming sensations to catch the weight behind his words. he slows down a bit, just to get in nice and deep and stay buried for a while. his hips circle in a way that feels so good, it has your eyes fluttering shut.

he speaks close to your ear, licking your earlobe, "no one's ever gonna stand in your way again, baby," he murmurs. "no one will ever hurt you and get away with it, i'll make sure of it. just like i did with him."

your eyes snap open, he doesn't stop moving. he cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek tenderly.

"i told you i'd take care of you," he whispers. "and i always keep my promises. i'm just sorry i didn't take care of it sooner."

                                             ────୨ৎ────

[pika-toru-deactivated20260505]

five times gojo thinks of proposing to you and one time he does.

contents. gojo x fem!reader • tooth rotting fluff • a lot of i love you’s • some light angst • in yearner satoru we trust

i.

it’s raining. this is that miserable kind of raining that seeps through the seams of his jacket, plasters his white hair to his forehead and makes the fluorescent lights of the 24-hour convenience store flicker like they’re also tired of existing.

you’re standing in front of the instant ramen section, waddling around because your shoes broke three blocks ago and are heavy with water, shivering in his oversized hoodie that he’d draped over you the moment he saw your teeth chattering. your hair is damp and sticking to your cheeks, and you’re squinting at the different flavor packets like they hold the secrets to the universe.

“spicy or chicken?” you ask him, turning slightly. there’s a drop of water clinging to your lower lip.

gojo satoru, the strongest sorcerer of his generation, a man who has stared down curses that would make lesser men weep, feels his heart do something stupid in his chest. it’s inconvenient, really. he’s supposed to be above this— above the mundane domesticity of convenience store runs and broken sandals and wet hair plastered to sleepy faces.

but you’re wearing his hoodie. you’re standing in a fluorescent-lit hellscape at 11:47 pm on a tuesday, and you’re asking him about ramen flavors like this is exactly where you’re supposed to be.

“spicy,” he says, his voice coming out softer he thinks it does.

you nod and grab two cups, and when you turn back to him, you give him a smile— small and tired and pretty— and he thinks i want to wake up next to you every day for the rest of my life.

the thought is so sudden and so loud that he almost chokes on his own spit.

he watches you walk to the counter, watches you fumble with his card. you’re so ordinary in the best possible way. you’re not a sorcerer, not a clan heir, not someone the world expects anything from except to live and be happy.

and you chose him.

the rain drums against the glass doors as you come back to him, holding out the bag. “let’s go home, toru,” you say, your voice muffled by the hoodie’s collar pulled up to your nose.

home. you call it home and he calls it home too. your small apartment, the one with the broken lock on the bathroom door and the neighbor who practices violin badly at 6 am. his home.

his hand twitches toward his pocket, where he absolutely does not have a ring because he hasn’t bought one, because this is insane, because you’ve only been together for a year and a half and that’s not even that long in the grand scheme of things.

but the word home echoes in his skull like a prayer, and he thinks— i could do it. i could ask her right now, in this ugly convenience store, with rain in my shoes and ramen in my hands.

he doesn’t, of course. he’s not that reckless. probably.

“let’s go home, baby,” he agrees, and he takes the bag from you with one hand and wraps the other around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. you’re warm despite everything, and you fit there perfectly, like you were designed for it.

the ring box stays imaginary in his pocket all the way back to the apartment.

ii.

it’s not even his injury. that’s the worst part.

gojo is fine— annoyingly, immortally fine— but you’d taken a hit for a civilian during a mission gone sideways, and now you’re behind a set of double doors with a concussion and three broken ribs, and he’s sitting in a plastic chair that squeaks every time he moves.

he hasn’t moved in forty-seven minutes.

shoko had looked at him with something between pity and exasperation when she’d examined you. “she’ll be fine, satoru. stop looking like someone killed your dog.”

but he can’t stop. his leg is bouncing, his hands are clasped too tight in his lap, and every time a shoko walks by he almost jumps out of his skin.

you’re fine. you’re fine. you’re fine.

the doors open and you’re wheeled out on a gurney, pale and groggy but awake, and your eyes find him immediately like they always do; they’re magnets and he’s north.

“toru,” you say. your voice is hoarse and so small that he wants to wrap you in bubble wrap and never let you leave the apartment again.

“hey,” he says, and he’s beside you before he remembers standing up, his hand finding yours. your fingers are cold. “you’re an idiot.”

“i know,” you say with a smile. it’s weak and wobbly and it makes his chest ache.

they move you to a room and he sits in the chair beside your bed, holding your hand while you drift in and out of sleep. the fluorescent lights buzz overhead. the heart monitor beeps a steady rhythm. you look small against the white hospital sheets, smaller than you ever look anywhere else, and he hates it.

at some point, you wake up properly, blinking at him with those eyes he’d drown for. “how long have you been here?”

“few hours.”

“you should go home. sleep.”

“not leaving.”

you sigh, but there’s no real frustration in it. your thumb traces circles on the back of his hand. “you’re so stubborn.”

“learned from the best.”

you laugh, then wince because of the ribs, and he immediately leans forward like he can somehow absorb the pain from you. “don’t make me laugh, asshole.”

“sorry. sorry.” he presses his forehead to your knuckles. your skin is warm now, finally. “you scared me.”

“i’m okay.”

“you got hurt.”

“i’m okay.” your free hand comes up to card through his hair, causing him to make a sound he’ll deny later. “i’d do it again.”

“don’t,” he says, and his voice cracks in a way that would embarrass him if he had any room for embarrassment left. “don’t ever do it again. i can’t—i can’t lose you.”

you’re quiet for a moment. the heart monitor beeps. somewhere down the hall, shoko curses.

“you’re not going to lose me,” you say finally, softly. “i’m right here.”

he lifts his head to look at you. you’re smiling at him like he’s not a mess and it’s not him who is sitting in a hospital chair with dark circles under his eyes and a crick in his neck. like the fact that he’s here and he’s satoru is enough.

he wants to marry you.

the thought is quiet this time, not loud and sudden but soft and settling, like snow. he wants to marry you. he wants legal documentation that says you’re his. he wants to be the one they call when you’re in a hospital bed. he wants to be family, not just boyfriend, not just partner, but yours completely.

his hand tightens around yours.

“what?” you ask, because you always notice everything.

“nothing,” he says. “go back to sleep.”

you do, eventually, your hand still in his. and he watches you breathe, in and out, steady and alive, and he starts mentally calculating how long it would take to get a ring custom-made.

iii.

the sky explodes in gold and crimson and you’re standing so close that your shoulder presses against his, your face tilted up toward the light like you’re trying to drink it in.

fireworks have never done anything for gojo. he’s seen more impressive displays of cursed energy before breakfast. but you’re happy— genuinely, your mouth curved into a soft smile, your eyes reflecting every burst of color— and he can’t look away from you.

the crowd jostles around them. children shriek with delight. couples hold hands and take photos. you’re wearing a yukata he’d helped you tie earlier, fumbling with the obi until you’d laughed and pushed his hands away and done it yourself.

“look, look,” you say, pointing at a particularly large bloom of green and purple. “that one’s pretty.”

“yeah,” he says, but he’s not looking at the sky.

you turn to catch him staring and raise an eyebrow. “you’re supposed to be watching the fireworks, dummy.”

“i’m watching something better.”

“that’s so cheesy.”

“you love it.”

you don’t deny it. instead, you lean your head against his shoulder, and he feels the warmth of you through the thin fabric of his own kimono. the fireworks continue to explode overhead, painting your skin in fleeting colors— blue, then pink, then white.

a group of children runs past, laughing, one of them bumps into your side. you stumble, just slightly, and his arm goes around your waist automatically, steadying you.

“careful,” he murmurs.

“i’m fine.”

but you don’t pull away, and neither does he. his hand rests on your hip, and you’re so close that he can smell your shampoo— floral, soft, something that makes him think of mornings and pillowcases and shared showers.

the fireworks finale begins, a chaotic symphony of light and sound that makes the ground vibrate beneath their feet. the crowd cheers. someone sets off a sparkler nearby, and the scent of gunpowder fills the air.

you turn your face up toward him, the light catching your eyes, and you’re so beautiful it hurts.

“thank you for bringing me,” you say.

“thank you for coming with me.”

you beam, and he thinks about the ring he’d looked at online last week— the one with the sapphire, because he’d want you to always carry something that resembles him in some kind of way, and he’d thought that’s the one but he hadn’t bought it because buying a ring online feels wrong, feels too impersonal for something that’s supposed to hold this.

but standing here, with your body warm against his and your smile soft in the fading light, he thinks he should have bought it anyway. he thinks he should get down on one knee right now, in the grass, with the last of the fireworks fizzling out behind him.

“hey,” he starts. his voice is strange in his own ears.

“hmm?”

he looks at you, properly, intently. the curve of your cheek, the way your hair falls across your forehead, the small scar on your chin from when you’d tripped over his shoes last month.

“nothing,” he says. “just happy.”

your expression softens into something so tender it’s almost too much for him to handle. “me too.”

he doesn’t propose at the fireworks festival. he doesn’t have a ring, and the moment doesn’t feel big enough— not because it’s small, but because he wants more. he wants you surrounded by people who love you, or maybe just the two of you in a quiet room, or maybe something in between. he wants it to be perfect.

but standing there, with your hand slipping into his and your fingers interlacing like they’ve done it a thousand times before, he makes a promise to himself.

soon. it’ll be soon.

iv.

you don’t cry often.

that’s the thing about you: you’re steady in a way he’s never learned to be. you take things in stride. you handle his chaos with a patience that borders on supernatural. you’ve seen him at his worst, hollow-eyed and trembling after missions that went wrong, and you’d held him without a single word of judgment.

so when he finds you in the bathroom, sitting on the closed toilet lid with tears streaming down your face, something in him fractures.

“hey,” he says, dropping to his knees in front of you. “hey, what’s wrong? what happened?”

you shake your head, trying to wipe your face with the back of your hand, but the tears keep coming. “it’s stupid.”

“i don’t care if it’s stupid. tell me.”

you take a shaky breath. “that necklace you gave me, your first gift to me. i—i can’t find it anywhere, and i’ve looked everywhere, and it’s gone, and i know it’s just a thing and i have more, but you gave it to me and i always wear it, and—”

you break off with a sob as he pulls you into his chest without thinking. you cling to him, your fingers digging into his shirt, and he holds you as tight as he dares.

“it’s not just a thing,” he says into your hair. “it’s important to you. that makes it important.”

“i’m being ridiculous. ”

“you’re not.”

“i’ve been crying for twenty minutes over a necklace.”

“and i’d cry for twenty days if i lost something you gave me.”

you laugh wetly against his chest and he feels the vibration of it, feels the way your body relaxes slightly. he rubs your back in slow circles, the way you do for him when he’s the one falling apart.

“i’ll find it,” he says.

“you can’t just—”

“satoru gojo, master of the impossible. remember?” he pulls back just enough to look at your face, to thumb away the tears still clinging to your lashes. “i will find your necklace if i have to tear this entire city apart tile by tile.”

“don’t be dramatic.”

“i’m never dramatic. i’m perfectly reasonable.”

you snort. it’s such a normal sound, that he grins despite the tightness in his chest.

“i love you,” you say quietly, with your voice raw and wrecked and it hits him like a physical blow.

he thinks about the ring in his nightstand drawer.

he’d bought it last week, finally, after weeks of indecision. it’s simple— a thin gold band with a small diamond, nothing flashy because you’ve never been flashy. he’d held it in his palm for a long time before putting it in the drawer, and he’d told himself he was waiting for the right moment.

this isn’t the right moment. you’re crying on a bathroom floor, your face blotchy and your nose running, and you’ve never looked more human, more real, more his.

he wants to ask you. he wants to open his mouth and say the words and watch your eyes go wide. he wants to tell you that he’ll spend every day of the rest of his life finding things you’ve lost, fixing things that are broken, holding you when you cry.

but you’re vulnerable right now and he doesn’t want to take advantage of that. he doesn’t want you to say yes because you’re sad and he’s here and it feels like the right thing to do in the moment.

so he doesn’t.

instead, he kisses your forehead and says, “let’s go look for that necklace together.”

you nod, wiping your face one more time. “okay.”

you find it three hours later, wedged between the bed frame and the wall, and the way you light up when you see it— the way you clutch it to your chest like a lifeline— makes him think that maybe the right moment is just whenever you’re you.

but still. he waits.

v.

you’re making pancakes.

it’s such a mundane thing, such an insignificant thing, but gojo wakes up to the smell of batter and butter and the sound of you humming off-key in the kitchen, and he thinks this is it. this is what i want forever.

the sun is streaming through the windows, catching the dust motes floating in the air. your hair is a mess, sticking up in the back where you’d slept on it wrong. you’re wearing his t-shirt— the old one with the hole in the collar— and nothing else, your bare feet on the cold tile floor.

you haven’t noticed he’s awake yet. you’re too focused on flipping pancakes, your tongue poking out slightly in concentration, and he watches you from the doorway with something so big and so warm in his chest that he’s surprised he doesn’t burst.

