summary: a fortune, the student council presidency, and a future already negotiated for you—complete with a ryomen engagement ring after you graduate from university. you’ve got it all… but is that really what you want? an unexpected friendship with gojo satoru makes the answer far less certain.
warnings: (18+) smut, porn with plot, fluff, light angst, college au, academic rivals/annoyances to lovers, oral (fem. receiving), p in v, criminally down bad!gojo, mentions of frat parties, alcohol consumption, marriages of convenience, family troubles, and overall rich people problems ™️, the university they go to is heavily implied to be aristocratic, brief sukuna x reader but she doesn’t fw him, anatomy & physiology facts that are probably incorrect but we shall ignore that for the sake of the plot
word count: 16.9k
art by bimyo_n!
Rumor has it that everything began the moment winter break ended.
You extended the handle of your suitcase and walked toward the foyer, where you were sure your mother was already waiting. By the time you rounded the corner, she was already unlocking the front door and pulling it open.
As if it couldn’t be any more obvious that she was eager for you to leave the house and return to university.
If you had to guess, the end of each break between semesters was her favorite time of year.
Well, that and her birthday—because your father had made a habit of buying her a new handbag each season, and if there was anything she loved more than a mansion to herself, it was a mansion to herself full of designer purses.
“The car is waiting for you,” she said simply, her tone lacking the warmth of a mother wishing her daughter farewell.
You hardly noticed its absence. You hadn’t felt it in years, anyway. You’d be lucky—or unlucky, you weren’t quite sure—if she hugged you goodbye.
Just as you opened your mouth to reply, you noticed the furrow in her brow. Wordlessly, she pressed her hand between your shoulder blades to correct your posture. “How is it that you’ve somehow managed to develop a slouch? Your father and I didn’t pay for you to go to charm school for nothing to come of it.”
Your jaw tightened, the familiar urge to shrug her hand away flared, but you didn’t let it show in your voice. “And where is he? He couldn’t take an early lunch to come home and see me off?”
She released a breath that sounded more like a laugh than a scoff. “Why would he? You’re going to be back in two months for dinner with the Ryomen family. He’ll see you then.”
This time, your bitterness did reach your voice. “Oh. Right. That.”
Your suitcase was plucked from your side by the family driver and you watched as he loaded it into the trunk.
“Yes. That.” Your mother tugged at your skirt, as if that would make it any longer.
She looked at you sharply. Her message was clear, even though it remained wordless: don’t show up wearing something like this the next time we see you.
After all, appearances were important. You had learned that from an early age.
By the time you were ten, your eyebrows were already being plucked biweekly. Sometimes, thrice in one month, should your mother notice a hair out of place. At eleven, you learned what pore strips were, why they were used, and what people would say about you if you didn’t. Once you were fourteen, styling your hair came as easily as walking on two feet.
But the Ryomen family didn’t care about that as much as your mother did.
What they truly cared about was securing a fortune that would create generational wealth. They cared about fostering a bond with your parents that would lead to a prosperous business relationship. They only cared about you because you were the business—an investment that they expected to mature on schedule. Well, you and Sukuna, their son, whom you have practically been betrothed to since you were six years old.
Graduation was approaching, and you would bet your life that this dinner was a gimmick—one for both sets of parents to nudge you two closer together. Not that they cared whether you truly got along. Aligning the Ryomen fortune with your family name would make your combined estate as good as gold. They likely just wanted to ensure that the eventual marriage (business deal) would be lifelong.
Which is to say, they wanted to drill it into your head that filing for divorce was not an option once everything was said and done. How sweet of them.
You couldn’t worry about that now, though. You were already running late, and you needed to get back to campus and unpack. Classes start tomorrow morning, and you would hate to be seen with bags under your eyes—and your mother would certainly hate to hear about it from the monumental amount of staff at Mikage Academy, who seemed intent on notifying her of nearly every step you took over the past few years.
“Well, I should be going,” you muttered—more to yourself than to her—because you weren’t even confident she was listening anymore.
Your suspicions were confirmed when she muttered a final ‘don’t forget about the dinner’ before shutting the door behind you. She didn’t follow you out. Didn’t hug you goodbye either.
Once you were inside the vehicle—headphones on, with music blaring loud enough to drown out any chance at forming a coherent thought—you relaxed your shoulders and slouched, because there was no one here to pester you about it.
At least that was something you could be thankful for.
☆
The student council election was rapidly approaching, and that was just about all you were allowed to think about.
You knelt on the ground with a paintbrush in your hand, carefully mapping out the words Vote Y/N for Student Council President! :) on the posterboard.
The headphones in your ears were turned up a bit too high, because you hadn’t even noticed that your best friend, Utahime, had entered the empty workroom until she accidentally kicked over the can of red paint you had been using. You gasped as it splattered all over the poster, leaning back on the heels of your feet to ensure, at the very least, that it didn’t get on your clothes.
“Utahime!”
“I’m sorry!” she said quickly, tilting the can upright again.
The damage had already been done, though. She knelt beside you and carefully folded up the poster, tossing it into a nearby bin. Wiping her hands against each other, her eyes landed on you.
“Let the record show that I didn’t mean to do that and am guilty of all crimes regardless,” she paused, then smiled at you. “You know, you don’t really need to campaign. No one has run against you in, what— three years?”
You frowned as you wiped your thumb over the dot of paint on your skirt. It was small enough that an untrained eye wouldn’t notice. “I know that, but you can never be too sure.”
“Actually, you can be,” she retorted, but retrieved a fresh posterboard for you anyway. “The only way you lose this election is if a meteor penetrates Earth’s orbit and targets Mikage specifically, and in that case, we would all be dead anyway.”
You raised a brow as you dipped a fresh paintbrush into the can. “In that case, I should campaign to make sure that everyone died with an intent to vote for me.”
Utahime laughed with a shake of her head but didn’t push it any further. “I should run a smear campaign against you in the school’s newspaper. Maybe then, your effort won’t be for naught.” She paused. “Speaking of— have you read the newspaper lately?”
You were stopped dead in your tracks. If Utahime had managed to read the entirety of the university’s boring-to-death newspaper and felt it was important enough to bring up to you, you couldn’t help but feel uneasy. “Yeah? Not this week’s issue, though. Why?”
“Of course you read it regularly,” she mumbled with a smile before fishing her phone out of her backpack. “There’s a new column for blind items. About the students. Can you believe that this shit actually made the final cut? It’s awesome.”
You invaded her personal space to look at her phone screen. “No way. What are they saying?”
Utahime laughed. “Just read it for yourself. I had to change my outfit because I read them this morning while brushing my teeth and laughed so hard, I toothpaste-bombed my own shirt.”
Reading the blind items to yourself, you can’t help but stifle your laugh that comes before the unease settles in. Someone had written these based on what they had observed, and despite how harmless they seemed now, the concept of that person walking among you was something that left a pit in your stomach.
A certain basketball player was seen coming back to his dorm room around 4 a.m. with multiple shades of lipstick on his neck.
A male who lives on floor three in the Newbrooke dormitory has been shitting in the showers for two weeks straight.
A sorority girl tossed the entirety of her roommate’s makeup collection out the window and blamed it on someone else, resulting in their expulsion from the sorority.
A notorious rich boy blew his semester’s allowance on a new sports car.
You skimmed the rest and ensured that none of them could be about you before you handed Utahime her phone back. “I’m sure we all know who number four is about.”
She shrugged but nodded anyway. “Right? I mean, Gojo revs his engine like it’s nobody’s business all the time.” She looked down at her phone. “I wonder who’s shitting in the showers, though.”
“Maybe that one’s about Gojo, too,” you quipped, too quickly to hide the bite in your voice.
You regretted how much you sounded like your mother then, and how easily it had come out.
Your family’s disdain for the Gojo family stemmed long before you were born. Hell, before your parents were even born. The details of it all were up for interpretation at this point—nobody talked about it, and you never dared to ask—but to your understanding, Gojo’s great-great-great-grandfather had screwed over yours—somehow, some way—and this was what had come of it. You would be reluctant to believe it. After all, there were quite a few tools in your own family, and you liked to believe you were nothing like them.
But the asshat that was Satoru Gojo lived up to his reputation, as far as you’d learned. That was enough for you to write him off.
Not to mention, he was the only student here at Mikage who posed a threat to you. He was academically gifted and never let you forget it; most things came easier to him than they did you, and you hated him for it.
Well, that and the time he spilled beer all over your shoes at a frat party freshman year. He probably didn’t even remember it had happened, but you did, because some other dipshit had been recording the entire ordeal and posted it online.
The earful you’d gotten from your parents that day was enough for you to stay away from him entirely.
All the while, Utahime raised her eyebrow with a grin. “Oh, wow. You’d better hope he didn’t hear that, or else you just lost a vote.”
☆
All things considered, you were having a good day.
Even though your hair is still slightly damp from the rain and the perfume you put on only two hours ago has nearly worn off, you’re pretty confident that you’ve just aced your first Anatomy & Physiology test.
Every other person in the lecture hall is already relaxed, scrolling on their phones while they wait for your professor to hand back the graded exams—because all things considered, it’s only worth three percent of your total grade after all calculations. And yes, you have done the calculations (twice!), because heaven forbid you be uninformed about anything relating to your academics.
You glance at your watch nervously. You hope this class is released on time, because attending it was only the second thing you’ve checked off your mile-long to-do list for the day.
You have a student council meeting at 2 p.m., a meeting with Professor Yaga at 3:15 p.m. about an upcoming scholarship opportunity, and a study date with Sukuna at 4 p.m.—where he doesn’t do much of anything at all aside from scrolling through red pill looksmaxxer Instagram reels for two hours.
A test is lazily tossed back onto your desk, and you pick it up immediately.
It’s a 98%. An A.
You smile to yourself, but it doesn’t last very long. It falters the moment you feel a presence looming over your shoulder—one that carries the scent of expensive cologne. It’s light and masculine, and reminds you of summer, for whatever reason. You may have complimented it if the presence hadn’t beaten you to speaking.
“Only a ninety-eight? Poor thing. Didn’t sleep well or something?”
Suddenly, your compliment dries up, because you’d know that voice anywhere. Satoru fucking Gojo.
You snap your head around so fast it nearly spins off your spine. “Stay away from me and get a life,” you say through gritted teeth, but snatch his test from his hands despite yourself.
And there, in the top corner, written in pen, is a 100%. From what you can tell from all the talking he’s doing right now—which you aren’t listening to a lick—he’s pretty intent on rubbing it in your face.
He clicks his tongue and places his hand on the back of your seat, using it for leverage as he leans over you a bit more. “See? You got number thirteen wrong. You said the fluid inside body cells is extracellular fluid. Ouch.” He pats the back of your seat, as if it’s any consolation. “You know, I’m free Thursday afternoons. I could tutor you, and once the exam comes around, that frown will be turned right-side up—”
You stand abruptly and hand his test back to him, your wrist so rigid it may as well cut through ice. “Oh, I’m so good off that. I’d rather gouge my eyes out with an ice pick.”
Satoru tilts his head, his grin so smug it makes you sick. “Well, suit yourself. Speaking of—pretty sure ice picks are usually on clearance this time of year. Y’know, with it being spring and all.”
A single glance around the room tells you nearly everyone else has already left, and that it’s painfully obvious you and Satoru are the only ones who stayed behind to talk. You’d rather not be spotted with him again. You don’t bother hiding your eye roll as you zip up your backpack and walk away, crumpled test in tow.
“Hey, where are you going? What about our riveting conversation?” he calls after you, and you can practically hear his grin when he speaks. “It was a funny joke!”
The door slams shut behind you.
☆
You can’t stand Sukuna—no matter how hard you try.
“Can you at least turn that down?”
Sukuna grumbled under his breath before slumping even lower into the seat he dwarfed in size, but he lowered the volume of his Instagram reels just enough to pacify you. “What’s it matter, anyway? There’s nobody here.”
You huffed and tried not to take it personally, as the single person currently sitting beside him. “It matters to me because, unlike some people, I actually care about my grades. Very shocking, I know.”
It might be shocking to most—which you’d understand, because it even shocks you on most days—but Sukuna is one of the few people in your life who understands you.
Not when it comes to the things that make you who you are as an independent person. He couldn’t recite your full name if he tried, nor could he remember your birthday, favorite color, or go-to drink order at your favorite café.
Because at the end of the day, Sukuna doesn’t see you. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t have to. But after everything, he knows you better than most. He knows about the things you don’t say out loud. He knows how much you hate going home, because he hates it just as much. He knows that none of this truly matters, because your parents have had your futures lined up for over a decade, and none of your hard work plays a factor in that.
Where the two of you differ is this: you still seem to be under the assumption that hard work might relieve you of your fate, but Sukuna has long since adopted a different worldview. He thinks that if everything is going to work out in the end—a nice house, a somewhat decent spouse, a few kids in the far future—then what’s the point in trying in the meantime?
“Jeez, woman. I was just asking. It that time of the month or somethin’?”
You scoffed, but didn’t dignify him with a reply.
You don’t know what this is exactly—whatever you and Sukuna are. You aren’t dating. You have kissed a few times—experimental and primarily drunk kisses shared at parties that never amounted to anything, because, well… you just don’t like each other. You aren’t sure if you’re even friends, or if you’d want to be.
At most, you’re familial acquaintances, which is the polite way of saying that he is supposed to be your husband one day, if your parents have anything to say about it.
“I just need to focus. Yaga said I have a good chance at landing the internship, but that doesn’t mean I should start slacking off now.”
“What internship?”
You blinked.
“The internship I applied for three months ago?”
Sukuna blinked.
“The one I passed three rounds of interviews for?”
You scoffed. “For fuck’s sake, Sukuna, it’s just about the only thing I’ve been talking about for months!”
He held his hands up in a placating gesture. “Okay, okay, okay. Jeez. The only thing I’m noticing right now is that I’m not the only one being loud in the library anymore.”
A swarm of harsh replies flooded your mind, but you tamped them down—because you were 99% percent sure Sukuna was far too dim-witted to grasp whatever insult you could chuck his way anyway.
“Whatever. I need to get going.” You packed up your belongings and stood, taking a step in the opposite direction before he caught your arm. You glared back at him. “What?”
“Are you mad at me or somethin’? What’d I say?”
Once again, you didn’t give him a reply and walked away.
Sukuna leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest with a shake of his head. “Women.”
Once in the hallway, you approached the vending machine. You could use a pick-me-up, even if it were in the form of junk food. Just as you were within a few feet of it, an infuriating man with white hair slid in front of you. Satoru was quick to slide a dollar into the machine and punch in whatever he wanted.
“Oh—sorry, did you want something?” he asked over his shoulder, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips.
You were fed up with men today. No, scratch that. You were more than fed up with men today. You rolled your eyes and began to walk away, and maybe Satoru had a change of heart, or maybe he realized that your fallen expression didn’t just have to do with running into him.
“Hey, no— come back, I’m serious,” he called after you. He reached into his pocket and slid another dollar into the machine. “What do you want?”
You turned around, eyeing him closely. “I don’t need your dollar, Gojo.”
Unfazed by your tone, he laughed. It was boyish and carefree in a way that surprised you. “I know you don’t,” he said simply. “Way to make me feel nice about my good deed, though. I didn’t know a single dollar could move you so much.” You narrowed your eyes at him, and he tilted his head toward the machine in response. “C’mon. Pick something.”
And because you just couldn’t catch a break today, your stomach chose that moment to growl. Loudly. You placed a hand over your abdomen immediately, your face nearly losing its color.
“…Gummy bears,” you finally managed to choke out. “Please.”
Satoru smiled and punched in the corresponding code for a bag of Haribo Gummy Bears. “Decent choice for a starving woman. Not sweet enough for my taste, but decent.”
You huffed out a breath, watching him retrieve both of your chosen snacks. “Sour Patch Kids? Really?”
He handed you the gummy bears before nodding once. “Yup. Really.” He paused, a smile tugging at the corner of his lip. “I thought you’d like them. I mean, you’d definitely fit in with them.”
“Fit in with who?”
Satoru tore the bag open and popped one into his mouth. “The Sour Patch Kids. Y’know—with this whole mean-girl-who-hates-me getup you’ve got going on. Really sour of you.”
Your eyebrows pinched together. “That’s so stupid.”
“Yeah, but you almost smiled. Saw it with my own eyes,” he chirped back, chewing on the candy. You smoothed your expression, and he shook his head. “No, no, no— don’t hide it now. That’s just unfair. I paid a dollar for that smile.”
Your face tightened, because now you really were fighting the urge to smile, damn it. “Whatever,” you snapped as you started to walk away—then stopped, your expression tightening even more. “I mean… thank you. For the gummy bears.” You said one last thing before turning your back on him. “And don’t think this means I like you now, because I don’t.”
Satoru just smiled. “Yeah, of course, wouldn’t dream of it.”
☆
Your phone vibrated late into the night.
If it were any other day, you would’ve been fast asleep by now. You’d been strict about your sleep schedule ever since you accidentally discovered—at twelve years old, six hours into a late-night 3 a.m. deep dive—that not sleeping enough can result in the brain eating itself.
But even the fear of having a peanut-sized brain by the time you were forty hadn’t been enough to lull you to sleep tonight, which was how you found yourself watching ASMR cat spa day videos at 1 a.m.
You groaned when you glanced at the top of your screen and saw who dared to interrupt your doomscrolling.
sukuna: hey
sukuna: i can see u reading my texts.
sukuna: stop being mad at me and listen
sukuna: theres a party tomorrow night and i think you should come
sukuna: and before u get all “i need to focus and stay in and be boring all the time” on me just listen
sukuna: u should take time away from your hw and relax
You nearly smiled. This might’ve been the nicest thing Sukuna had ever said to you.
sukuna: plus i wanna go and it looks bad if we arent there together. people talk.
Never mind.
you: i’ll think about it
sukuna: cool. be ready by 9
you: i never said i was going???
☆
Spoiler alert: you wound up coming to the party.
The air is stale and smells of vape smoke and alcohol. The frat house is far too crowded, and from where you’re standing in the kitchen, everyone looks like a pack of sardines wiggling around to a 2010s pop song that no one has quite caught the rhythm for yet. And yet, for all of your complaining, you’re still here—looking your best, at that.
You weren’t as much of a bore as Sukuna made you out to be, but you could admit that you didn’t party nearly as much as you had when you first started at Mikage. The passing of time makes you more responsible, or whatever the poets say—you can’t remember, and you’re honestly a little tipsy already, truth be told.