“you’re staring,” you say without turning around.

“how do you always know?”

“i can feel your eyes on me. it’s creepy.”

“it’s affectionate.”

you turn then, spatula in hand, and you’re smiling at him— that easy, unguarded smile that’s just for him. “good morning, sleepyhead.”

“good morning, pancake princess.”

you roll your eyes and turn back to the stove, and he comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder. you lean back into him instinctively, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“how’d you sleep?” you ask.

“fine. you?”

“had a weird dream about a talking white cat.”

“was it cute?”

“very annoying, actually.”

he laughs into your neck, and you shiver slightly, and he presses a kiss to the spot behind your ear that always makes you melt.

“i’m trying to cook,” you protest, but you tilt your head to give him better access anyway.

“mm. you’re doing great.”

“you’re distracting me.”

“i’m supporting you.”

you elbow him gently, but he just tightens his arms around you, and for a moment the world narrows to this— the warmth of the kitchen, the sizzle of pancake batter hitting the pan, the softness of your body against his.

he thinks about the ring again. it’s still in his nightstand drawer, hidden beneath a pile of socks he should have folded weeks ago. he’s taken it out a dozen times in the past month, held it in his palm, imagined sliding it onto your finger.

but the moment has never felt right. there’s always been something— a mission, a bad day, a distraction. he’s been waiting for perfect, for the kind of moment they write songs about, for something that feels big enough to hold everything he feels for you.

and maybe that’s the problem. maybe perfect doesn’t exist.

maybe perfect is this. sunday morning, bare feet on cold tile, pancakes burning slightly because he’s distracting you. maybe perfect is the way you fit against him like you were made to be there. maybe perfect is the off-key humming and the holey t-shirt and the sun on your face.

“i love you, baby,” he says. the words come out different than usual, heavier with meaning. “i love you so so much.”

you tilt your head back to look at him, and your eyes are soft and curious. “i love you too.”

he almost says it. the words are right there, on the tip of his tongue, three words and a question and the rest of his life. marry me. marry me. marry me.

but then the smoke alarm goes off because the pancakes are definitely burning now, and you shriek and push him away and grab the smoking pan, and the moment scatters like startled birds.

he laughs, watching you fan the smoke detector with a dish towel, and he thinks soon. soon soon soon.

+ i.

it’s three in the morning and you’re both still awake for no good reason.

the apartment is dark except for the blue glow of the television, which is playing some terrible late-night infomercial about a vegetable chopper that neither of you is watching. you’re lying on the couch with your head in his lap, your legs draped over the armrest, and he’s been absently running his fingers through your hair for the past hour while you scroll through your phone.

neither of you has said anything important in a while. it’s just the comfortable kind of silence, the kind that comes after two years of learning each other’s rhythms, of knowing when to talk and when to just be.

on the screen, a man with too much enthusiasm is dicing an onion at impossible speed.

“we should get that,” you murmur, not looking up from your phone.

“the vegetable chopper?”

“yeah. think of all the time we’d save.”

“we don’t even cook that much.”

“we could cook more if we had a vegetable chopper.”

he snorts. “that’s the most ridiculous thing i’ve ever heard.”

you finally look up at him, and your phone’s light casts strange shadows on your face, making you look like something out of a dream or maybe a horror movie, depending on the angle. your eyes are tired but warm, there’s a small smile playing at your lips.

“you should spoil me,” you say.

“i already do!”

“not enough.”

“fine. but we’re not buying that vegetable chopper.”

you laugh, soft and sleepy, and close your eyes. his fingers resume their path through your hair, and he watches your face relax, watches the tension melt out of your shoulders.

and he thinks again— this is right.

not the fireworks. not the perfect sunset. not the grand gesture he’s been building up in his head for months. just this: three in the morning, terrible infomercial, your head in his lap, and the overwhelming, bone-deep certainty that he doesn’t want to spend another day of his life without being able to call you his spouse.

the ring is in his pocket.

it’s been in his pocket for three days now, ever since he’d stuffed it there on a whim, telling himself he’d find the right moment. he’d almost pulled it out at dinner. almost pulled it out on the walk home. almost pulled it out when you’d tripped over the welcome mat and cursed creatively.

but he’d talked himself out of it every time. too soon. too cliché. too much.

but now, with the infomercial guy enthusiastically demonstrating the vegetable chopper’s julienne function, and your breathing slowing into something that might be sleep, he realizes that the right moment isn’t something you find.

it’s something you make.

“hey,” he says softly.

“mm?”

“don’t fall asleep. i need to ask you something.”

you open one eye. “at three in the morning? about the vegetable chopper?”

“no.” his heart is pounding. his hands are shaking slightly, and he hopes you can’t feel it through his fingers in your hair. “something else.”

you sit up slowly, blinking at him, and the movement makes him lose contact with your hair. your hand finds his instead, your fingers intertwining with his like they’ve done a thousand times before.

“you look weird,” you say. “are you okay?”

“i’m fine. i’m great. i’m—” he takes a breath. “i’m in love with you.”

you raise an eyebrow. “i know, toru. you tell me that like five times a day.”

“i know. but i mean—” he laughs, a little breathless, and pulls his hand away from yours to reach into his pocket. “i mean it in a specific way tonight.”

your eyes widen as his fingers close around the small velvet box. you’re looking at his hand, then at his face, then back at his hand, and your mouth falls open slightly.

“is that—”

“it’s not a vegetable chopper,” he says, and pulls out the ring.

he’d spent weeks looking at rings, had even asked megumi for advice (which had been a disaster—the kid had just stared at him for a full thirty seconds before saying “i don’t know, just pick one”). but this one had felt right the moment he’d seen it.

“satoru,” you whisper.

“i had this whole thing planned,” he says, and his voice is shaking now, he can hear it, and he doesn’t care. “i was gonna take you somewhere nice. do the whole dinner-and-candlelight thing. get down on one knee like a normal person. but i kept waiting for the perfect moment, and it never came, because—” he swallows. “because every moment with you feels perfect. even the ones where we’re watching commercials at three in the morning.”

your eyes are wet. he can see the shine of tears in the blue glow of the television.

“so i’m not gonna wait anymore,” he says. “i’m not gonna wait for the right restaurant or the right weather or the right anything. because i don’t need any of that. i just need you.”

he shifts on the couch, turning to face you properly. he doesn’t get down on one knee— there’s no room, and honestly, he’s pretty sure he’d trip over the coffee table— but he takes both of your hands in his, the ring box pressed between your palms.

“marry me,” he says. “because i want to come home to you every day. because i want to argue about vegetable choppers with you for the rest of my life. because you’re the first person i want to tell when something good happens, and the only person i want to hold me when something doesn’t.”

you’re crying now, tears, rolling down your cheeks, and you’re laughing at the same time, which is such a you thing to do that his heart feels like it might burst.

“you’re proposing,” you say, your voice cracking, “while an infomercial is playing in the background.”

“that guy can be our witness.”

you laugh harder, and you’re nodding, you’re nodding, and he hasn’t even heard the word yet but your head is moving up and down and you’re squeezing his hands so tight it almost hurts.

“yes,” you say. “yes, you absolute idiot. yes.”

he kisses you before he even puts the ring on you. his hands cup your face, and you’re both laughing into the kiss, and it’s messy and wet and perfect in a way that nothing else has ever been.

when he finally pulls back, his forehead against yours, he slides the ring onto your finger. it glints in the television light, catching the blue glow and turning it into something softer.

“it fits,” he says, surprised.

“did you measure my finger while i was sleeping?”

“…maybe.”

you look at the ring, then at him, and your smile is so wide it crinkles the corners of your eyes. “i love you. i love you so much.”

“i love you too,” he says. and then, because he’s still him, because he’ll always be him: “so… we can get the vegetable chopper, i guess. as an engagement gift to ourselves.”

you shove his shoulder, but you’re laughing, and he’s laughing, and somewhere on the television the infomercial guy is still dicing onions with reckless abandon.

neither of you notices. you’re too busy looking at each other, at the ring on your finger, at the rest of your lives starting right here, right now, in this ridiculous, wonderful, imperfect moment.

and gojo thinks that he’s never been happier to be wrong about what perfect looks like.

[ an. hello hello!! permanent taglist spots are still open!! ]

🏷️ taglist: @ethezreal @astutetwilight @unforgivemn @sunnydayqq @lalawlrd @koral-pink @secretsofchance @raendarkfaerie @kingraspberry12-blog @xznyana @leftrightgn @indom-itus @ihatemynewbangs

[splurtz]

NOTHING'S GONNA HURT YOU BABY

SYPNOSIS. during a lavish cruise, you cross paths with the infuriatingly charming and wealthy satoru gojo, whose playful persistence slowly breaks down your walls and turns your boring vacation into an unforgettable romance.

PAIRING. satoru gojo x f! reader

WC. 4.8K

CONTENT. MDNI. explicit smut. porn with plot. unprotected sex. oral (f receiving). fingering. creampie. (light) angst i promise. titanic-kinda disaster setting. they're both well off.

A/N. satoru art by _3aem on x. best to read with nothing's gonna hurt you baby!

the ocean breezes across the upper deck, making your dress cling to your legs as you lean against the railing. the ship hums low beneath your feet, cutting through black water under a sky full of stars that feel too far away. it’s late, most of the crowd has disappeared into the ballroom or their private suites, leaving the decks almost empty.

you’re out here because everything inside feels fake and loud and suffocating. here it’s peaceful, peaceful as you watch the water, letting the wind mess up your hair.

“oi, don’t do it.”

the voice comes from behind you, you turn your head to see a tall, white haired man practically shining under the deck lights, he has those round sunglasses hiding his eyes even at night.

actually it's some weird looking guy you’ve never seen before on this cruise.

“seriously,” he says, “if you’re gonna jump, at least wait till i’m not watching. i’d have to save you, and i just had my hair done. i heard salt water ruins it.”

you roll your eyes. “i’m not jumping, idiot. go bother someone else.”

suddenly he moves fast, long strides eating up the distance until he’s right beside you, one hand already reaching out like he’s about to grab your arm.

you step back instinctively. “what the hell-”

“easy,” he says, fingers brushing your wrist anyway as he gently but firmly pulls you back from the railing. “no need to play dramatic. i’ve seen this before. pretty girl alone at night on the edge? titanic is a classic but trust me, the water’s cold and the rescue boats are slow. not worth it.”

you yank your arm free, anger flashing hot in your chest. “i’m not jumping, you asshole! i was just looking at the ocean. who even are you?”

he leans casually against the railing, completely unbothered by your tone, that grin still sitting on his face. “gojo satoru,” he says, voice light and easy.

you stare at him for a second, the wind whipping between you two. he’s tall, obnoxiously so, annoyingly handsome in a way. he looks sure, way too sure of himself.

“whatever,” you mutter, turning away from him. “just leave me alone.”

before he can say anything else you push off the railing and start walking, heels clicking against the polished deck as you head back toward the interior lights. 

without looking back, he calls after you. “hey, you didn’t tell me your name!”

you keep walking.

˚⟡˖ ࣪

the next night the ship feels even more endless. dinner in the main dining hall had been the same parade of small talk and overpriced wine. you slip out after the dessert course, needing air again, needing something that doesn’t feel suffocating. the upper deck is quieter tonight, fewer people scattered around, the moon hanging low and bright over the water.

it’s beautiful like this.

you find a spot near the glass windbreak, leaning there with a drink in hand, watching the waves catch silver light. 

“there you are.”

you turn and it’s him again—the weird guy from yesterday.

gojo satoru, was it? he’s well dressed tonight, black button down open at the collar, sleeves rolled up. he stops a few feet away, hands in his pockets.

“didn’t think i’d run into railing girl again so soon,” he says, tilting his head. “still not jumping?”

you sigh, already irritated. “do you just wander around looking for people to annoy?”

“only the interesting ones.” he steps closer, stopping beside you but keeping a little space this time. “you never gave me your name last night. kinda rude, don’t ya think?”

you glance at him sideways. he’s watching you, waiting. part of you wants to walk away again. part of you is curious why this loud, pushy stranger keeps showing up.

you give your name finally, keeping your voice flat.

he repeats your name, like he’s testing how it sounds. “nice. suits you.” he leans on the railing next to you, looking out at the dark ocean. “so, what brings someone like you out here alone two nights in a row? the party inside not exciting enough?”

you take a slow sip of your drink, the ice clinking softly. “i mean… is sitting fun for you?”

satoru laughs under his breath. “touché, eh you know you could dance too.” he nods toward the distant thump of music drifting from the ballroom.

you flip him off without even looking at him, middle finger raised as you keep staring at the waves.