Suddenly, Shoko nudges your side with her elbow. “Hey, party girl. You gonna stand in here all night, or do you plan on joining us at some point?”
“I didn’t even see you there,” you say through a laugh, waving a hand through the air to dissipate some of the vape smoke Toji blows only a few feet away. “Yeah, I’m coming.”
You follow her through the crowd, only managing to bump into a few people along the way while clutching your Solo cup tight to your chest. It’s warmer now that you’re enveloped in this sea of bodies; your cheeks feel hot, but you pay no mind to it. You’re not sure how long it takes before you and Shoko reunite with Utahime and Nobara, the four of you forming a little circle for yourselves—something that looks conspiratorial from the outside, but feels like a haven on the inside.
“Took you long enough,” Nobara says by way of greeting. She glances down at your cup. “What’d you find in the kitchen?”
“I don’t even know what the hell this is. I just grabbed whatever was unopened and poured it into a cup with ice. I’m hoping it’ll water down,” you reply with a shrug.
Nobara scoffs. “Toji never stocks shit for these parties—deadass, this is the worst frat. I don’t even know why we come here.”
Shoko laughs, though you can barely hear it over the music. “We come here because girls get in free at the door. I mean, if I’m gonna get shitfaced and regret my decisions tomorrow morning, I sure as hell don’t wanna pay for it.”
Utahime taps Shoko’s cup. “Yeah, speaking of getting shitfaced—you’re drinking water once you finish that. I can’t carry you back to your dorm. The last time I tried, I basically dragged you there.”
Shoko groans but doesn’t fight it. All of a sudden, the three of them lock eyes on something directly behind you, and their expressions fall.
Utahime’s face goes white as she places her hands on your shoulders. “Girl, don’t turn around. I’m so serious.”
“What are you talking about?” Your brows knit together, even as you’re already turning.
And when you see it, your eyes widen.
Sukuna is making out with some girl in the center of the room, and while the sight doesn’t make you sick, it does make you nervous. In the span of three seconds, a million thoughts rush through your mind.
You’re granted a glimpse into your future: a future where you marry a man who invites you to a party just to make out with another girl right in front of you. A future where you never feel secure enough to let your guard down, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. A future where you die even more miserable than you feel right now.
Not because you’re jealous. No, you couldn’t care less what the hell he does. It’s the principle that bothers you.
If you were expected to keep up appearances and make time to “bond” with him out of your already packed schedule, why was he allowed to do whatever he pleased?
You hope no one else is paying as much attention to him as you are, because the last thing you need is both of your parents finding out and breathing down your neck, trying to put Sukuna on a leash.
“Just classless,” Shoko hums.
You turn back around, laughing. “He’s a mess. I don’t know what the hell my parents are thinking.”
Nobara sighs. “You should run away and join the circus or something. They’ll never find you.”
You laugh to yourself, knowing they’re only trying to make you feel better. But the impending doom of your upcoming graduation feels worse than ever now. You feel suffocated—like the air is too warm to breathe—so you mumble out a half-assed excuse before slipping through the crowd and out onto the balcony.
It’s cold outside. Refreshing against your skin.
The party has spilled out onto the front lawn, and the sight is so ridiculous it brings you an odd sense of comfort. Choso wobbles on two unsteady legs with Nanami perched on his shoulders, currently trying—and failing—to fish toilet paper out of a tree. Two seconds later, they go tumbling over together, face-planting into the grass.
“That’s gotta hurt.”
You gasp, wrenching away from the edge of the balcony to look behind you.
And there he stood.
Satoru fucking Gojo.
Only now, he looks different. More casual. Relaxed, right down to the smoothed wrinkle between his eyebrows and the clothes he’s wearing now. You’ve never seen him in anything but collared dress shirts and black slacks, courtesy of Mikage Academy’s suffocating dress code.
He takes a step closer. Then another. Soon he’s beside you, forearms resting on the railing. His shirt stretches across his frame, and your eyes traitorously trace the curve of his bicep. The sharp line of his jaw. The slope of his nose.
You tear your gaze away before it gets embarrassing. Has he always looked like that?
Clearing your throat, you mirror his posture. “Hi.”
“Hey,” he replies easily. He glances at you, then back out at the lawn. “Nice party. Solid DJ choice.”
You huff. “Small talk? Really?”
Satoru shrugs. “I figured I should ease into it. You don’t exactly look like you’re in the mood for my usual charm.”
“You mean being insufferable?”
“Wow,” he says. “I was more so going for memorable.”
Your eyes meet. You’re the first to look away.
“Sorry,” you mutter. “I don’t really know how to talk to you when I’m not irritated with you and your stupid gloating.” You pause, then lift a finger. “And before you say anything—I aced the quiz yesterday. So if you came out here to rub it in, save it.”
“Oh no,” Satoru deadpans. “My entire plan— ruined right before my eyes.”
You glance at him. He’s smiling, but it’s softer than usual.
“No,” he continues, dropping his head slightly. “That’s not why I came out here.”
Your brows pinch together. “No?”
“Nope. I needed air. And maybe a tetanus shot after sitting on that couch, ‘cause that thing’s disgusting.”
You laugh despite yourself.
“And,” he adds casually, “I saw you come out here.”
You turn toward him. Somehow, his eyes look brighter at night. “Is that your official reason?”
“Mostly,” he says. “What can I say? I’m curious.”
“About?”
“About why you look like you’d rather be anywhere else than at a party like this.”
You hesitate. “It’s… complicated, I guess.”
“Ah,” Satoru nods.
You scoff, easily reading between the lines. “It has nothing to do with Sukuna. Well— okay, maybe a little. But not like that.”
He tilts his head. “You sure? Because from where I’m standing, it kinda looked like your boyfriend might have a lot to do with it.”
“Ew. No,” you say quickly. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
Something shifts in Satoru’s expression. “Good to know.”
You blink. “Why?”
He shrugs. “Just is.”
You roll your eyes, but continue anyway, words spilling easier now. “If my parents have their way, he’ll probably be more than my boyfriend someday.” You grimace. “Which is terrifying, because he’s about as smart as a box of rocks, and I can’t be around him for more than ten minutes without wanting to bang my head against the wall.”
Satoru lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Here I thought I was harsh.”
Panic flickers through you when he doesn’t say anything else right away.
“I know it sounds stupid,” you rush on. “There are people who’d kill to have something lined up like that, and here I am complaining. My mom married my dad for business reasons and they’re… fine. I think.” You run a hand over your hair. “But I don’t want that. I don’t want to be married right after graduation. I don’t even know if I want to get married at all.”
Satoru doesn’t interrupt, but when he does speak, his voice is quieter. “That doesn’t sound stupid. In a place like this,” he gestures toward campus, “everything’s a transaction. Degrees, connections, last names.” He scoffs lightly. “My parents won’t shut up about networking. Meanwhile, the best relationship I’ve built here is with the lady who gives me extra french toast in the dining hall.”
You laugh, clearly surprised. Not only because the french toast sucks, but because you wouldn’t expect something like that from him. It should make you feel less impressed with him, but for some reason, it doesn’t.
“I’m serious,” he adds. “Peace isn’t exactly encouraged around here. If anything, you’re expected to trade for it.”
“And you?” you ask before you can stop yourself. “You don’t seem all that worried about it, for someone who comes from a family like yours.”
Satoru shrugs again, but this time it’s different. Less flippant. “Guess I just decided a while ago that I’d rather disappoint my parents than disappoint myself.”
The quiet that follows is heavier than the music inside. You can hear the hollers and shuffling feet just inside, but it fades away just as quickly as it came.
“You make it sound easy,” you say.
He smiles. “Hey, I never said it was. It’s just easier than the alternative, is all.”
You nod because it feels appropriate, and you aren’t sure what else you should do. Talking with him is surprisingly easy, but that doesn’t mean you’re supposed to be doing it. That you should be doing it. Even now, you wish you could resonate with Satoru’s ideology, because all you can think about is how much your parents would hate this.
“My parents would hate this,” you blurt out, accidentally saying your thoughts aloud.
You look at him, embarrassed and doing your best to hide it. It feels strange, knowing just how much you’re supposed to hate talking to him yourself, but don’t.
He rubs the back of his neck. “This conversation?”
You try not to stare at his bicep, flexing right in your face.
“Yeah,” you admit. “My parents hate your family. Always have.”
“Mine aren’t exactly fans of yours either.” Satoru laughs, tilting his head slightly. The feeling was mutual—he couldn’t take much offense at it. Still, he asks, “Do you feel that way too?”
“What do you mean?”
He turns to look at you, his expression almost serious. “Do you hate me?”
You huff. “I don’t even understand the reasoning all that much. I just know that the animosity exists, and that I’m expected to respect it— and I guess I have, for the most part.”
“That isn’t what I asked,” he replies simply. “Do you hate me? On your own terms?” He pauses then, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he looked a tad nervous. “I’m sure I’ve given you enough of a reason to. More than one, I’d bet.” He glances away. “The first time we ever spoke, I spilled beer all over your shoes. I shouldn’t have been holding it anyway— I hate beer.”
“I knew you remembered!” you yell, pointing a finger at him. “I’ve been holding that grudge against you for years now.”
“What? Of course I remember. I apologized immediately,” he says quickly. “Pretty sure I almost got on my knees and everything.”
You click your tongue and shake your head. “The damage was already done.”
The conversation stills for a moment, and you choke over your words before managing a more serious reply.