“tell you what. since you’re clearly dying of boredom and i’m clearly the most interesting thing on this floating thing, how about we make a deal?”

“deal?”

“yeah.” his voice turns playful. “tonight, you let me show you the parts of this ship that aren’t boring as hell. if you still hate me by sunrise, i’ll leave you alone for the rest of the cruise. scout’s honor.”

you eye satoru for a long moment. he’s definitely annoying, pushy, and way too full of himself. but what else are you going to do anyway? and the idea of another hour standing here alone suddenly feels worse than giving in.

“fine,” you say, finishing your drink and setting the glass down. “but if it sucks, i’m throwing you overboard myself.”

“i like my women aggressive.”

"i'm gonna jump you."

"sure, let's save that for later."

you don't even bother replying anymore knowing he'll only find a way to annoy you more, instead you follow him down narrow metal stairs, heels echoing too loud until he tells you to take them off. the air changes the lower you go. you get to the staff corridor, a doors marked “crew only,” and satoru just winks at you before pushing one open.

“you’re going to get us kicked off the ship,” you hiss as you slip inside after him.

“where’s the fun without a little risk?”

the area below is alive in a different way. massive laundry rooms with industrial machines rumbling, crew members moving quickly with carts and linens. further down you reach the tender boat deck, the section where the smaller rescue and excursion boats are stored and maintained. 

satoru pulls you behind a stack of heavy equipment crates, crouching low so the workers won’t spot you. 

“shh,” he whispers, way too close to your ear, breath tickling your skin. “watch.”

you peer around the crate. one of the lifeboats is being lowered slightly on its davits for inspection. it’s strangely mesmerizing, the raw mechanics of the ship that the passengers never see.

“this is what keeps us from sinking,” satoru adds, “while everyone upstairs is sipping champagne, these guys make sure we don’t become a real titanic.”

you elbow him lightly giggling. “you’re enjoying this way too much.”

“hiding with me is kinda fun, right?” his eyes flick to you, grin flashing.

“you wish.” 

“still no?” he pouts then tugs your wrist again. “come, there's one even better but you gotta stay quiet.”

you climb more stairs this time, slipping through another restricted door he somehow has access to (you don’t even ask how). the passage narrows until you reach a small external platform high up on the side of the ship—an unauthorized maintenance overlook, hidden behind vents and structural beams.

the view is insane: the entire side of the massive cruise ship dropping away below you, ocean stretching forever. it feels dangerous, the railing lower than it should be.

satoru sits on the edge of a metal beam like it’s nothing, legs dangling, patting the spot next to him.

“best view on the whole damn ship,” he says proudly. “no one comes up here except crew, and they’re all busy tonight. hey sit c'mon.”

you sit carefully, close enough that your thigh brushes his.

“you’re insane,” you tell him. “if we get caught-”

“we won’t and even if we do, i’ll just flash the gojo name.” he jokes as he leans back on his hands.

this cocky asshole.

“so? still planning to throw me overboard, or is this not completely terrible?”

you look out at the water, then at him. well he’s still pushy, still too loud and too sure of himself. but the night stopped feeling boring the second he showed up again.

“it’s not the worst,” you admit grudgingly. “i mean you’re not the worst i guess…” 

the two of you stay up there for hours. conversation flows easier than you expected. satoru is relentlessly talkative, words spilling out of him like he has been saving them up for weeks. jumping from one topic to another without pause, cracking jokes, asking rapid-fire questions, then answering them himself when you stay quiet.

you learn that he is twenty-three, only a couple years older than you. you also learn he comes from a super wealthy family that basically owns half the luxury lines in this part of the ocean. he travels constantly, never staying in one place long enough to get bored, but this particular cruise is supposed to be “lowkey” for him or his version of a break. he hates the stuffy formal dinners and the small talk with rich strangers even more than you do, which is why he spends most nights wandering the ship.

he loves sweets more than anything, has a ridiculous sweet tooth that makes him sneak extra desserts from the kitchens, and he is weirdly knowledgeable about stars. pointing out constellations overhead and telling half-true stories about them that make you laugh despite yourself.

but under all the cockiness and dramatic flair, there is something restless about him. you now think that satoru is kinda like the ocean itself… always moving, always looking for the next thrill. it’s what makes him so exciting.

˚⟡˖ ࣪

the next morning at the dining hall you walk in a little later than usual, still feeling the lack of sleep but oddly energized, scanning the room for an empty seat.

you spot him almost immediately.

satoru is already there, lounging at a table near the windows. he has a plate stacked high with pastries and fruit, one leg crossed casually over the other.

he notices you the second you enter. that signature grin spreads across his face as he raises a hand, waving you over without a shred of subtlety.

“morning!” he calls out, voice carrying enough to turn a few heads. “saved you a seat and half a croissant so don’t say i never did anything nice for you.”

you couldn’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips as you make your way over, sliding into the chair across from him.

“still not tired of me?” you ask, picking up the croissant he has pushed toward you.

satoru leans forward, chin resting on his hand, sunglasses slipping down just enough for you to catch a glimpse of those bright blue eyes.

“tired? after last night? nah. you’re officially the most interesting person on this oversized bathtub.” he pops a piece of fruit into his mouth, chewing with exaggerated satisfaction. “besides, we’ve got a whole day ahead. what do you say we ditch the scheduled shore excursion and find our own trouble instead?”

“i’d like that.”

“wha–really?” satoru blinks, he did not expect you to agree so easily. he leans back in his chair, looking ridiculously pleased with himself. “well damn, okay. let’s go after breakfast then.”

after breakfast you both slip away before anyone can rope you into the scheduled activities. the day unfolds slow under the bright sun. you wander the ship together, exploring the quieter corners you couldn’t last night.

at one point you end up by the pool area. satoru is standing near the edge, still running his mouth about some nonsense, when you get an idea. you step closer, pretending to listen just to then give him a firm shove with both hands right in the chest.

he lets out a surprised yelp as he loses balance and tumbles backward into the pool with a loud splash. water sprays everywhere. a second later his head pops up, white hair plastered to his forehead, sunglasses askew, looking comically shocked.

“you little-” he laughs, wiping water from his face. before you can step back he reaches up, grabs your wrist, and yanks you in with him.

“sator–!”

you hit the water with a shriek, when you surface you are both laughing, completely soaked, your dress clinging to your body and his shirt transparent against his skin.

“payback,” he says, eyes sparkling with mischief.

the rest of the day passes in a blur of easy company. you stay wet for a while, drying slowly in the sun while sharing drinks and snacks from the poolside bar. you talk more, tease each other constantly, and somehow never run out of things to say. he keeps finding new ways to make you laugh, and you find yourself enjoying his energy more than you want to admit.

by late afternoon the sun has dried most of the water from your clothes, but you still feel sticky and damp. satoru notices you tugging at your clothes uncomfortably.

“come on,” he says, tilting his head toward the higher decks. “my suite has a proper shower. we can wash off properly before dinner… or whatever.”

his room is ridiculously luxurious compared to yours with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the sea, a massive bed, and a bathroom bigger than some cabins. he tosses you a soft towel and points you toward the shower first.

you rinse off quickly, changing into one of his oversized button-down shirts he offers you while your dress dries. when you step out he takes his turn, emerging a few minutes later.

satoru stands there, water still tracing slow paths down the defined lines of his chest and abs, the towel hanging dangerously low on his hips. his white hair is damp and messy, a few strands sticking to his forehead. those bright blue eyes lock onto you, no longer hidden behind sunglasses. something about him suddenly feels different.

you feel it in yourself too. the way his shirt drapes over your bare thighs, the hem brushing just below your ass, makes you hyper-aware of how little you’re wearing underneath.

he steps closer until he’s only a foot away. “you look good in my shirt,” he says, his fingers graze the collar lightly. “better than i do, honestly.”

you swallow trying to keep your voice steady. “flattery won’t get you everywhere, gojo.”

“satoru,” he corrects softly. “and i think it already is.”

before the space between you shrinks, “my necklace,” you say suddenly. you had taken it off before showering and left it on the bathroom counter. “can you… put it back on for me?”

satoru’s lips curve into a small smile. “yeah? come here.”

he follows you to the counter where the chain rests. you turn your back to him, lifting your hair with one hand to expose the nape of your neck. 

he steps in close, chest nearly brushing your back. the cool metal of the chain touches your skin first, then his warm fingers as he carefully clasps it at the back of your neck. his breath ghosts over your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

“there,” he whispers but he doesn’t step back. instead, his hands settle on your waist, thumbs stroking slow circles over the fabric. “looks perfect on you.”

you lean back into him just slightly, feeling the hard plane of his chest against your shoulders. the towel slips a little lower on his hips. 

“satoru…” 

he turns you around slowly to face him, one hand cupping your jaw as he tilts your chin up. his thumb brushes your lower lip. “tell me to stop and i will,” he says, eyes searching yours. “but i wan– i need you so bad, baby..”

you don’t tell him to stop.

instead, you rise up on your toes and kiss him.

satoru kisses you back instantly, his tongue sliding straight into your mouth without hesitation. his tongue curling against yours, tasting you like he has been waiting all day for this. one of his hands stays on your jaw while the other grips your waist tighter, pulling your body flush against his.

he tilts his head, deepening the kiss even more, the wet sounds of your mouths moving together.

his hands slide down your body, gripping the hem of the oversized shirt you’re wearing. he tugs it upward slowly, fingers brushing the bare skin of your thighs as he breaks the kiss just enough to pull the fabric over your head. the air makes your nipples harden instantly. you’re completely bare now except for the necklace he just fastened.

“fuck… look at you,” he leans down, mouth latching onto one of your breasts, tongue swirling around the sensitive peak while his hand kneads the other. you moan softly, fingers threading into his hair as he sucks and licks you.

he walks you backward until the back of your thighs hit the edge of the massive bed. you fall onto the soft mattress together, satoru hovering over you, towel finally slipping off his hips. his cock is already hard, pressing against your thigh as he settles between your legs. he kisses you again, just as messy and desperate like the last one.

his fingers find your pussy, sliding through your folds to discover how wet you already are. “so the feelings freaking mutual eh,” he groans against your mouth, circling your clit with two fingers before dipping one inside you. you arch into his touch, gasping as he adds a second finger, pumping them slowly while his thumb rubs tight circles over your clit. the stretch feels good, but it’s not enough. 

you need more.

“satoru… oh god please,” you breathe.

he chuckles as he pulls his fingers out and lines himself up, rubbing the head of his cock along your slick entrance. “you want it, baby? want me to fuck you?”

you nod quickly, nails digging into his shoulders. “yes—god, yes.”

satoru pushes in slow, stretching you open around his thick length. the feeling is wild, a perfect mix of pleasure and slight burn that makes you moan loudly. when he bottoms out, he pauses letting you adjust while he buries his face in your neck, breathing hard.

“you feel perfect,” he whispers. “i mean it. you’re fucking perfect.”

then he starts to move, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in. he continuously hits that spot deep inside you every time. the pace gradually builds leading to him hooking one of your legs over his arm, opening you up more so he can fuck you better.

his mouth finds yours again, tongue plunging in time with his thrusts.

“that’s it… fuck yes,” he growls, voice husky against your ear. “wanna feel you squeezing me when you cum.”

“satoru… toru, i f-feel it…shit!”

the words send you over the edge. so much that your orgasm crashes through you, walls clenching around him as you cry out. he flips you over suddenly, pulling you up onto your hands and knees. his hands grip your hips as he slides back inside you from behind, the new position making you moan even louder. he begins to thrusts, one hand reaching around to play with your clit again while the other tangles in your hair, tugging your head back gently so he can kiss and bite along your neck and shoulder.

“you’re mine tonight,” he pants. “gonna fill you up so good.”

“can i do that baby? am i allowed to?”

“yes, yes please.”

you push back against him, another orgasm building fast from the overwhelming pleasure. when it hits, your whole body shakes as you moan his name over and over. satoru follows right after, burying himself deep as he cums, filling you with hot spurts.

he collapses beside you, pulling you into his chest, both of you breathing hard. his fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin as he presses soft kisses to your temple.

“stay with me tonight,” he whispers against your hair. “okay?”

˚⟡˖ ࣪

the final night of the cruise arrives faster than either of you want. the days blended together into stolen kisses in hidden corners, late nights tangled in satoru’s massive bed, lazy afternoons laughing by the pool. truly the best days of your life.

the ship has felt smaller with him in it, warmer, brighter.

he makes everything feel light.

but now something is wrong.

the alarms start blaring just after sunset. piercing sirens cut through the music and chatter in the grand ballroom. the lights flicker once, twice, then dim to emergency red. the deck beneath your feet suddenly feels unsteady, a low groaning sound vibrating up from the hull.

people freeze for a split second before chaos erupts.

screams echo across the dining halls and corridors. passengers shove past each other, eyes wide with panic as they rush toward the lifeboat stations. a woman in a glittering gown trips over her heels and nearly gets trampled. crew members shout instructions over the intercom, their voices strained and overlapping: “remain calm. proceed to your assigned muster stations. this is not a drill.”

you and satoru are on the upper promenade deck when it happens. one moment you’re leaning against the railing together, his arm draped loosely around your waist while he teases you about stealing one last dessert from the kitchen, and the next the ship lurches hard to starboard. glasses and plates crash somewhere inside. 

“what the hell-” you start, gripping the railing tighter.

satoru’s playful expression vanishes instantly. his hand tightens on your waist, pulling you closer as people begin pouring out onto the decks in droves. a man nearby is yelling into his phone, voice cracking. “we’re sinking! tell them we’re sinking!” a group of older passengers huddle together, one of them crying openly while another frantically reads the lifeboat instructions printed on a nearby sign.

the ship groans again, a loud sound that sends ice down your spine. lights on the lower decks start going out one by one. you see a few people directing the flow of panicked guests toward the lifeboats, but the crowd is too thick and terrified. someone bumps hard into your shoulder, nearly knocking you off balance. satoru steadies you immediately, his body shielding yours from the surge of bodies.

“hey, stay with me,” he says. his bright blue eyes scan the chaos around you, calculating.

you can see the fear rippling through everyone—rich socialites who spent the week bragging about their wealth now clawing for space near the lifeboats, crew members pale-faced as they work the davits.

satoru’s fingers lace tightly through yours. “we’re getting to a lifeboat together. don’t ever fucking let go.”

“i’m so scared,” you start panicking as tears appear in your eyes. “toru, i’m scared.”

“i know, baby. i know,” he says, voice steady even as the ship tilts further and another alarm blares overhead. “but i’ve got you, nothing's ever gonna happen to you."

satoru’s grip on your hand is iron-tight as he pulls you through the surging crowd, his tall frame cutting a path like a shield. people shove and scream around you, he never lets go, elbowing past frantic passengers with a single-minded focus.

“come on, baby, keep moving,” he says. his free arm wraps around your waist, steadying you as the deck tilts another few degrees.

he guides you toward the starboard lifeboat station where the crew is loading women and children first, orange-vested officers shouting orders over the panic. a lifeboat is already swinging out on its davits, half-full and lowering slowly. women clutch children, some sobbing, others silent with shock.

satoru shoulders his way to the front, pulling you right up to the railing where crew members are helping people over.

“her first!” he barks at the nearest officer, already lifting you toward the gap. “she’s getting on this one now.”

you plant your feet hard, fingers digging into his shirt as terror and refusal surge through you.

 “no. satoru—no stop!”

he freezes, blue eyes snapping to yours, bright even in the red emergency glow. the ship lurches again, sending a fresh wave of screams rippling through the crowd.

“i’m not leaving without you,” you say fiercely, voice cracking but determined. your hands twist tighter into his shirt, refusing to release him. “i won’t. if you stay, i stay. don’t you dare—”

his expression shifts, desperation flashing across his face. he cups your cheeks with both hands, thumbs brushing your skin as the wind whips your hair wildly between you.

“baby, listen to me,” he says urgently, forehead pressing to yours. “they’re boarding women and kids first. i’ll get on the next one, i swear. i’ll find you. nothing’s keeping me from you.”

you shake your head, tears spilling hot down your cheeks. “i don’t care about the rules. i’m not letting go of you.” your arms lock around his neck, body pressing flush against his as the deck tilts further. “please, satoru… don’t make me.”

you continue pleading, "i just learned how to be happy—please don't let me go."

he exhales sharply, eyes searching yours then he curses under his breath and crashes his mouth against yours.

the kiss is hard. his lips claim yours like it might be the last time, tongue sliding deep and hungry, tasting salt from your tears. one of his hands fists in your hair, the other grips your waist hard enough to bruise as he pulls you impossibly closer. you kiss him back just as fiercely, pouring everything into it.

you think about everything. the way he made this whole floating world feel alive. your fingers tangle in his white hair, tugging, clinging, refusing to release even an inch.

but the crew doesn’t wait. strong hands grab your arms from behind, prying you away from him as the lifeboat rocks dangerously below. you scream his name, thrashing against their hold.

“satoru!” you cry out as they lift you over the railing.

he reaches for you one last time, fingers brushing yours, but the gap widens. his bright blue eyes stay locked on yours, wide and broken.

“go,” he yells, voice breaking over the chaos. “get on the boat, baby. i’ll be right behind you, i promise—just go!”

you fight them the whole way down, arms stretched back toward him even as they lower you into the lifeboat. the last thing you see before the craft hits the dark water is satoru standing at the railing, white hair whipping in the wind, watching you drift away while the ship sinks deeper behind him. he stays there, unmoving, as the crowd surges around him and the distance between you grows wider and colder.

˚⟡˖ 

“wait, that’s it? does he die? no freakin’ way.”

satoru leans back against the headboard as he looks down at your daughter curled up under the blankets, eyes wide with disbelief.

“well…” he says dramatically, voice dropping like he’s revealing the world’s biggest secret, “the ship kept sinking, the water was freezing, and chaos was everywhere. the guy stayed right there at the railing, watching the love of his life float away in that little lifeboat. he didn’t get on the next one. he never made it off.”

your daughter gasps, clutching her stuffed animal tighter. “but that’s so sad daddy! he has to survive! tell me he swims to her!”

you stand in the doorway, watching the two of them with a fond smile. you step into the room and ruffle your daughter’s hair gently.

“alright you two, that’s enough storytelling for tonight. it’s bedtime.”

she whines immediately. “but mommy, i need to know what happens to the white-haired guy!”

“he’ll be fine. it’s just a story,” you say, shooting satoru a pointed look. you lean down and kiss her forehead, tucking the blanket up to her chin. “now close your eyes, baby. sweet dreams.”

once she’s settled and the nightlight is on, you grab satoru’s hand and pull him out of the bedroom with you, closing the door softly behind you both.

in the hallway you turn to him, poking his chest with one finger.

“satoru, you have got to stop making up the last part like it’s the titanic. every single time you tell her that story you make it tragic. she’s six. she doesn’t need to hear about the guy getting left behind to drown. give her a happy ending next time.”

“what? you liked titanic!” he whines as he catches your wrist before you can poke him again.

you open your mouth to argue but he’s already leaning in, stealing a quick kiss from your lips. you try to pull back but he follows, stealing another one, then another.

“satoru—” you start.

“we could’ve been jack and rose,” he murmurs against your mouth.

“then we actually wouldn’t be here, genius.”

“the better jack and rose then?” he says playfully, he steals one more slow kiss, his hand sliding to your waist to pull you closer.

happy freaking april fools. © splurtz 2026 — all rights reserved.

[pokemon]

Manifesting a great 2026 for you. You got this!

[heartkaji]

nerdjo’s a fool for his pretty, high maintenance girlfriend.

I. PRINCESS MELTDOWN #107 : “BUT TORU, I DON’T GET IT..”

11:57 am location: SC/MATH 3020 (Vari Hall, Room B)

you’re supposed to be solving laplace equations. instead, you’re sending satoru doodles of you pregnant with his child.

satoru gojo is jacques marie mage glasses & messy blanche hair & forearms thicker than his head. he should be studying—god, he should be, but his pretty girl is texting him mid-lecture & satoru’s something of a fool for you so he foolishly decides, who is he not to reply ?

and his replies are earnest. always earnest. too punctuated, too grammatically correct.

toruu : You’re the cutest girl in the world.

toruu : Pay attention, okay?

his first message makes your heart swelter & bloom. the second makes it drop to your ass.

but satoru gojo is honey mouthed & heart-achingly sweet. and when your boyfriend asks you to focus so sweetly, how could you not obey?

so you open your notebook & close it right back.

you : toru i tried :( i don’t get ittttrt

toruu : Send me the question.

and you do. along with a selfie of your cute pout, of course. satoru’s reply comes in in an instant:

toruu : Gorgeous girl.

toruu : Okay, try isolating the variable first.

you do as he says. satoru’s instructions always come easy-sweet. sugar coated & simplified like he’s talking to the softest girl in the world. & perhaps he is.

toruu : Good. Now distribute.

toruu : Yes. That’s it. Keep going.

toruu : That’s perfect, baby. My smart girl.

your cheeks grow mushy & sticky & heart-wrenchingly soft.

satoru gojo is going to be the death of you.

II. PRINCESS MELTDOWN #126 : LOVER BOYS DON’T IGNORE THEIR GIRLFRIENDS !

time : 1:48 pm. location: york lanes ( indoor mall )

“satoru hasn’t texted me in fifteen minutes.”

“they faces killing me why nobody give a fuck.”

you ignore shoko & her bitter response. you’d rather die than argue with a bitch & her bad bob. you lean to rest your head on suguru’s shoulder, who’s much more empathetic & strokes your hair lovingly.

“isn’t he tutoring right now?”

and he is. somewhere across campus, in a cramped corner of the scott library, gojo satoru is bleary-eyed & suffering.

he’s supposed to be explaining calculus to confused first year yuuji itadori. but his phone, face-up & gleam-screened on the mahogany table, hums and vibrates with desperation.

1 new message: princess 🧸💗 1 new message: princess 🧸💗 1 new message: princess 🧸💗

satoru’s jaw is tight. there’s crescent shaped crevices in his palms & his knuckles rouse rash red. his focus flickers. he catches a glimpse of your latest message: the preview of a selfie, that low adorable angle where you’re peering at your phone from under your lashes & your lips jut out in a ‘where are youuu’ pout.

fuck.

“uhh, gojo?” yuuji’s biting his pencil again before he points it at the vibrating device. “aren’t you gonna answer that..? i dunno, it looks important.”

it is important. it’s you. but if satoru answers now, poor yuuji’s paid tutoring session would immediately be over.

“it’s fine, yuuji. let’s focus on finding the derivative.”

and it is fine. because gojo satoru is a man of logic. a man of discipline. a man of pa—

princess 🧸💗: i always knew you’d get tired of me one day

princess 🧸💗: it’s okay. thank you for everything toru 👍

gojo satoru grabs the phone faster than you can say go pandas! his thumbs fly over the screen, ever precise, ever trembling.

toruu: Baby, please don’t say that.

toruu: I’m almost done. I’ll be with you in ten minutes. I’ll buy you that Drake meal you wanted.

toruu: I love you. Please wait for me?

back at the mall you’re reading his text. and god, your heart bubbles up like soda pop. “he’s coming,” you murmur into suguru’s shoulder, scrolling past his text without a reply.

“great!” shoko cheers with fake enthusiasm, taking a puff of her vape (suguru’s complaining that the pineapple & kiwi she blows make his poutine taste sour-ish, & she shouldn’t be vaping anyway, but guess what? shoko doesn’t care!)

“now can we stop acting like it’s the summer hikaru died?”

“no.”

instagram’s algorithm is always on your side. you’ve opened the reels tab to find a video of a rainy window, a quote captioned over it: ‘if he wanted to, he would. silence is a choice.’ simple. short. effective.

you add it to your story. suguru catches a glimpse of your screen & chuckles.

“y/n,” he sings your name, tutting. “you’re gonna give the boy a heart attack before he even hits the common area.”

“he deserves it.”

satoru gojo has already viewed your story. he shows up within the next five minutes.

III. PRINCESS MELTDOWN #167: BABY, I’M BORED.

time : 3:58 pm. location: science & engineering building

there’s solution bubbling pink in a flask. in lab four, the air’s sticky with the sweat of too many boys with glasses & a half-drunk energy drink rotting in the corner.

gojo satoru is huddled over a circuit board with two other boys who look like they haven’t seen sunlight in days.

nerd #1 points at the monitor : “if we adjust the frequency here,” he’s muttering, “the entire wave function collapses. it’s an impossible solve, gojo.”

“it’s not impossible. you’re just missing the constant.”

gojo satoru is the god of lab four; formulas on his fingers & equations on his tongue. he’s leaning over now, fingers on the screen when the heavy steel door swings open,

“hi, toru!”

you’re all soft perfume & clicky heels & smile as sweet as sugar. satoru’s head snaps up instantly—his glasses slip down his nose, & he flicks them back upward, eyes glimmering in the fluorescent light.

“hi sweetheart,” he breathes, “you’re here early.”

the other nerds are staring now, and for good reason. how did gojo satoru—who’s paperbacks & friday nights spent bent over research papers—pull a pretty thing like you ?