“For as obnoxious as you are, I don’t hate you. No. I don’t even know you well enough to hate you if I wanted to.”
“Alright, I’ll take it.” Satoru smiles to himself. “I think you’d form a better opinion of me if you let me get to know you. You’re a tough nut to crack, you know— been tryin’ for years.”
You stare at him, and he doesn’t cower in response. Not that he typically would, but you half-expected him to.
“I’m serious,” he says instead. “We should be friends.”
Your laugh comes out sharp. “Absolutely not. My parents would be livid. Beyond livid, actually—they’d probably murder me. And I mean, a true crime podcaster’s wet dream type of murder. No joke.”
“Well, if that’s the case, I think we should definitely be friends,” he says through his laughter. “I’ve always wanted to be in a documentary. Confessionals and all. A face like this is made for the cameras.”
“You’re such a jerk,” you scoff, nudging his side, barely able to fight off your smile.
“Mm-hmm. A big jerk that you’re still talking to,” he replies. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you wanted to be my friend too.”
You don’t reply, which might have just been an answer in and of itself.
For the first time throughout this entire conversation, Satoru turns his body to face you properly. His head tilts down enough to accommodate the height difference between you.
“I think this might be the first argument you’ve ever let me win,” he grins.
You narrow your eyes. “This isn’t a win. It’s more like… a draw. A tie.”
“Sure. A draw, a tie. Potato, potahto. Whatever.” He extends his hand toward you. “So. Friends?”
You take it and shake it. “Yes. Friends.”
He smiles. “See? Easy peasy lemon squeezy.”
When your hands fall apart, Satoru’s hand stills at his side—fingers flexing—before he grasps the railing. You straighten, stepping back from it yourself. The night air suddenly feels too thin, as if there isn’t enough of it for the two of you to breathe anymore. More anxiety than anything else.
“I should probably go,” you murmur. “It’s late.”
And you’ve been talking for quite some time now, which only means it’s a matter of time before someone notices and writes a blind item in that stupid newspaper column.
“Right,” he replies. “Need someone to walk you home?”
You shake your head. “I think I’ll manage.”
Satoru nods, his smile slow as it turns up at the corners. “Alright. Sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite.”
“Night,” you reply weakly before reemerging into the party.
You reunite with your friends, who seem even more over the night than you are. The four of you walk back to your dormitory together.
☆
You royally fucked up this time.
To no surprise, you won the student council election with flying colors. No one had the balls—or…clit? You don’t discriminate—to run against you throughout the election cycle.
With some surprise, however, you decided to celebrate your victory with the other board members, taking way too many shots from a bottle that was emptied far too quickly.
On a fucking Tuesday.
You mentally kicked yourself—and you would’ve done the same physically if you weren’t on the verge of blacking out.
Vision splotchy, you glanced around the dorm, only to find that everyone was already passed out cold. You couldn’t stay here—you had a meeting bright and early!
And so, with some difficulty, you finally managed to find your purse—the one you had hidden while sober, back when your only concern was someone stealing the $60 in cash from your wallet.
Widening your eyes, the bright screen was a blur of letters and colors, but you managed to open your contacts app. Typing in an ‘S,’ you clicked Shoko’s contact, praying she was awake and able to come pick you up from the off-campus housing.
The line rang twice before someone answered.
You sigh in relief. “Girl, red alert! Get your sexy ass up and come pick me up!…please.”
“Woah, Prez. I had no idea you thought about me this way. Tell me more.”
Your heart dropped straight to your ass.
“Satoru…?” you whine, more than ask.
“Yeah, it’s me. I’m startin’ to think you meant to call someone else. Bit of a blow to my ego, but I can handle it.”
Slumping against the couch, you huff. “Meant to call Shoko. Need a ride.”
Silence filled the line for a moment, then an insufferably attractive laugh broke it. “Are you drunk right now?”
You sniffled. “A little. I mean—a lottle. I-I mean, a lot. Very drunk. Drunk and stranded.”
You heard rustling on the other end, the faint jangle of keys. Your eyes fell shut. You were so damn tired.
“Okay, I just left my apartment. Where are you?”
In any other situation, you would’ve refused Satoru Gojo’s help. You were a strong, independent woman. You didn’t need a man to come to your rescue.
But the longer you sat on this couch, the more you wanted to ditch your mandatory meeting in the A.M. and pass out right here.
Even in this state, you were smart enough to know staying wasn’t an option.
“I’m at off-campus housing down the street. Please hurry. And bring water. And snacks. And a blanket. And—”
“Yes, boss, I’ve already got all of that—along with a partridge in a pear tree. Jeez, you’re needy.” He laughed, and it made you pout. “I’m only a few minutes away. Hang tight.”
⭑
“Watch your head, watch your head!”
Thunk.
“Oww,” you whine, rubbing the top of your head while Satoru busied himself fastening your seatbelt.
Rounding the front of his sports car, he slips into the driver’s seat. The engine roared to life a few seconds later, but the car stayed in park. Instead, he reaches for the ice-cold water bottle in the cup holder, twisting off the cap before handing it to you.
“How much did you have to drink?” he asks, sounding almost agonized. “Don’t know if you know this, but it’s Tuesday night.”
It took you about ten seconds, a long drink of water, and a deep sigh of relief before you answered.
“I won the presidency,” you finally say, as if that answered everything.
“Ah.” He reaches for a nearby pack of gummy bears. “This good? That’s all I could find on the way.”
“Yes,” you barely cared, tearing the package open. “Y’know, Gojo…you’re kinda nice.”
He huffs, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, really? What gave you that idea?”
Chewing thoughtfully, you started listing things your sober self would’ve never admitted.
“You came to get me even though I’m such a bitch to you. And you brought me water, and my favorite candy, and—hic!”
“And you tease me all the time, but you aren’t that mean when it comes down to it…” You sniffle. “I honestly wish you were. It’d be easier to hate you.”
He laughs, shaking his head as he finally shifts the car into drive. “Aw, sorry about that. I can be mean to you if you want?”
The drive was quiet, mostly because it was so short—the streets were empty at this ungodly hour. When Satoru parked and killed the engine, he turned to look at you and froze.
You were chewing on gummy bears with tears streaming down your cheeks.
“Are you a sad drunk?” he asks, even though he already knew. “Aw, you are, aren’t you?”
You sniffle. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
He shifts toward you, more careful now, lifting the water bottle back to your lips. “‘Cause we’re friends now. I’m nice to my friends. C’mere.”
To his surprise, you let him tip the bottle, drinking without protest.
Swallowing, you frowned. “No, you aren’t.” Sniffle. “You’re mean to Suguru. And Nanami. And Toji…”
Satoru’s smile is lopsided. “You have a point. Guess I’m just nice to you then.”
“But why?” you press, not even realizing it. “You have no reason to be.”
Satoru was the type of man who had never needed to wish on stars to get what he wanted.
All it took was a swipe of one of his many credit cards or the mention of his family name. It worked without fail.
For everything except one thing, and she was sitting right beside him.
Oblivious to the fact that since freshman year, she’d made his heart race every time she was near. From the moment he met her in biology—cut down by her sharp tongue—he’d felt motivated instead of defeated.
He’d gone home that night thinking about her. Stayed up, even, planning ways to talk to you the next day. Ways to make you look at him. Talk to him. Give him the time of day.
You had no idea what you did to him, and right now, he had no place to tell you.
He leans back with a quiet hum. “For someone so smart, you can be a little dense sometimes.”
Your sniffle cut him off. His head snaps toward you, and his chest nearly caved in at the sight of fresh tears welling up.
“No, no, no, no— hey, I was joking! I didn’t mean it, I swear.”
Satoru cupped your cheeks, thumbs brushing away your tears. His eyes searched yours, softening despite himself. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear.
“You’re kinda cute when you’re drunk,” he says.
What the fuck?
Why would he say that out loud? Right now? Of all times?
“You’re kinda cute all the time,” you replied easily, fingers fumbling with the pendant on his necklace. “You smell really nice, too.”
Satoru’s heartbeat doubled, but he forced himself not to read into it. Not now. Not when you’re in this state.
He cleared his throat, pulling his hands away. “Let’s get you inside, okay?”
He stepped out first, then opened your door. Your eyes met his as he reached in to unbuckle you. “Easy,” he murmured.
Getting you out of the car was about ninety-five percent Satoru’s effort; you leaned into him the majority of the way, the two of you making your way toward the side entrance. It felt like it took hours to climb the stairs—but in reality, Satoru carried most of your weight without breaking a sweat.
By the time you reached your room, he helped you onto your bed, carefully slipping off your heels. His hand lingered at your ankle, thumb brushing over the faint mark the strap had left behind. He leaned over you slightly, hand smoothing over your hair.
“Get some sleep, okay?”
You didn’t notice when he set a bottle of aspirin and fresh water on your nightstand. You just curled under your blankets on instinct, heavy with exhaustion. Your eyes cracked open just enough to catch your on-call-Uber-driver-slash-friend retreating toward the door.
“Satoru?” you called.
He paused, one foot already out. “Mm?”
“I like it when you’re nice to me.” You shook your head. “No—I mean… I like being your friend.”
Satoru smiled faintly. “Me too.”
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
☆
You despise how much you enjoy being friends with Satoru Gojo.
You despise how attentive he is. How he silently hands you a pencil a beat after you realize you’ve come without one. How he holds the seat down for you so you can sit more easily in the lecture hall. How he gives you one of his AirPods whenever you’re in the library together, looking for your own books respectively, yet highly aware of how far you are from him when the music begins to chop up.