“are you doing science ?” you’re already across the room, arms around his neck as his palms press you flush against him from the side. your perfume’s sticky in his lungs. “why’s that line so squiggly? you guys should make it straight. it’d be much prettier.”

nerd #4 winces. “actually, that’s a representation of—“

“you’re right, baby. it would look prettier. have a seat, okay?”

you hum an okay! & plop yourself down on his lap. nerd number 3 & 2 exchange glances. nerd #1 asks, god, me when ?

the group discussion starts up again. satoru is half-science half-yours—his thumb traces circles on your thigh as your feet kick in his lap, & you’re asking one too many questions while satoru tries—tries to pay attention.

“toru, what does this button do?”

“that’s the power supply, baby. please don’t touch it.”

“but it’s glowing. can you make it glow pink ? i think it should glow pink.”

“noted. you’re squirming, princess.”

and you are. nerd #4 wonders how you’re still balanced. the discussion continues but you’re a constant background noise of ‘toru, look at this tiktok’, and ‘baby, i think the lighting’s washing me out.’ you try to touch a wire. gojo catches your hand mid-air & cups it with a kiss.

you flop against his chest. “satoru, i’m bored.”

& satoru is tired. exhausted, really. he’s fighting the rash creeping up his neck as nerds one to four watch you pout in his lap like a spoiled child. “i want matcha. can we go get some?”

you can’t. because this is a project due in twelve hours. because satoru has only so much time to lock in—

“alright, let’s go.”

nerd #3 is distraught: “huh—?! gojo, you can’t leave now, we’re in the middle of a breakthrough!”

satoru doesn’t even look around. he’s smoothing your skirt after you hop off his lap, your bag already slung over his shoulder. he’s leading you out by the hand; “sorry guys. i’ll send my solution to the group chat. brief me on the updates later?”

the door swings shut. nerds one to four are in awe.

“holy hades. what just happened?”

“may God protect them from my jealousy.”

“wallahi i need a bad bitch on my lap.”

“you can’t say that, man. it’s ramadan.”

# UNIKAISEN

princess meltdowns , end.

© HEARTKAJI. do not steal, copy, edit, translate or reupload

[heartkaji]

nerdjo’s a fool for his pretty, high maintenance girlfriend.

I. PRINCESS MELTDOWN #107 : “BUT TORU, I DON’T GET IT..”

11:57 am location: SC/MATH 3020 (Vari Hall, Room B)

you’re supposed to be solving laplace equations. instead, you’re sending satoru doodles of you pregnant with his child.

satoru gojo is jacques marie mage glasses & messy blanche hair & forearms thicker than his head. he should be studying—god, he should be, but his pretty girl is texting him mid-lecture & satoru’s something of a fool for you so he foolishly decides, who is he not to reply ?

and his replies are earnest. always earnest. too punctuated, too grammatically correct.

toruu : You’re the cutest girl in the world.

toruu : Pay attention, okay?

his first message makes your heart swelter & bloom. the second makes it drop to your ass.

but satoru gojo is honey mouthed & heart-achingly sweet. and when your boyfriend asks you to focus so sweetly, how could you not obey?

so you open your notebook & close it right back.

you : toru i tried :( i don’t get ittttrt

toruu : Send me the question.

and you do. along with a selfie of your cute pout, of course. satoru’s reply comes in in an instant:

toruu : Gorgeous girl.

toruu : Okay, try isolating the variable first.

you do as he says. satoru’s instructions always come easy-sweet. sugar coated & simplified like he’s talking to the softest girl in the world. & perhaps he is.

toruu : Good. Now distribute.

toruu : Yes. That’s it. Keep going.

toruu : That’s perfect, baby. My smart girl.

your cheeks grow mushy & sticky & heart-wrenchingly soft.

satoru gojo is going to be the death of you.

II. PRINCESS MELTDOWN #126 : LOVER BOYS DON’T IGNORE THEIR GIRLFRIENDS !

time : 1:48 pm. location: york lanes ( indoor mall )

“satoru hasn’t texted me in fifteen minutes.”

“they faces killing me why nobody give a fuck.”

you ignore shoko & her bitter response. you’d rather die than argue with a bitch & her bad bob. you lean to rest your head on suguru’s shoulder, who’s much more empathetic & strokes your hair lovingly.

“isn’t he tutoring right now?”

and he is. somewhere across campus, in a cramped corner of the scott library, gojo satoru is bleary-eyed & suffering.

he’s supposed to be explaining calculus to confused first year yuuji itadori. but his phone, face-up & gleam-screened on the mahogany table, hums and vibrates with desperation.

1 new message: princess 🧸💗 1 new message: princess 🧸💗 1 new message: princess 🧸💗

satoru’s jaw is tight. there’s crescent shaped crevices in his palms & his knuckles rouse rash red. his focus flickers. he catches a glimpse of your latest message: the preview of a selfie, that low adorable angle where you’re peering at your phone from under your lashes & your lips jut out in a ‘where are youuu’ pout.

fuck.

“uhh, gojo?” yuuji’s biting his pencil again before he points it at the vibrating device. “aren’t you gonna answer that..? i dunno, it looks important.”

it is important. it’s you. but if satoru answers now, poor yuuji’s paid tutoring session would immediately be over.

“it’s fine, yuuji. let’s focus on finding the derivative.”

and it is fine. because gojo satoru is a man of logic. a man of discipline. a man of pa—

princess 🧸💗: i always knew you’d get tired of me one day

princess 🧸💗: it’s okay. thank you for everything toru 👍

gojo satoru grabs the phone faster than you can say go pandas! his thumbs fly over the screen, ever precise, ever trembling.

toruu: Baby, please don’t say that.

toruu: I’m almost done. I’ll be with you in ten minutes. I’ll buy you that Drake meal you wanted.

toruu: I love you. Please wait for me?

back at the mall you’re reading his text. and god, your heart bubbles up like soda pop. “he’s coming,” you murmur into suguru’s shoulder, scrolling past his text without a reply.

“great!” shoko cheers with fake enthusiasm, taking a puff of her vape (suguru’s complaining that the pineapple & kiwi she blows make his poutine taste sour-ish, & she shouldn’t be vaping anyway, but guess what? shoko doesn’t care!)

“now can we stop acting like it’s the summer hikaru died?”

“no.”

instagram’s algorithm is always on your side. you’ve opened the reels tab to find a video of a rainy window, a quote captioned over it: ‘if he wanted to, he would. silence is a choice.’ simple. short. effective.

you add it to your story. suguru catches a glimpse of your screen & chuckles.

“y/n,” he sings your name, tutting. “you’re gonna give the boy a heart attack before he even hits the common area.”

“he deserves it.”

satoru gojo has already viewed your story. he shows up within the next five minutes.

III. PRINCESS MELTDOWN #167: BABY, I’M BORED.

time : 3:58 pm. location: science & engineering building

there’s solution bubbling pink in a flask. in lab four, the air’s sticky with the sweat of too many boys with glasses & a half-drunk energy drink rotting in the corner.

gojo satoru is huddled over a circuit board with two other boys who look like they haven’t seen sunlight in days.

nerd #1 points at the monitor : “if we adjust the frequency here,” he’s muttering, “the entire wave function collapses. it’s an impossible solve, gojo.”

“it’s not impossible. you’re just missing the constant.”

gojo satoru is the god of lab four; formulas on his fingers & equations on his tongue. he’s leaning over now, fingers on the screen when the heavy steel door swings open,

“hi, toru!”

you’re all soft perfume & clicky heels & smile as sweet as sugar. satoru’s head snaps up instantly—his glasses slip down his nose, & he flicks them back upward, eyes glimmering in the fluorescent light.

“hi sweetheart,” he breathes, “you’re here early.”

the other nerds are staring now, and for good reason. how did gojo satoru—who’s paperbacks & friday nights spent bent over research papers—pull a pretty thing like you ?

“are you doing science ?” you’re already across the room, arms around his neck as his palms press you flush against him from the side. your perfume’s sticky in his lungs. “why’s that line so squiggly? you guys should make it straight. it’d be much prettier.”

nerd #4 winces. “actually, that’s a representation of—“

“you’re right, baby. it would look prettier. have a seat, okay?”

you hum an okay! & plop yourself down on his lap. nerd number 3 & 2 exchange glances. nerd #1 asks, god, me when ?

the group discussion starts up again. satoru is half-science half-yours—his thumb traces circles on your thigh as your feet kick in his lap, & you’re asking one too many questions while satoru tries—tries to pay attention.

“toru, what does this button do?”

“that’s the power supply, baby. please don’t touch it.”

“but it’s glowing. can you make it glow pink ? i think it should glow pink.”

“noted. you’re squirming, princess.”

and you are. nerd #4 wonders how you’re still balanced. the discussion continues but you’re a constant background noise of ‘toru, look at this tiktok’, and ‘baby, i think the lighting’s washing me out.’ you try to touch a wire. gojo catches your hand mid-air & cups it with a kiss.

you flop against his chest. “satoru, i’m bored.”

& satoru is tired. exhausted, really. he’s fighting the rash creeping up his neck as nerds one to four watch you pout in his lap like a spoiled child. “i want matcha. can we go get some?”

you can’t. because this is a project due in twelve hours. because satoru has only so much time to lock in—

“alright, let’s go.”

nerd #3 is distraught: “huh—?! gojo, you can’t leave now, we’re in the middle of a breakthrough!”

satoru doesn’t even look around. he’s smoothing your skirt after you hop off his lap, your bag already slung over his shoulder. he’s leading you out by the hand; “sorry guys. i’ll send my solution to the group chat. brief me on the updates later?”

the door swings shut. nerds one to four are in awe.

“holy hades. what just happened?”

“may God protect them from my jealousy.”

“wallahi i need a bad bitch on my lap.”

“you can’t say that, man. it’s ramadan.”

# UNIKAISEN

princess meltdowns , end.

© HEARTKAJI. do not steal, copy, edit, translate or reupload

[nizhspo]

pairing: satoru gojo x f!reader

content: 18+, husband!satoru, public sex, in which wine tasting does not go as planned.

nice, france had felt like a city that never stopped presenting itself, every street arranged as if it expected to be looked at, remembered, and misremembered later with longing; a city designed to seduce people slowly, the kind of place that did not announce itself all at once but instead unfolded in layers of heat and color and movement.

the mediterranean sat just beyond the curve of the promenade, blindingly blue under a sun that seemed intent on pressing itself into every exposed surface, stone and skin alike. buildings leaned close together in warm pastels, shutters thrown open, laundry lines sagging lazily above narrow streets that smelled faintly of citrus peel, salt, and something floral you could not quite name. 

the air stuck to you, heavy and intimate, as if the city expected to be touched back.

the streets were crowded in a way that felt unhurried rather than chaotic, tourists drifting by in linen and sunglasses, sunburnt shoulders already peeling, cameras dangling uselessly now that the light was too bright to frame properly. locals moved through them with practiced ease, darker clothes despite the heat, cigarette smoke curling from between fingers, conversations spilling out in quick, musical bursts. 

everyone seemed loose, slightly undone by the weather, the heat softening sharp edges and blurring the line between leisure and excess.

the wine tour gathered just outside the city’s tighter arteries, where the pavement gave way to gravel and low stone walls and rows of vines stretching obediently toward the horizon. the sun beat down without mercy here, no buildings tall enough to offer shade, only wide sky and the low hum of insects drunk on warmth. glasses clinked faintly as people shifted their weight, already anticipating relief in the form of alcohol despite the hour.

your guide, suguru geto, was a man truly in love with his craft, which you and your husband, satoru gojo, had deduced very early in the tour, somewhere around the thirty minute mark of him describing the same wine’s flavor palette yet again, listing it as “stone fruit forward, gently tannic, mineral-driven, with a restrained oak finish and a lingering acidity meant to evoke sun-warmed limestone.”

whatever the hell that meant.

he stood at the front with an ease that suggested he had done this countless times, tall and composed, dark hair pulled back neatly at the nape of his neck, a few loose strands already clinging to his temple from the heat. 

he spoke with his hands occasionally, long fingers tracing shapes in the air as he launched into a lecture that was clearly dear to him, about soil composition and regional history and the way sunlight altered sugar levels in grapes over decades, not seasons.

he also talked about how one should let the wine sit on the tongue and breathe, how tasting was less about swallowing and more about listening. 

his explanations were meticulous, almost reverent, each sentence stacking carefully on the last, as if he were constructing an argument only the most attentive listener could fully appreciate, and every so often, he smiled faintly, the kind of restrained smile that suggested private amusement at how few people were actually following him.

around you, people nodded earnestly, murmured approval, lifting their glasses to the light as instructed. the sun continued to press down, the heat blooming across your skin, and somewhere between suguru’s third extended monologue about tannins and his fourth mention of terroir, the wine began to blur into sameness, each sip warm and sharp and vaguely sweet. the city of nice lingered just beyond the vines, shimmering in the distance, watching patiently as everyone grew a little looser under its gaze.

“god, does this guy wanna fuck the wine or something?” satoru, your husband, whispered, leaning in far too close, his breath warm and sweet with alcohol, the brim of the stupid floppy straw hat he had insisted on buying brushing your temple as he did. 

the thing screamed tourist in the most aggressive way possible, wide and misshapen and already darkened with sweat, paired with a loose linen button down he had left irresponsibly open at the chest and shorts that wrinkled every time he shifted his weight. 

his skin had gone a shade too dark too fast, tan pulled tight over shoulders that were now peeling in thin, irritated sheets, the aftermath of him waving you off on day one of your vacation when you told him to put sunscreen on, laughing and saying he would be fine, he always was. 

in his process of gossiping about your tour guide, he almost knocked over his glass of pale pink rosé de provence in the process, the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim as you shot him a sharp look, fighting the way laughter climbed up your throat anyway.

you tilted your head just enough to murmur back, lips pressed together in a doomed attempt at composure. 

“satoru, behave,” you said, the words clipped but ruined by the smile you could not quite swallow, teeth worrying briefly at your lower lip as you tried to regain control of your face.

suguru’s voice did not pause, still rolling on about acidity and balance and the emotional honesty of the grape, but his eyes flicked toward the two of you, dark and unimpressed, the slightest tightening at the corner of his mouth betraying his irritation. it was the look of a man delivering what he clearly considered the lecture of his life, offended by the idea that anyone might treat it as background noise. 

satoru noticed, of course, because he always did, and his shoulders shook silently as he ducked his head, pressing his knuckles to his mouth like a scolded teenager, which only made it harder for you to keep a straight face under the relentless provençal sun. 

you lifted your glass again and took another long swig, absolutely not doing any of the swirling or pausing or contemplative breathing suguru had spent the last several minutes insisting upon, just drinking it like something cold and vaguely pleasant meant to go down easy, suguru’s eyes snapping to you immediately, sharp and disapproving, his jaw tightening as if he had personally been wronged by your refusal to respect the ritual.

satoru saw it and promptly lost what little composure he had left, a sharp snort escaping him as he turned his face into your shoulder, the brim of his hat dipping low as he shook with contained laughter. 

you shot him a warning look that went nowhere, because at that exact moment your stomach gave a traitorous little gurgle, loud enough that you felt it more than heard it, heat blooming low in your abdomen as you swallowed and blinked, suddenly reconsidering the wisdom of having started the day with nothing more substantial than a buttery croissant torn apart with your fingers and a café au lait sipped slowly in the shade, pretending it counted as real food.

the fuzzy sensation in the corner of your eyes was familiar in a way that made you almost nostalgic, the early, floating discomfort of alcohol hitting faster than expected, your body tipping backward into a version of yourself you had not inhabited in years. 

it felt uncomfortably similar to your early twenties, sneaking out to happy hour on a break you swore would be quick, coming back flushed and lightheaded and only vaguely aware of what your job had even been supposed to entail. 

you shifted your weight and exhaled through your nose, half amused and half wary, already aware that the tour was not even close to over, when suguru finally clapped his hands together once and announced, with thinly veiled satisfaction, that it was time for the next tasting. 

the group stirred immediately, fabric rustling and bags being slung over shoulders, the soft clatter of glass as people hurried to collect their things like obedient students released from a lecture hall.

you and satoru stood at the exact same moment and promptly bumped into each other, hips and elbows colliding in a way that would have been annoying under any other circumstances but instead sent you both into another quiet fit of laughter. 

you steadied yourself with a hand on his arm, looking up at him only to find his face already flushed from sun and wine, mouth tilted into that familiar, boyish grin that always appeared when he knew things were about to get mildly irresponsible. he looked at you like this was a private joke the two of you were in on, like the rest of the vineyard had faded slightly out of focus.

you followed after the group as they began to move, gravel crunching underfoot, the sun still beating down without apology, and a thought surfaced belatedly, unwelcome and obvious: you had not had more than a sip of alcohol in almost two years, not since shoko’s twenty-seventh birthday when you had sworn off drinking after a headache that lasted an entire weekend and a hangover that felt personal. 

you swallowed and adjusted your grip on your bag, a wry little smile tugging at your mouth as you wondered, not for the first time that day, whether choosing a wine tasting as your reintroduction to alcohol had been the greatest idea you and your husband had ever had.

the gravel crunched under your sandals, a dry, rhythmic sound that seemed to sync up with the persistent thrum of the cicadas. suguru geto moved through the streets of nice with a fluid, scholarly grace, holding his glass by the stem with a reverence usually reserved for religious relics, swirling the pale liquid until it caught the light like liquid topaz.

“notice the clarity,” suguru murmured, his voice a smooth baritone that drifted through the shimmering heat. “this vintage is a conversation between the limestone soil and the coastal breeze. on the nose, it is unapologetically whimsical, yet grounded by a certain melancholic dampness. as it hits the mid-palate, you’ll find notes of sun-bleached driftwood, bruised nectarines, and the brief, fleeting memory of a rainstorm in july. it’s a wine that doesn't just sit on the tongue; it yearns.”

beside you, satoru let out yet another sound that was supposed to be a thoughtful hum but came out more like a suppressed snort, his dark glasses hiding his eyes, but doing nothing to hide the way his shoulders were shaking.

he leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, his breath smelling dangerously like the three "tastings" you’d already finished—tastings that satoru had treated more like shots.

“melancholic dampness?” he whispered, his voice thick with a giggling vibration. “babe, it tastes like... wet rocks. it’s delicious, but it’s definitely just wet rocks and grapes.”

you tried to keep your face neutral, nodding sagely at suguru as if you were deeply contemplating the fleeting memory of a july rainstorm. 

“it’s the driftwood,” you whispered back out of the side of your mouth, your own head feeling light, the world tilting just a fraction to the left. “i definitely get the... the driftwood.”

“you wouldn’t know driftwood if it hit you in the face,” satoru teased, his hand sliding down to find yours, his fingers intertwining with yours and squeezing hard. he was swaying, just a little, the impeccable limitless-user appearing uncharacteristically dizzy. he turned his attention back to the guide, raising his glass with mock-seriousness. “excuse me, mr. geto? i’m picking up a very distinct note of... let’s say, optimistic tennis balls? is that the limestone?”

suguru paused, his gaze flickering toward satoru with the weary patience of a man who had dealt with rich tourists before, though by the look on his face it appeared he was considering smashing the nearest bottle against your husband's head. 

“it is likely the acidity, monsieur gojo. it can be... sharp for the uninitiated.”

satoru waited until suguru turned back to the vines before leaning his entire weight against your shoulder, nearly knocking you into a row of grenache grapes. 

“optimistic tennis balls,” he cackled into your neck, the sound muffled by your skin. “i’m a genius. tell me i’m a genius.”

“you’re an embarrassment,” you giggled, trying to shove him off, though your hands lingered on his waist a second too long. the heat of the sun was merging with the heat of the wine, creating a heavy, honey-like lethage in your limbs. “act sober, please. just for ten minutes. he’s looking at us.”

“i am acting sober,” satoru protested, standing up straighter and immediately tripping over a stray irrigation pipe. he caught himself, turning it into a weird, flamboyant lunging stretch. “see? athletic. sober people are athletic.”

“you look like a newborn giraffe,” you hissed, clutching your stomach as you tried to stifle your laughter.

as the group moved toward the cellar, a dark, cool mouth cut into the side of the stone hill, the transition from blinding white light to shadow landed on your skin like a physical weight. the temperature dropped instantly, goosebumps rising along your arms as damp air wrapped around you, heavy with the smell of fermenting fruit and old wood soaked through with decades of patience.

barrels loomed in uneven rows, the ceiling low enough that voices softened without anyone being asked to quiet down, the space insisting on intimacy all on its own.

satoru’s hands found your waist without hesitation, sliding around you and pulling you back into him as if it were instinct rather than choice, his palms warm through the thin fabric of your dress.

he held you there under the pretense of the chill, though you both knew he was almost never not touching you when given the opportunity, fingers settling easily into familiar territory. one hand drifted lower, slow and unhurried, rubbing along the curve of your hip and down the curve of your rear, thumb tracing idle circles like he had nowhere else to be.

you twisted just enough to shoot him a look over your shoulder, brows lifting in a warning that carried no real heat, only fond exasperation and a shared understanding of how ridiculous he was being. 

his grin widened anyway, unapologetic, eyes bright in the low light as if daring you to stop him. nobody was behind you, the rest of the group already filtering deeper into the cellar, distracted by suguru’s voice echoing faintly off stone. and honestly, you thought dimly, anyone who ushered a cluster of already tipsy couples into a dark, close, damp cave and called it a tasting experience had to expect them to act a little stupid about it.

still, ever the goody two shoes in the marriage and probably the only reason your husband had not been arrested yet for trying to fuck you in some random public place with terrible acoustics, you reached back and caught his hand, fingers lacing through his with practiced ease. 

you tugged him forward toward the rest of the group, murmuring his name under your breath in a tone that was half warning and half fond resignation. he let himself be pulled, stumbling just slightly as he followed you, the two of you out of sync for a step or two, laughter threatening to spill as your shoulders brushed and your balance wavered together.

by the time you rejoined the group, your cheeks were warm and your grip on his hand had not loosened, even as you tried to look attentive, like you were not already bracing yourself for how much worse this was going to get before the tour was over.

the cellar was a labyrinth of shadowed oak and dripping stone, the air so thick with the scent of aging alcohol it felt like you could get drunk just by breathing. suguru was currently gesturing toward a particularly massive barrel, his silhouette sharp against the dim amber glow of the wall sconces.

“this,” suguru said, his voice dropping into a register of pure, unadulterated worship, “is the heart of the estate. a vintage that has survived through upheaval and silence. it possesses a structural integrity that borders on the stubborn, with a finish that tastes like a secret kept for fifty years.”

satoru’s chest hit your back, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder. you could feel the heat radiating off him, a stark contrast to the subterranean chill. his hand, still laced with yours, gave a sharp, rhythmic squeeze.

“a secret kept for fifty years,” satoru mimicked in a breathy, high-pitched stage whisper. “is the secret that it’s actually just old grape juice? i bet it’s the grape juice.”

“satoru,” you breathed, your own voice trembling with the effort not to howl with laughter. the "structural integrity" of your own composure was failing rapidly. the wine was singing in your veins now, making your skin feel sensitive and the shadows feel like an invitation.

“i’m being serious,” he murmured, his nose sliding along the line of your jaw, his scruff scratching delightfully against your skin. “i can’t do the secret juice, babe. i’m gonna lose it. look at his face. he’s so... earnest.”

you followed his gaze despite yourself and immediately regretted it. suguru stood a few paces ahead, eyes fully closed now, glass lifted reverently to his lips as he inhaled the bouquet of the freshly poured sample like he was communing with something ancient and holy. his expression was serene to the point of parody, brow smooth, shoulders relaxed, mouth set with quiet devotion. 

it was too much. the cellar suddenly felt smaller, warmer despite the chill, the air thick with wine and reverence and the unbearable seriousness of it all.

you were still fighting the urge to laugh when suguru opened his eyes and began distributing the next tasting, moving down the line with careful precision, placing glasses into waiting hands. 

when he reached you, his fingers lingered for a fraction of a second too long on the stem, his gaze flicking between you and satoru before he straightened and checked his watch. his mouth tightened as he frowned at it, disappointment settling into his features.

“it appears we are running a bit behind schedule,” he said evenly, though the patience in his voice was thinning. “due to some late arrivals from members of our group earlier.”

his eyes slid back to the two of you pointedly, sharp and unmistakable, and this time there was no pretending it was not directed squarely at you. you felt it immediately, the subtle shift in the room as outlines sharpened, awareness snapping into place. 

people were looking, and not discreetly, either.

you and satoru exchanged a glance that said oh no in perfect unison, and then, because neither of you had ever been good at course correction once the embarrassment hit, you both lifted your glasses and chugged them outright, the wine warm and acidic and rushing too fast down your throat.

the silence afterward was deafening.

you lowered your empty glass and became acutely aware of the dozen or so sets of eyes on you, the faintly amused, faintly judgmental expressions of strangers who were now witnessing you and your husband looking every bit like two teenagers who had snuck into their parents’ liquor cabinet and immediately panicked. 

satoru wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, blinking innocently, cheeks flushed, shoulders already shaking with barely restrained laughter.

you swallowed and stared very hard at the stone wall ahead of you, suddenly aware of how long it had been since you had needed to pretend to be a capable adult who knew how to behave in public, and how spectacularly you were failing at it now.

the transition from the damp, judgmental silence of the cellar back into the open air felt like stepping into a furnace. the group had migrated to a sprawling stone terrace that seemed to hover precariously over the edge of a cliff, offering a panoramic view of the promenade des anglais below. 

from this height, the mediterranean was a sheet of hammered silver, and the city of nice looked like a toy town made of marzipan and sun-bleached terracotta.

suguru, ever the professional despite the clear disdain he now held for your husband’s existence, stood at the edge of the terrace. the wind caught his dark hair, tugging a few strands loose as he gestured toward the horizon.