You despise how much he’s gotten you to let your guard down. How he makes you laugh whenever one of your student council meetings goes awry, because the high of being reelected as council president only lasts until the first meeting. How he assures you that you can get through whatever issue you’re working through with your boardmates, because, according to him, if you were able to snag his vote, then you can just about do anything. How he references Digimon or whatever video game he’s played last into just about every other conversation, to the point where it borders on endearing and annoying—but the expression he wears when he talks about it makes you easily decide on the former.
You despise how he makes you feel. How a simple nudge to your side whenever you reply with a smartass comment makes your face feel warm. How the scent of his cologne lingers after he leaves, and how you feel disappointed when it finally dissipates. How you’ve now become acutely aware of the length of his eyelashes, the vibrance of his eyes, the smile lines that look more handsome on him than you’d ever like to admit.
But more than anything, you despise that you just can’t find anything to hate about him—no matter how hard you try.
It had only been a little over a month, and yet it’s difficult to remember what it was like when the two of you weren’t friends, or what faulty reason you had to hate him in the first place.
You doodle a bit rougher in your notebook as you wait for instruction to begin, trying to get your mind off it. Off him.
Like clockwork, he plops down into the seat beside you, lazily extending his legs before placing a small white box on your desk.
“What’s this?” you ask, setting your pen down. When you open it, you find your favorite pastry sitting inside, untouched. Your brows knit together. “How’d you know this was my favorite?”
When you look at him, he’s already chewing a bite of the muffin he bought for himself.
“We’ve been to the café twice together and you got the same thing both times. How could I not know by now?”
You take a bite of your own, chewing thoughtfully. You’ve been to the café with Sukuna more times than you can count on both hands, and not once has he remembered what your go-to order is. It shouldn’t mean so much—in the grand scheme of things, it’s just a four dollar pastry—but it does. It feels good to be known, even in the simplest way.
“Well… thank you. I appreciate it.”
“Yeah, no prob,” he replies, setting his muffin down. “Your stomach growls when you don’t eat in the morning—I could hear it from three aisles back.”
You shove his shoulder, eyes wide. “Shut up. No, you couldn’t.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” he relents with a grin, glancing your way. “It was four aisles back.”
You roll your eyes, face warm. You glance down at his muffin, and he clutches it closer to himself.
“No looksies,” Satoru says firmly. “Daddy doesn’t like to share.”
You grimace. “Ew. Gross. Don’t call yourself that.”
“Mommy doesn’t like to share?”
“Even worse.”
Satoru sighs in playful defeat, and just in time—before he can try again—your professor addresses the class and starts the lecture.
And no more than five minutes later, he doesn’t even complain when you ask for a bite of his muffin.
☆
You’re nervous about your upcoming Anatomy & Physiology exam.
The air outside is brisk, the cold biting at your cheeks as you speedwalk toward your dormitory. Even though this is nowhere near your first rodeo with the freezing-to-pleasant transition between winter and spring, it never gets easier to manage. Especially not now, with your arms full of flash cards, two folders, an oversupply of fresh scratch paper, and blank scantrons that are just about begging to be practiced on—which means you don’t have a free hand to grab a hot chocolate from the on-campus café. What a great start to your study session this is.
Your steps are quick, and from afar, you probably look like you’re lightly jogging, which isn’t the best look considering you’re wearing a thick, furry winter coat and a pair of fuzzy pajama pants. It isn’t ideal, but you planned for this venture outside your dorm room to be quick.
That is, until you trip on a shift in the sidewalk and tumble forward.
You catch yourself on your hands, which only makes you realize that your supplies are now blowing away. You manage to pick up a few things on your own and reach for a folder—only to realize someone else has already picked it up.
“Nearly gone with the wind,” Satoru sighs. “Good thing I was here to save the day. No need for thanks— it’s all in a day’s work.”
You straighten once you’ve gathered the rest of your things. “You and your gloating. Don’t you ever get tired?”
“Nope.” He shakes his head, then glances down. “Cute slippers.”
Your eyes follow his gaze to the fuzzy slippers you only ever dare to wear out when your feet are freezing. You shift your feet and nudge his chest. “Shut up. They’re warm!”
“And fashionable,” he lilts, and gestures to the armful in your hands. “What’s all this for?”
“Studying,” you answer, because it’s obvious. “I’m gonna make flashcards for the A&P exam and probably take a few practice tests.” You reach for the folder still in his grasp. “So, if you’ll excuse me—”
“Hey, hey, hey. Slow down a sec.” Satoru lifts the folder out of reach. “Let me help you out, yeah?”
You narrow your eyes. “Why? Don’t you want to score better than me anyway?”
“Oh no,” Satoru says flatly, face blank. “You’ve exposed my master plan once again. Whatever will I do?” Then he grins. “How could you think so little of me? I’ll score better than you without sabotage, you know that.”
“As if,” you retort, averting his gaze.
Satoru raises an eyebrow. “If you’re so confident, prove me wrong.”
You tuck your lips into your mouth, weighing his offer. On one hand, you’re hesitant to let him into your room—afraid that you might not dislike it. That you might even like being alone with him. On the other, you’ve never been one to back down from a challenge like this.
Your pride settles it for you.
“Fine,” you say. “I will. Follow me.”
☆
Rumor has it that this was where it all truly began.
Your bedroom.
It was all rather easy at first. You’d spent about an hour making flashcards, a time primarily spent in silence—save for his voice making noise pollution every so often. Mostly moans and groans about how bored and hungry he is, which fall on deaf ears.
By the time you finish the deck, Satoru’s jacket is hanging on the back of your desk chair, and he’s lazily sprawled across your bed. He’d offered to take the chair, but you insisted that sitting made you focus better. Which it does, but you’re also too nervous to sit beside him on the bed right now.
He tosses a stress ball toward the ceiling, catching it with one hand. “Done yet? I’m dying here. The fun part is supposed to be me quizzing you.”
You straighten the cards before tossing them his way, the deck landing on his stomach. “Yes, now hurry up. I don’t have all day.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he chirps, propping himself up against your pillows as he gathers the cards. He clears his throat, glances once at you, then back down. “What are the two primary functions of the skeletal system?”
It doesn’t take you more than a second. “Support the body and protect softer body parts.”
He hums and flicks to the next card. “What three things does the muscular system allow the body to do?”
You hum, rubbing your chin. “Movement, support, and… heat production.”
Another flick. “What about the nervous system?”
“It controls immediate responses to stimuli,” you answer easily.
Satoru huffs, flipping through card after card as you breeze through half the deck. Soon you’re naming the primary functions of individual muscles—temporalis, masseter, sternocleidomastoid, extensor digitorum—you’ve lost count of how many you’ve answered correctly. You’re zoned in, until he looks up at you with a raised eyebrow.
“These are too easy for you,” he declares. “You need something more challenging.”
You squint and lean back in your chair. “What? These are plenty challenging.”
He hums, clearly unconvinced. “Nope. You need more independent practice. Stuff you can’t predict.”
“Like what?” you ask. “Since you’re so smart, I’m assuming you have an alternative method. Put up or shut up.”
Satoru exhales through his nose, meeting your gaze without missing a beat. He’s long since learned your tone, your bite. He grins and sits up straighter, lifting an arm and pointing to his own. “What does the tricep do?”
You blink. “Straightens the arm at the elbow? Duh. I thought this was supposed to be hard.”
“Shh, be patient. A master is at work.” He pauses, then asks, “What about the orbicularis oris?”
Your posture straightens against your will, gaze dropping to his mouth. Your eyes trace the curve of his lips—where that muscle would be—and you watch as the corners of his mouth tug upward. Five seconds pass—longer than any question has taken you so far.
“It allows for movement in the lips,” you finally say.
“Mm,” he sighs. “Only half credit. That’s a little vague. Name three specific functions and I might reconsider.”
The room feels warmer. You clear your throat. “Speech, whistling, and… kissing.” Your eyes flick away to your desk as you fuss with loose papers, trying to come off as busy or distracted. You add quickly, “It’s informally known as the kissing muscle. Everyone knows that.”
A low whistle leaves him as he rises from the bed, stretching his arms over his head before stalking toward your desk. He stops behind your chair, flashcards still in hand.
“What’re you doing?” you ask, still facing forward.
He sets the cards down in front of you and places one hand on the desk, leaning just slightly over you. He isn’t touching you, but he’s close enough that you feel the heat of him at your back, and certainly close enough to make your thoughts scatter.
“Told you,” he murmurs. “I’m helping you study.”
You swallow. “How, exactly?”
He exhales, breath brushing your neck. “Have you practiced for the muscle identification portion yet?”
Shit. You’d nearly forgotten about that. From what you remembered your professor saying, there would be anatomy models stationed around the classroom, highlighted with nothing more than a single muscle on each one. It would be your responsibility to name the muscle and its function on the spot.
“Not really,” you admit, shrugging. Your back brushes his chest, and you clear your throat quickly. “How do you plan on helping with that?”
Satoru brushes your hair off your shoulder, knuckles barely grazing the back of your neck before his thumb presses gently into a muscle along your upper back. “For starters: what muscle just helped you shrug your shoulders?”
You swallow thickly. Your breath leaves you shaky, and you hope he doesn’t notice the goosebumps rising on your skin when his thumb traces again, slow and deliberate. Meant to tease you, you’d imagine.
“Upper trapezius,” you say, breathy despite yourself.
“Good.” You can hear the smile in his voice. His hand moves, thumb sliding to the back of your neck. “Your neck’s tense.”
“Well,” you say, forcing a shaky exhale, “it’s not every day I become a study tool. First day on the job.”
He laughs, and there’s something charged beneath it. “You saying you don’t like my method?”
“No, I’m not saying that at all,” you blurt. You glance up and freeze at how close his face is. “...I’ve liked others less. That’s all.”
A lopsided smile. “So you want to continue?”
Your answer is immediate. “Yes.”
His thumb presses more firmly at your neck. “What muscle is tensed up here?”
“Trick question,” you mutter, “still the upper trapezius.”
“Good.” His hand flattens, gliding down your back, following the natural arch of your spine as your breath catches in your throat. “Now tell me—”
Your heart is pounding.
“—what muscle is making your back arch like that?”
You scoff, trying to straighten. “You’re ridiculous.”
“That’s not an answer,” he tuts. “Don’t know it, huh?”
“Of course I do,” you stammer.
“Then tell me, smart girl.”
Your stomach twists with nerves and something far more dangerous. He shouldn’t excite you. He should make you pull away, push him out, undo whatever this is. And yet, your mind wanders to what it would be like if you didn’t. If you invited him to stay instead.
You shake your head, grounding yourself. “Erector spinae.”
He hums. “See? Not so hard.”
“It was plenty hard,” you murmur, stealing a glance up at him.
He tilts his head, just enough to meet your eyes. Your lashes flutter as you switch between each of his eyes. His nose is nearly brushing yours, and it terrifies you just as much as it intrigues you. No, actually—what you’re feeling now goes beyond simple intrigue. It’s excitement. Bordering on longing.
“What are you doing?” you ask, words tumbling out of your mouth.
“Just lookin’ at you,” he replies easily. “You’re pretty.”
“Wha–? Sh-Shut up.”
He grins. “You’re cute when you’re shy, too.”
From the beginning, Satoru was supposed to be nothing more than a thorn in your side. Someone sharp and irritating. Something to endure. But when given the chance to poke where you were weakest, he’d held you instead.
His hand slides to your waist, fingertips slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. He still hasn’t pulled away, and you pray that he doesn’t. You don’t want him to.
You lick your bottom lip without thinking. His eyes drop instantly, tracking the movement—and he doesn’t bother hiding it, even after he’s sure you’ve noticed.
And when he’s least expecting it, at least as far as you can tell, you rock up onto your toes, hands fisted into his shirt, and press your lips to his.
Your lips slot into his like two puzzle pieces fitting together. His hands tighten their hold on your waist, and when you force yourself to pull away, to face the music of your decision made on a whim, you find a blushing Satoru staring back at you.
A soft, nervous laugh leaves his lips, breath warm against yours.
“Well, if you thought studying was hard…”
…Oh?
Your gaze dips.
Oh.
He’s hard.
From a single peck.
His sweatpants hang low on his hips, giving you a slight glimpse of the light trail of hair that leads toward the prominent bulge in the fabric. The sight alone makes your mouth water, enough for you to, within the span of a second, wonder what it’d be like to feel it. From sight alone, it looks big. Heavy.
Every warning system inside your head blares all at once, telling you that this is a bad, bad, bad, horrible, horrible, horrible decision. And yet, you lean into him again.
You kiss him once more, hands clutching onto his shirt as you tug him down to meet your mouth, which he does with no hesitation. His lips are softer than you imagined, gentle on yours.
“And which muscle is responsible for that?” you ask against his mouth.
He smiles, you can feel it. “Ischiocavernosus.”
Satoru’s large hands smooth over the backs of your thighs, lifting you like you weighed nothing at all. You’re lying on your bed before you realize it, and he is hovering atop in between your parted legs.
His lips tear away from yours, kisses mapping out a trail of heat along your jaw. Your hand slips into his hair, tugging when his mouth finds the sweet spot just beneath your ear.
Your back arches off the bed as a signifier.
“Found it,” he rumbles against your skin, smiling against it.
His mouth is searing, kissing down your clothed chest until he pushes your shirt up just enough to expose your belly. Open-mouthed kisses mark his exploration of your skin, hot and wet as he traces the curve of your side.
Your stomach flutters when his mouth kisses down your belly, strong hands holding your waist in place while his tongue darts out to get a taste of your skin.
Satoru’s movements, you realize, seem automatic. Like he’s thought about this before, planned for it, even—he was just waiting for you to give him the chance.
Hands suddenly paw at his shoulders, your hips squirming slightly. “Stop teasing me, Satoru.”
Satoru laughs, fingers tugging your fuzzy pajama pants down just enough to kiss your hip bone. “Fine, fine. Under one condition.”
Your heart pounds. “What is it?”
His hands smooth over your thighs as he shifts a bit lower. “Let me taste you.”
You blink a few times, clearly surprised. You’ve never been with a guy whose first move is to go down on you. “Okay… I mean, if you want to—ah!”
His hands are skilled in the way that they pull the hem of your pants down, leaning back just enough to peel them down your legs and toss them aimlessly onto the floor.
Satoru’s eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen, focused on the apex of your thighs as he flattens to his stomach. His hands move your legs to rest on his shoulders, his lips already on your inner thigh.
“Fuck, thank you,” he whispers against your skin, wet kisses inching closer to your core.
And when his mouth finds the wet patch on the gusset of your panties, Satoru knows he’s a goner.
His grip tightens on your thighs, pulling you closer to his mouth. Eyes fluttering shut, he flattens his tongue over the fabric. That only lasts a few seconds before his fingers tug the flimsy material down your legs, and his lips are latching onto the true source.
A groan escapes him the moment his tongue laps at your essence. “Tastes so sweet.”
Your fingers slip into his hair, tugging at the root when his lips close around your clit. Your hips would’ve bucked into his mouth if his iron grip wasn’t keeping you in place.
Even with his face buried in your pussy, he manages to speak.
“Mmh— tastes like candy, baby. Thought about this s’many times.”
The confirmation only makes you twitch, which he seems to notice if the firm press of his tongue to your clit is any confirmation.
“Ah— shit, Satoru. Right there.”
Satoru thinks that he could do this forever. Could live and die a happy man, cheeks warmed by your thighs pressing in on them and the taste of you on his tongue.
His nose bumps against your clit, tongue slipping lower to gather more of you on his taste buds. His hips begin to rut into the mattress like a dog in heat, a whimper leaving his throat when you tug particularly hard on his hair.
“S-Sorry,” you manage, fingers releasing the strands of his white hair.
Blue eyes meet yours, and he forces himself to pull his tongue off you just long enough to speak. “Baby, I don’t care. Tug on it even harder if you wanna. Your pleasure feels good to me.”
“Masochist,” you say through a breathy laugh.
His mouth is back on you. “Only for you.”
You’re like sugar on his tongue, the type of ambrosia that men should go to war for. Satoru knows he would in a heartbeat.
The feeling of his tongue kitten licking your clit has your hands shooting down, one sliding back into his hair and the other scratching at the back of his hand on your thigh.
Satoru gives it to you without a second thought, your fingers lacing with his as you press his hand down on your stomach.
His eyes crack open to watch your face, twisted in a pleasure that he’s proud to have given you. He sucks your clit into his mouth before releasing it with a slick pop.
Only, your hand in his hair presses his face back into your pussy, and Satoru is nothing if not willing to please you.
The groan that leaves him travels up your spine, and your hips begin to twitch, thighs closing in on his head. A mewl leaves your lips, clutching his hand before you cry out, the first wave of your orgasm wracking through you.
Satoru flattens his tongue, licking up every drop of your syrupy release, hellbent on committing the taste of you to memory.
His voice is deep and scratchy when he speaks. “You’re beautiful when you cum.”
Your eyes snap open, a newfound heat finding your cheeks. “Shut up.”
He’s crawling up to meet your lips with a smile, shaking his head. “Nuh-uh. Just telling the truth.” He kisses your lips, and you taste yourself on them. “Sweetest pussy. I’d go for seconds if you let me.”
You’re tempted by the offer.
Only, something else tempts you more than it should.
Satoru hisses the moment your palm presses against the bulge in his sweatpants, forehead knocking into yours. His hips twitch against your hand, and when he closes his eyes, you can tell he’s doing his best not to grind into your hand.
A quiet laugh leaves your mouth. “I think I’d rather do something else.”
His hands fist into the bedsheets in an act of restraint. “Like what?” he asks, voice strained.
You huff, free hand taking hold of his chin, forcing him to look at you. “I think you’re smart enough to figure it out.”
“I don’t wanna assume. It’s ungentlemanly, y’know?” His lips press against yours, pulling back before you have the chance to deepen the kiss. “Ah-ah-ah, can’t do anything more ‘til the lady asks.”
He’s so fucking annoying.
The pout on your lips is too cute to handle. Satoru debates kissing it away. Only, your next words stop him in his tracks.
They come out more demanding than you intended, trying to hide how needy you really are. “Stop wasting my time. I want you to fuck me, Satoru.”
His cock twitches against your hand. Maybe bossiness works best with him.
“That’s so hot,” he says, panting.
Satoru immediately reaches for the hem of his sweatpants and boxers, pushing them down his legs in a hurried, uncoordinated manner. He nearly topples over once or twice in his haste.