"one of our last tastes conclude today with the grande réserve," suguru announced, his voice competing with the distant rush of the sea. "this is a wine of patience. it demands that you still your mind and focus solely on the evolution of the grape. notice how the salt air here, on this very terrace, interacts with the bouquet. it is an atmospheric seasoning—a marriage of land and sea that cannot be replicated anywhere else in the world."

you tried to listen. you really did. you gripped your glass with both hands, staring out at the ocean and trying to summon a single thought that wasn't about the fact that your head was currently stuffed with cotton candy. but the "marriage of land and sea" was a distant second to the very real, very physical marriage currently happening against your backside.

satoru had moved in behind you the moment you stepped onto the terrace. at first, it was just a hand on your waist—a steadying gesture, or so you told yourself. but as suguru launched into a five-minute tangent about the "structural integrity of the vintage’s tannins," satoru’s hands began to roam with a slow, agonizing lack of shame.

his palms slid from your waist down to your hips, pulling you back until there wasn't a single millimeter of daylight between your bodies. you felt the heat of his chest through the thin linen of his shirt, and then his face was there, dipping low, his nose brushing against your temple.

"hey," he murmured, his voice a low, vibrating hum that bypassed your ears and went straight to your thighs. "you hear him? salt air. atmospheric seasoning. he’s basically saying we’re seasoning the wine with our sweat. that’s gross, right? we should tell him."

"satoru, stop," you whispered, though the reprimand lacked any real teeth. you were acutely aware of the elderly british couple three feet away, who were nodding along to suguru’s lecture while you were currently being dismantled by your husband’s touch.

satoru, of course, didn't stop—if anything, leaning into it. he began to press tiny, lingering pecks to the curve of your cheek, his lips warm and slightly chapped from the sun. each kiss was a deliberate provocation, a slow-motion countdown. he moved to the sensitive skin just below your ear, inhaling deeply as if you were the vintage he was supposed to be tasting.

"you smell like that orange blossom stuff from the hotel," he breathed, his hands sliding around to the front of your waist, fingers hooking into the fabric of your dress to pull you even tighter against him. "and wine. you smell like really expensive, really drunk trouble."

and then you felt it.

it wasn't subtle. satoru gojo had never been subtle a day in his life, and apparently, being three-quarters of the way through a bottle of rosé didn't help. as he leaned down to nipping at the junction of your neck and shoulder, you felt the unmistakable, rigid heat of his arousal pressing firmly against the small of your back.

it was his "i-want-to-have-sex-but-we-are-in-public" stance—a specific, heavy-lidded brand of horniness that usually manifested after two cocktails or a particularly good meal. except here, under the blistering french sun, with a tour guide talking about "the honesty of the soil" and a dozen strangers surrounding you, it felt like a live wire was being pressed against your spine.

his hips gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nudge against you, a silent question that made your breath hitch. you could feel the pulse in his throat against your neck, his heartbeat fast and erratic. he wasn't even looking at the view anymore; his sunglasses had slipped down his nose, and he was looking at the side of your face, his blue eyes darkened and heavy with a singular, intoxicated focus.

"babe," he whispered, his hand sliding lower, his thumb grazing the very top of your thigh. "i think i've reached my 'structural integrity' limit. if he says the word 'terroir' one more time, i’m gonna lose my mind."

you squeezed your eyes shut, the world tilting. the heat of the sun, the sharpness of the wine, and the heavy, demanding pressure of satoru against your back were all merging into one singular, overwhelming sensation.

“satoru,” you hissed, your voice barely a thread of sound. you tried to shift away, but he followed the movement flawlessly, his hand sliding from your waist to the center of your stomach, pulling you flush against him, the heat of his arousal a solid, demanding presence that made your head swim faster than the rosé ever could. “we are in public. stop it.”

“i’m just listening,” he murmured, his teeth catching the lobe of your ear in a way that made a traitorous little sound catch in the back of your throat. “listening to the elegance. very carefully. i’m being a good student.”

you caught suguru’s eye as he had stopped talking. he was staring directly at satoru’s hands, which were now shamelessly roaming the curve of your hip, fingers splayed wide. the look of pure, unadulterated loathing on the guide’s face would have been funny if you weren't currently vibrating with the need to either bolt or drag your husband into the nearest dark corner.

“is there a problem, monsieur gojo?” suguru asked, his voice dripping with a politeness that felt like a threat.

satoru didn't even flinch. he just grinned, his lips lingering against your cheek for a heartbeat too long before he looked up. “no problem, suguru. just... really enjoying the notes. very... full-bodied.”

the double entendre was so blatant it felt like a slap, suguru’s jaw tightening, knuckles white around the stem of his glass. the rest of the group was starting to whisper, glancing between the pristine view and the two of you, who looked like you were seconds away from a scandal.

you reached down, catching satoru’s wandering hands and firmly peeling them from your waist. the heat from his palms lingered even after you let go, a ghost of a touch that made your skin prickle. you forced your head to turn, offering suguru a smile that you desperately hoped looked like a "polite apology for a rowdy husband" and not a "woman who can no longer feel her own cheekbones."

suguru didn't look convinced. his dark eyes remained flat and unimpressed, his gaze lingering on your flushed face for a beat too long before he turned back to the panoramic view of the promenade, his posture stiff with professional offense.

you leaned back into satoru, keeping your eyes fixed on the horizon, and spoke through a fixed, gritted smile. 

“satoru,” you whispered, your voice low and sharp. “if you can behave yourself—and i mean actually behave—for the next three wines, i will reward you very, very handsomely when we get back to the hotel.”

the silence from behind you was immediate. satoru, who had been about to lean in for another neck-nibble, froze. you could practically hear the gears turning in his wine-soaked brain as he weighed the immediate thrill of public groping against the promise of what awaited him later.

he let out a long, dramatic sigh that ruffled the hair at your temple, sinking into a world-class pout. 

“three more?” he whined, his voice a tragic stage whisper. “babe, that’s like... a whole hour of listening to him talk about the emotional journey of a grape.”

“three wines, satoru. and keep your hands to yourself.”

“fine,” he huffed, sounding like a scolded child.

you turned slightly to see him adjusting that ridiculous, floppy straw hat. he didn't put it back on his head; instead, he held it in front of his lap with both hands, the wide, misshapen brim acting as a makeshift shield for the very obvious evidence of his earlier excitement. he looked absurd—a tanned, towering man in a crumpled linen shirt, hiding behind a five-euro souvenir hat—but to his credit, he stayed in place.

the group began to move again, leaving the terrace behind and walking toward a small, secluded courtyard tucked behind a medieval stone chapel. the air here was cooler, trapped by high walls and thick ivy, the light filtered into soft greens and greys. 

suguru’s voice returned to its rhythmic drone, echoing off the ancient stone as he began to lecture about the "spiritual resonance of the terroir" and the way the monks of the twelfth century had perfected the fermentation process.

you took a tiny, disciplined sip of the next wine, a pale gold liquid that tasted like honey and cold metal. you were hyper-aware of your state now—the way the ground felt a little too soft, the way the ivy on the walls seemed to be vibrating. you were focused entirely on staying upright and looking like a respectable tourist, but you were pleasantly surprised by satoru.

he was actually doing it. he stood a respectable foot away from you, nodding occasionally at suguru’s words with a mock-serious expression that was almost convincing. he looked like a man who was deeply interested in twelfth-century monks.

then, just as the group shifted to look at a sun-drenched fresco on the chapel wall, in the brief moment of movement, satoru leaned in, his shadow falling over you. he didn't touch you—not a finger, not a hip—but he got close enough that you could feel the heat of his body radiating against your arm.

he didn't look at you. he kept his eyes on the fresco, his expression perfectly neutral, but his voice drifted into your ear, lower and more stripped-back than it had been all day.

“you know,” he whispered, the words slow and deliberate, “i’m being so good right now, but all i can think about is how that dress is going to look crumpled on the floor of the hallway because i promise you i’m not even going to let you make it to the bed before i’m inside you.”

the jolt of his words were physical, starting at the base of your skull and shooting straight down your spine, a jagged spark of heat that made your knees buckle for a split second. the sheer, raw filth of the promise, delivered in such a calm, conversational tone while surrounded by a dozen strangers and a guide talking about monk-juice, was enough to make your vision swim.

you clutched your wine glass so hard the stem creaked. satoru pulled back just as quickly, his face returning to that innocent, boyish mask, a tiny, triumphant smirk playing at the corner of his mouth as he watched you struggle to breathe.

“the notes of this particular bottle,” suguru was saying, oblivious to the fact that your brain had just been short-circuited, “are remarkably persistent on the finish.”

“persistent,” satoru murmured, his eyes locking onto yours with a look that promised he was going to make good on every single word. “yeah. i’d agree with that.”

you squeezed the stem of your glass so hard you thought the crystal might actually snap. you refused to look at him, staring with agonizing intensity at a crumbling stone gargoyle on the chapel wall, but satoru wasn't finished. he was in a particular kind of mood now, fueled by the heat and the rosé and the challenge you’d set for him.

he leaned in again, his voice dropping even lower, a gravelly thread of sound that seemed to bypass everyone else in the courtyard.

“you remember that one night in kyoto?” he murmured, the words barely more than a breath against your ear. “the house with the paper thin walls? where you had to put your hand over your own mouth because you were so scared the neighbors would hear how loud you were getting? you were so... frustrated. i can see that same look in your eyes right now.”

you felt the flush crawl up your neck, hot and undeniable. your thighs clenched harder, a dull ache beginning to thrum in your lower abdomen as he continued to weave a tapestry of shared, filthy memories under the cover of the tour.

“i bet you’re just as warm now as you were then,” he continued, his tone conversational, almost light, if you didn't know him. “stuck in this dress, standing in the sun... i wonder if you're already wet for me, babe.”

the air in your lungs felt like lead. suguru was still talking about the “lingering echoes of the fruit,” but satoru’s voice was the only thing you could hear, a dark, persistent hum that was making your head spin faster than the alcohol. you were hyperaware of him—the height of him, the scent of him, the way he was vibrating with a restless, hungry energy that he was barely containing behind that stupid straw hat.

you couldn't do it anymore. the "three wines" rule was a joke, a lost cause. if you stayed here for one more minute, you were going to embarrass yourself in front of a dozen strangers and a very judgmental tour guide.

you turned on your heel so fast the skirt of your dress flared, your hand snapping out to catch satoru’s wrist.

“we’re leaving,” you hissed, the words coming out more like a command than a suggestion.

satoru didn't move immediately. instead, he stood his ground for a second, batting his long, white lashes down at you with a look of exaggerated, faux-coy innocence. he looked like a man who had never had a deviant thought in his entire life.

“oh, really?” he asked, his voice tilting upward in a mock-surprised lilt. “but babe, i was just starting to really appreciate the... spiritual resonance. i thought we were going to stay for the reserve?”

you stepped closer, your eyes narrowing as you felt the wine-heat behind your eyelids. “satoru, so help me, you have three seconds to start moving before i change my mind about that reward.”

“yup! time to go! moving now!”

the transition was instantaneous. his eyes lit up with a sudden, wild delight, all pretense of being a "good student" vanishing in a heartbeat. he didn't need a second invitation. he let out a sharp, triumphant laugh that echoed off the ancient stone walls of the courtyard, startling a pigeon into flight.

he didn't even look back at suguru, who had stopped mid-sentence, mouth hanging slightly open in a look of stunned, weary defeat. satoru just squeezed your hand, his fingers lacing through yours with a grip that was tight and possessive, and began to pull you toward the arched exit.

“have a great life, suguru!” satoru yelled over his shoulder, his stride long and eager. “the tennis ball notes were a highlight! truly!”

you were practically running to keep up with him as you burst back out into the narrow, winding streets of nice. the sun was still high, the air still heavy with citrus and salt, but everything felt different now—sharper, more urgent. the "clank-clank" of the wine glasses in the distance was replaced by the frantic thud of your heart.

you dove into the first side street that looked secluded enough—a skinny, shadowed alleyway between two peach-colored buildings with laundry lines sagging overhead. the moment the main street disappeared from view, satoru spun you around, the back of your head meeting the cool stucco with a soft thud, the stone wall acting as the only thing keeping you upright as satoru crowded into your space, his body a solid, radiating weight that pinned you in place. 

the alley was narrow enough that the shadows felt like a physical blanket, muffling the distant sounds of scooters and french chatter from the main road as your husband’s his mouth found yours with a sort of frantic, wine-heavy hunger, his lips tasting of the crisp rosé and the salt of the mediterranean air. they were soft but demanding, a familiar pressure that sent a fresh wave of heat straight to your core. satoru’s kiss was never just a kiss; it was an occupation. he tasted like the entire afternoon—sweet, sharp, and dangerously intoxicating.

his hands, finally freed from the prison of his pockets and that stupid hat, found your waist instantly. his fingers dug into the thin fabric of your sundress, his palms hot and large enough to nearly wrap around your entire middle. he pulled you flush against him, his hips seeking the friction he’d been dreaming about since the first glass of wine.

“god,” he breathed against your lips, his voice a broken, gravelly mess. he broke the kiss just long enough to trail his mouth along the line of your jaw, his scruff scratching your skin in a way that made your toes curl in your sandals. “you have no idea. i’ve been standing there for two hours just watching the way this dress catches the light. you look so fucking good in this, babe. it’s been driving me out of my mind.”

his hands slid up from your waist, his thumbs tracing the line of your ribs through the cotton, his touch heavy and proprietary. he leaned his forehead against yours, both of you panting, the air between you thick with the scent of sun-warmed skin.

“i thought he was never going to stop talking,” satoru whispered, a sudden, boyish giggle bubbling up in his throat as he nipped at your lower lip. “i’m serious. if i had to stay in that musty ass cave for one more minute, i think i would’ve actually died. the structural integrity of my brain was literally melting, babe. i just wanted to get you alone.”

the image of satoru, the most dramatic man in france, "dying" in a wine cellar made you break. a genuine, helpless giggle spilled out of you, vibrating against his mouth as you tilted your head back.

“shhh, shhh!” he hissed, though he was grinning like a maniac, his own shoulders shaking with laughter. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his lips pressing a series of wet, messy kisses to your collarbone. “don’t laugh! the wine monks will hear us! we have to be quiet, we’re on the run!”

“you’re the one making jokes!” you whispered back, your fingers tangling in the white hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer until there was no air left between you. the world felt small and perfect—just the smell of damp stone, the taste of expensive grapes on his tongue, and the heavy, promising weight of his body against yours.

satoru hummed, a low, rumbling sound that you felt deep in your chest. he shifted his weight, his knee sliding between yours as he trapped you more firmly against the wall, his hands wandering lower to catch the hem of your dress.

“seriously though,” he murmured, his blue eyes peeking out from behind his glasses, dark and blown wide with a heat that made your breath hitch. “the hotel is ten minutes away. can you make it ten minutes, or am i going to have to show you exactly what i meant about that hallway right here?”

you tilted your head back against the sun-warmed stone, your eyes fluttering shut as you let out a slow, deliberate hum of consideration. the wine was humming in your ears, making you feel bold and reckless in a way that only satoru could ever truly coax out of you.

"well," you whispered, your voice thick and honeyed with a buzz that had nothing to do with the grapes anymore, "the hotel is ten minutes away... but i think we could probably manage a quickie right here—if you're fast enough."

satoru’s eyes widened, his pupils blowing out so dark they almost swallowed the blue entirely. he looked like a kid who had just been told christmas came twice a year. "i like the sound of that," he breathed, a feral, delighted grin slashing across his face. "i like the sound of that a lot."

he didn't waste another second. his mouth crashed back into yours for a bruising, frantic moment before he slid down to your throat, his tongue tracing the line of your pulse with a hunger that made your knees buckle. he settled into the space between your thighs, his hips beginning a slow, heavy grind against yours that made the thin fabric of your clothes feel like a personal insult.

it was clumsy and desperate—the kind of frantic dry-humping you hadn't done since you were a teenager in the back of a car—but with satoru, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. his breath was hot against the sensitive skin beneath your ear, his teeth grazing your lobe as he sucked a dark mark into the junction of your neck and shoulder.

"you're so warm," he groaned, his voice vibrating against your skin. "shhh, babe, shhh... don't make a sound."

one of his hands, large and sure, slid with practiced ease beneath the hem of your sundress. you let out a shaky breath as his palm skimmed up your thigh, his fingers finding the center of you and beginning a rhythmic, demanding friction against your panties that had you arching your back against the wall. 

his other hand was fumbling with the delicate straps of your dress, his movements uncharacteristically clumsy from the alcohol, but he finally managed to hook his thumbs under them and drag them down, the dress pooling loosely around your waist, snagged only by the curve of your hips, as he dipped his head to press open-mouthed, wet kisses to the swell of your chest. 

his white hair was a mess, falling over his eyes as he worked his way along your collarbone, his hands moving with the frantic energy of a man who was indeed very, very skilled in the art of the quickie.

"satoru," you whimpered, your fingers digging into his shoulders, trying to pull him closer even though there wasn't an inch of space left between you.

"i've got you," he murmured against your skin, his thumb catching on your clit through the lace in a way that made your vision white out for a second. he hitched your leg up around his waist, pinning you harder against the stucco as his hips kept that torturous, relentless pace. "just a quickie, right? just a little taste before the hotel?"

you nodded, head swimming as his own dipped down with a low, hungry sound, satoru taking your nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling against the peak through the thin, damp lace of your bra before he grew impatient and pushed the fabric aside entirely. he worked you with a greedy, practiced rhythm, his mouth hot and wet as he switched between them, nipping and sucking until you were certain the entire alley could hear the way your breath was hitching.

he was a man of focused, singular intent, and even with his glasses dangling precariously from one ear, he moved with a frantic sort of grace. his free hand dived lower, fingers hooking into the edge of your panties and dragging the silk to the side. his touch was electric—blunt and heavy as he worked you open, his thumb never ceasing that torturous, rhythmic pressure against your clit while his middle finger began to slide inside you, testing how slick and ready you’d become under the provencal sun.

“god, look at you,” he rasped, lifting his head just enough to breathe the words against your skin, his voice thick with a dark, intoxicated pride. “so wet for me. right here in the middle of the street.”

you arched your back until the rough stucco of the wall bit into your shoulder blades, your head falling back as a silent gasp escaped your lips. you bit down hard on your lower lip, fighting the urge to cry out his name as satoru’s own arousal—the solid, rigid weight of him—began to rub rhythmically against your inner thigh. the friction was maddening, the heavy heat of him pressing into your skin through the thin linen of his pants.

shaking, you reached down, your hand palming him through the fabric. you could feel the jump of him under your touch, the sheer size and heat of him making your head swim. 

satoru let out a low, guttural groan that vibrated against your chest where his mouth had returned to your breast, his tongue flicking against you in a way that made your toes curl.

“fuck, babe—shhhh” he murmured into your skin, though he was the one sounding increasingly unhinged. he pulled back just an inch, his face flushed a deep, beautiful pink, his blue eyes blown out until they were almost entirely black. he was panting, his forehead resting against yours as his thumb gave one final, heavy swirl that nearly sent you over the edge right then and there.

he reached for the button of his trousers with a clumsy, hurried motion, his breath coming in short, jagged bursts. he shifted his weight, his knee wedging firmly between your legs to keep you pinned against the wall, his gaze dropping to where he was finally exposing himself to the cool alley air.

he looked back up at you, a raw, feral sort of longing written across every inch of his face. he didn't look like a husband or a tourist or a man who gave a single damn about a wine tour; he looked like he was about to devour you.

“you ready?” he grunted, his voice dropping into a register so low it was barely a whisper. “no more waiting, yeah? i’m taking that reward right now.”

satoru didn’t wait for you to answer with words; he took your silence as the desperate green light it was. he gripped your hips, his large hands nearly spanning your entire waist as he turned you around to face the rough, peach-colored stone. you leaned forward, palms flat against the wall, the cool stucco a sharp contrast to the fire licking at your skin.

he crowded in behind you immediately, his chest a wall of heat against your back. he tilted his head, his mouth finding the sensitive curve where your shoulder met your neck, pressing open-mouthed, wine-sweet kisses there as he lined himself up. 

when he finally pushed forward, sliding home in one slow, deliberate motion, a sharp, ragged gasp escaped you.

even after all these years of being his, satoru was always uncomfortably large at first. it was a familiar, grounding sort of ache, the feeling of being completely stretched and filled until there was no room left for anything but him. you felt every inch of him, the friction of his skin against yours sending a jolt through your nervous system that made your vision blur.

to his credit, he didn't start moving yet. he knew the rhythm of your body better than his own. he stayed buried deep inside you, his forehead resting against the back of your head as he reached around you. one hand found your breast, twisting the nipple between his fingers with a sharp, demanding pressure, while the other slid down to find your clit, his thumb beginning a fast, buzzing friction that made your legs shake.

"shhh, just breathe, babe," he murmured into your ear, his voice a dark, low-frequency hum. "i've got you. just let it settle."

you could feel yourself giving way to him, your muscles relaxing and clenching around him in a desperate, rhythmic pulse. the world was narrowing down to the smell of the alley, the grit of the stone under your hands, and the way satoru felt like a lightning strike inside you. your head lolled back, resting on his shoulder as the rose-tinted haze of the alcohol merged with the nearing swell of a climax.

his first real thrust was deep—deep enough to steal the air from your lungs. satoru let out a low, guttural groan that sounded more like a growl, his hips snapping forward with a sudden, predatory hunger.

"fuck," he hissed, the word breaking as he felt you squeeze him. "you're so fucking tight. how are you still this tight for me?"

he reached around, his large palm covering your mouth to stifle the high, thin wail of pleasure you were about to let out. he began to move in earnest then, his thrusts heavy and relentless, the angle of you leaning against the wall allowing him to hit that soft, dangerous, spongy spot deep inside you with every single strike.

it was a devastating sensation, a direct line to the coiling heat in your stomach, the pressure building, a tight, frantic knot of energy in your lower abdomen that was beginning to pulse with every hit. satoru felt it too; he could feel the way you were beginning to shatter.

"that's it," he whispered against your ear, his thumb never stopping its work on you, his other hand moving from your breast to grip the wall beside your head for leverage. "it's right there, isn't it? i've got you, baby. i want you to come for me right here. come on, give it to me."

the build-up was agonizing, a rising tide of gold and heat that made your stomach flip. you felt the tension radiating outward to your fingertips, your body coiling tighter and tighter around him like a spring about to snap. every time he hit that spot, a fresh wave of static washed over your brain, the "shh-shh" of the city fading into nothing but the sound of his ragged breathing and the wet, heavy slap of skin on skin.

"satoru," you tried to moan against his palm, your eyes snapping open as the first tremors of the climax began to ripple through your core, hitting ike a landslide, a sudden, violent rushing of heat that made your entire body lock up against the stone wall. 

you clenched around him in tight, rhythmic pulses, your muscles spasming with a desperation that seemed to surprise even satoru. 

the friction became a slick, heavy mess, the sound of it turning into a distinct, liquid squelch as your own arousal mixed with his heat, the alley quiet enough that every wet, sliding sound felt amplified—a shameful, beautiful reminder of how effortlessly your husband could dismantle you, turning you into a shivering, overstimulated wreck in the middle of a foreign city.

satoru let out a ragged, triumphant sound against your skin, satisfied that he’d driven you over the edge first. he didn't stop, though; the way you were milking him with every post-orgasmic shudder was clearly more than he could handle. 

he reached out, fingers curling under your chin to tilt your head back, meeting your mouth in an open, desperate kiss. your tongues tangled, tasting like wine and heat, while his pace shifted from deliberate to frantic.

he stopped caring about the "shhh-shhh" routine. the sound of his hips smacking against you echoed off the narrow walls, a steady, rhythmic thud that was as unapologetic as he was. his hand left your waist to splay across your lower abdomen, pressing down firmly. through the thin skin of your stomach, he could almost feel the blunt force of him bottoming out, hitting that deep, sensitive spot with a ruthlessness that made your vision spark.

"god, you're so good," he groaned into the kiss, his voice completely wrecked. "you feel... you feel so fucking perfect."

he was reaching his limit, his movements becoming jagged and heavy. satoru buried his face in the crook of your shoulder, his teeth grazing your skin as he let out a final, guttural grunt. 

he stiffened, his entire frame vibrating with the force of his release, and you felt the hot, thick arrival of him filling you up—white ropes of heat that seemed to pulse deep inside your core.

he stayed there for a long moment, his forehead resting against your shoulder as his breathing slowly leveled out, though his heart was still hammering against your back like a trapped bird, giving a few shallow, lingering thrusts that felt more like a possessive afterword than an actual movement.

the silence of the alley settled back over you, broken only by the distant, rhythmic chime of a church bell and the sound of your shared, shaky breaths. satoru let out a tiny, exhausted giggle into your neck, the tension finally breaking as the wine-haze drifted back into focus.

"okay," he whispered, his voice still a bit breathless and light. "now we can go to the hotel."

tags: @cursedkisss @momoloverr