Soon, though, his erection springs free, slapping against his stomach. It’s somehow even bigger than you initially imagined…lengthy, and flushed a pretty shade of pink at the tip.
This time, Satoru doesn’t tease you like you were expecting him to. Doesn’t gloat.
Instead, he kisses your cheek, then your forehead, until his mouth finally finds yours, a broken sound escaping him the moment he rubs his tip through your folds.
Then, his eyes find yours, and it feels like the world stops on its axis.
Forehead to forehead. Chest to chest. Your hand in his hair, his on your cheek. With Satoru Gojo of all people. The one person in this world whom you should stay away from.
And here he is, looking at you like you’re worth more than your family name and the money bags that come with it, like he wants you for you. Nothing else.
“We don’t have to, baby,” he whispers, sweet and gentle, as if sensing the mental games you’re playing with yourself. “I’m happy to just be here with you. I mean it.”
There it is. An out.
You should stop this before it starts. You should do your best to save the peace between you and your parents—what’s left of it, anyway. You should forget about the way your chest warms up when his thumb strokes over your cheek.
But then, wise words ring out in your mind.
I’d rather disappoint my parents than disappoint myself.
And in this moment, you realize that losing Satoru would far surpass mere disappointment. It isn’t something you can bear, nor do you ever want to.
You shake your head, leaning up to kiss him, nice and soft. “I want this. So… stop making me wait.”
Satoru laughs, lips on your cheek as he notches himself on your entrance. “Yes, ma’am.”
Inch by inch, his length stretches you open, making your hands grasp at his shoulders for purchase, nails sinking into his skin. You whine at the intrusion, not used to his size by any means.
“You’re okay, pretty girl,” he murmurs against your mouth, one hand holding your cheek while the other strokes your hip. “Doing so good for me. Just a liiittle more.”
You huff, risking a glance downward, only to see he was only half inside. You throw your head back on the pillow. “Liar.”
He smiles against your lips, kissing you. “Figured a little white lie never hurt anyone.”
A moment later, Satoru pushes his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt. You both release breathy moans at the same time, grips tightening on each other.
He pulls out, just the tip remaining, before sliding back inside your warmth, creating a slow, languid pace—giving you the chance to adjust to him.
You kiss him then, all teeth and tongue and want, panting hot against his mouth while your hands slip into his hair. “Fuck— faster, Toru. Please.”
The sound of his name on your tongue, so wanton while he’s inside you, spurs him on in a way he’s never felt before. His hands take hold of your hips, angling them up slightly so that he can fuck you deeper, the pace of his hips growing needier with each passing second.
“Mmh, wanted you for so long,” he says, words muffled against your skin while he kisses down your neck. “This—hah—can’t be real, baby. Feels so good.”
You drag his mouth back up to your lips, tongues sliding against each other in a fit of passion that you can hardly comprehend right now with how good he feels.
“So good,” you whimper into his mouth. “Want more, Satoru, please—”
“Shh, I got you,” he says.
And then his hands press down on the back of your thighs, folding them up against your chest. He pounds into you without sense, the new angle opening you up to him in a way that makes you see stars.
The sound of his balls slapping against your ass fills the room, the sounds of your pleasure only adding to the conversation.
Satoru pushes your shirt up, a sound between a whimper and a gasp, leaving him the moment his gaze sets on your breasts. His mouth latches onto your nipple before he can think twice about it.
“You weren’t—mmh—wearing a bra the whole time?”
You whine, trying to drag his mouth back to yours by your grip on his hair, but he doesn’t let up. “Y-You ask stupid questions.”
He flattens his tongue, laving over the underside of your breast, his hips never faltering. He groans against your skin. “C’mon, sweetheart, don’t give me that attitude. Haven’t I been good? Yeah?”
A pout forms on your kiss-bruised lips. “Mm— I’m not giving attitude.”
Satoru laughs, the sound raspy and deep. “You are, pretty girl, but it’s okay. Toru’ll make it all better.”
His lips are back on yours, to your satisfaction, and his hand slips between the two of you, thumbing at your clit. You gasp, stealing the air from his lungs, clinging onto his shoulders and back like a koala bear.
A warmth coils in your stomach, making you squirm against his thrusts. Your nails claw into his back, raking down his skin, surely leaving marks that Satoru will admire for days. A memento of the moment he’s been waiting for.
His cock twitches inside you when you moan again, your pussy clenching around him like a vice, tight and warm.
You whine. “Satoru—”
“Mm-hmm, I know, baby, don’t you worry,” he says, voice slightly smug as he continues to draw circles over your clit, feeling the way it pulses against his thumb. “Give it to me, sweets, know you can do it.”
Your hips buck up against his, your orgasm crashing into you. Your body tenses around him, squeezing him impossibly tighter.
If the way his pace stutters is any clue, you know he’s close. When you pulse against him, he drops his head onto your shoulder.
Satoru whimpers, so lost in his pleasure that he can no longer function. He fucks you shallowly now, and lost in your own mind, you turn your head to whisper in his ear.
“Inside,” you request, voice breathy. “Please, Toru.”
That makes Satoru cum before he can realize it.
Hot spurts shoot inside you, his sounds muffled against your skin while his own climax wracks through him. It seems like it goes on forever, but the moment he kisses the underside of your jaw, you realize that he’s finished, finally slipping out of the post-orgasm delirium you put him in.
When your eyes meet his, both of your eyes widen, expressions almost sheepish.
As if it were finally occurring to you that you just had sex with Satoru fucking Gojo, you feel a bit shy, blinking up at him and absolutely unsure what to say.
“…Hi,” you whisper.
Satoru seems to share your thoughts. He brings his hand to your cheek, knuckles brushing over your flushed skin. “Hey, baby.”
Unsure of what to do, you decide to lean back into your old reliable method. The only way you know how to talk to him is without allowing a hint of affection to seep into your voice. Be mean to him.
“Get off me,” you say, pawing at his chest halfheartedly, “you’re heavy.”
It seems that Satoru has learned you well enough to know exactly what you’re doing. Trying to push him away the moment it all feels like too much to handle, reverting to what you know best.
He lowers his head, brushing his lips against yours in a chaste kiss. “Mm, no can do, pretty. I like to cuddle after sex, guess you’re just gonna have to deal with it.”
You squirm as he begins to pepper your face with kisses, wet and dry, trying to get a proper reaction from you.
“Okay, okay!” you exclaim, laughing without realizing it. “Fine. We can cuddle…but we have to clean up first.”
Satoru beams at that. He kisses your forehead before practically leaping off your bed, searching for a towel. You aren’t sure why the sight of him prancing around your room in his birthday suit makes you feel so…warm and tingly inside.
God, what has he done to you?
You yawn, rubbing your eyes. “On the left side of the closet. Third drawer down.”
A second later, he’s back and wiping away the mess between your legs, careful with his movements. Once finished, he pokes around in your clothing drawers, managing to find a pair of fresh underwear and a pretty blue shirt that you should've known he’d pick out.
“Matches my eyes,” he preens, doing most of the work as he pulls the panties up your legs and the shirt over your head.
“Of course you’d notice that,” you scoff, trying to ignore how warm this all makes you feel.
With his boxers back on, he climbs back into bed with you, lying on his back. A surprised sound leaves him when you rest your head on his chest, hand draped over his middle.
Satoru wears a smile as he wraps an arm around you, free hand lacing with yours. “Thought you didn’t wanna cuddle.”
“I never said that,” you grumble.
He laughs to himself, the kind that signifies he’s up to no good. “Aww. Just a cute little cuddle muffin you are.”
“I’ll get off you right now if you don’t—”
He immediately stops laughing and tightens his hold on you. “Sorry, sorry. You run a tight ship.”
☆
In your experience, the morning after could go one of two ways.
You could either cringe at yourself and your decisions, make awkward small talk with the person you had shared not only your body but also a bed with, and then tiptoe out of your hookup’s room, or not-so-discreetly kick them out of yours.
Or, you could still make equally awkward small talk upon waking up, limbs still entangled and clothes mostly scattered across the floor, but not feel the gnawing feeling to run away and never speak to this person again.
And so far, you’re in no rush to make him go.
Satoru shifts in his sleep behind you, one arm draped lazily over your middle while the other pillows your head. You blink blearily as you run your fingertips along his forearm, tracing the veins in his hand until you cover it with your own. His fingers slightly twitch until they fill the spaces between yours.
His nose brushes the back of your neck, inhaling indulgently. His arm beneath your head bends and curls inward, his nails gently scratching your scalp. “Morning.”
You feel your heartbeat quicken in your chest. His voice is deep and groggy from sleep, his lips just barely grazing your skin as he speaks. It only gets worse (or better?) when he presses a kiss to the crook of your shoulder and neck, firmer now yet unhurried.
The strap of the camisole you’d thrown on last night after your shower was now pinched between his thumb and forefinger, slowly slipping it down the curve of your shoulder as his lips explored further.
“Good morning,” you manage out, voice slightly weak but not entirely from just waking up. “How’d you sleep?”
You can feel his lips twitch against your skin, probably turning into a smug grin if you had to guess. His hand stopped on your bicep, his chin now resting on your shoulder as he pulls you closer.
“Better than usual,” he says, voice rumbling in his throat. “Even with you stealing the covers from me all night, it’d be worth it every time to wake up to this.” He picks his head up just enough to look down at you. “You?”
Your cheeks are warm, and you bury half of your face into the pillow. “Better than usual. I actually feel rested.”
Reaching an arm out, you turn the clock on your nightstand toward the bed. 2:38 p.m.
“We slept the whole day away!”
Satoru hums behind you, chest rumbling against your back. “Mm, good sex tends to do that to people.”
You smile, looking back at him over your shoulder. “Oh? So that’s why you were snoring into my ear all night?”
“Precisely why,” he replies easily, before pecking your lips. “Pussy put me right to sleep.”
This time, you lean in to kiss him. When you pull away, you freeze.
Oh fuck.
Then you shoot up out of bed, eyes wide and panicked. It’d just dawned on you that, for all the days you could have had sex with your annoying-rival-to-friend, it had to be the day of the Ryomen dinner. And, of course, you had to oversleep with said annoying-rival-to-friend-and-now-hookup still in your bed.
The drive alone would take two and a half hours.
“Holy shit, I need to go,” you say, scatterbrained as you rush into your closet.
Satoru props himself up on his elbow, sounding more panicked than he likely intended. “What? Why?”
You return to his line of sight, already half-clothed in a pristinely ironed dress, bouncing on one leg as you tug your stockings up. “I have to go to dinner with my family and the Ryomens. My mom is going to kill me.”
And he’s left to watch, helpless, as you check yourself in the mirror—putting your earrings on, looking beautiful as ever…to go have dinner with another guy and his family.
Satoru knows he should be relaxed about this. He needs to chill out. You had sex, yes, but it’s not like he’s your boyfriend or anything.
(Even though he’d thought about how great that would be as he admired you while you slept.)
“Oh, cool,” he says, forcing a cheery tone into his voice. “What for?”
You press your lips together, hastily applying your makeup lest you show up late with none on. “I’m not really sure. Probably to talk about their plans for us post-graduation. That’s all they talk about these days.”
He bites the inside of his cheek.
Doesn’t matter, he tells himself. Sex between friends can be…casual. Don’t read into it so much.
“Right,” he replies, rubbing the back of his neck, doing his best to seem relaxed. “Sounds boring.”
You nod at him through the mirror before turning to face him. “Yeah, it will be.”
A silence settles the moment your eyes meet.
Slowly, you walk over to him—still lying in your bed, clad in nothing but his boxers. “I’m sorry I’m leaving like this.”
He waves a hand through the air, making an exaggerated pshhh sound. “Don’t worry about it. I get it.”
You give him a lopsided smile before leaning down to kiss him. He barely has time to close his eyes—to savor it—before you’re already pulling away.
“I’ll text you, okay?” you say. “You can use my shower again if you want. Make yourself at home while I’m gone. Just don’t use up my body wash—it’s expensive.”
Satoru lets out a laugh that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Okay, no promises. Have fun.”
And then you’re gone, the door clicking shut behind you.
He falls back against the mattress, dragging his hands over his face.
It’s casual, he tries to remind himself. Don’t be a crybaby.
But you kissed him goodbye.
What was casual about that?
☆
The hallways are abnormally crowded today.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket, Shoko’s messages flooding in.
shoko 💗: hi
shoko 💗: how was the dinner?
shoko 💗: did your parents finally come to their senses
shoko 💗: and drop the stupid engagement idea????
you: i wish
you: they seem even more into the idea now
you: mind you, sukuna fell asleep at the dining table with his fork hanging out of his mouth
you: like oh okay i’m seeing it now, total HUSBAND MATERIAL right here
shoko 💗: fuck my chungus life
you: fuck mine too
The sound of hushed voices in the distance distracts you, making you glance in that direction.
Only then do you realize that they’re looking right at you.
Actually, it feels like everyone is looking at you.
No, worse. It feels like everyone can see through you. Like they know exactly what you’ve been up to. What you did when no one was around.
But that’s ridiculous. How could anyone know?
Suddenly hyper-aware of yourself, you glance back down at your phone.
you: i feel like everyone is staring at me today
shoko 💗: maybe because you look sexier than usual?
you: one can only hope
You crash into someone, limbs flailing, only to be steadied by a gentle grip.
“Watch where you’re going, iPad kid,” Satoru teases, a wide smile on his face.
You pocket your phone, huffing out a laugh despite yourself. “I was watching where I was going. You just came out of nowhere.”
“Uh-huh, totally,” he says.
Without thinking, you glance over your shoulder toward the group that had been watching you earlier, the itch still unscratched.
Always observant, Satoru tilts his head. “Hey. What’s up?”
“Nothing, I’m fine,” you answer instinctively.
“Talk to me,” he says, nudging your arm softly, still trying to keep things light.
Then your eyes meet his—his blue irises practically begging you to open up.
“It’s just…” Your voice trails off, growing quieter. “You didn’t tell anyone, did you? About…”
Satoru leans back slightly, like the question physically hit him.
“Uh— no,” he says. “No, I didn’t. Promise.”
You catch the shift in his expression—the way it falters, like something just closed off.
Your eyes squeeze shut. Shit. “No, it’s not that I regret it or anything, it’s just that—”
“It’s okay,” he cuts in, rubbing the back of his neck. “Really. It’s fine. You don’t have to explain.” His eyes meet yours again. “I didn’t tell anyone. Don’t worry.”
You tilt your head slightly. “Okay.”
“Okay,” he echoes quickly. “Good. I’m glad we got that figured out.”
“Me too,” you say, though you don’t sound convinced anymore. “Did— did I say something?”
Satoru shakes his head, that boyish smile slipping back into place. “Nah. You’re good.”
You glance around again. “…Okay.”
“Okay,” he repeats. “Are you going to the party this weekend? Choso’s frat is throwing.”
You nod. “Yeah, I’ll be there. I assume I’ll see you there too?”
“Yup,” he says with a nod. “Well, I’ve gotta get to class. I’ll talk to you later?”
“Yeah,” you say, turning to watch him walk away down the hallway.
Well… that conversation went well.
Right?
☆
After a few days of Satoru avoiding you like the plague, you’re starting to think your conversation didn’t go so well.
He’s only sent you one Instagram reel over the last three days—and it was about tips and tricks for studying anatomy. Was he doing this on purpose? The last time you studied for anatomy, it ended with you in bed with him.
For what feels like the tenth time this hour, you check your messages.
Satoru :D: Good morning
Satoru :D: Sleep well?
you: good morning
you: yes i did, did you?
And there’s been no response since.
You wonder if you should message him again.
Maybe his phone got swept up in a tornado. (It’s 75°F and sunny outside.)
Maybe he’s currently being attacked by alligators and desperately needs you as a lifeline. (Though you know he wouldn’t even accept your help—he’d be convinced he could take an alligator in a fight.)
Maybe he just hasn’t seen your text. (You saw him repost a TikTok about boba milk tea an hour ago.)
You tap on the text bar, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.
“There’s no way you’re about to double text a man.”
You jump, quickly locking your phone. “Utahime, I was not. I was just checking our messages.”
Utahime hums, clearly unconvinced, scrolling on her own phone. “You keep telling yourself that, girl.”
Rolling onto your back, you stare at the ceiling, hands folded over your chest.
“Are you seriously sulking right now?”
“I’m not sulking!”
(You were definitely sulking.)
Utahime sighs, nudging your side. “Did you read this week’s blind items?”
You shake your head. “No.”
She tilts her head down at you. “Well, I’m pretty sure one is about you.”
“WHAT?!”
You’ve never sat up this fast in your life—lightheaded and dizzy as you reach for Utahime’s phone.
There is going to be an engagement post-graduation between a male and female from two of the most well-known families on campus.
A male who lives on floor three in the Newbrooke dormitory has still been shitting in the showers. (P.S. Can you please stop already?)
A notorious rich student was spotted talking to a girl who comes from a family that begins with the last letter of the alphabet. Are sparks flying?
A male has been making piss-poor SoundCloud music at 4 AM for the past week. (Please stop. You are better off sticking to your career path in accounting.)
A pit forms in your stomach.
Had Sukuna told someone about your situation? You want to say no—but once he’s had enough to drink, anything is possible.
But the one that concerns you more is the third item.
Could Satoru have already moved on? To a girl from the Zenin family?
Utahime presses her thumb between your eyebrows, smoothing out the crease. “Hey. What happened to taking these with a grain of salt? They’re probably not real. Aside from the shower shitter—that one seems pretty legit.”
You let out a weak laugh. “Yeah… you’re probably right.”
Even still, the pit in your stomach doesn’t go away.
☆
Music thrums against the walls, people packed in like sardines, moving with no particular rhyme or rhythm. Smoke fills the air, a thick fog that has no chance of dissipating.
Sukuna’s arm is snug around your shoulder, something that you would have never thought twice about before. Now, though, you notice it like a thorn in your side.
You try to scan the room, in search of your friends who you knew would be here tonight. Only, a hand on your face draws your attention elsewhere, and Sukuna is kissing your cheek in farewell before you can even realize he’s leaving you to fend for yourself.
“Later, girl,” he says, so casually, as if he had the right.
Fucking typical.
You huff and wave your arm through the air, coughing quietly. Once the smoke cleared just enough, your gaze locked in on something in the distance.
Satoru. Standing beside a girl from the Zenin family.
But even as he stands beside her, his glowing eyes are already on you.
Suddenly, it hurts to breathe. The walls are caving in on you. The music fades into a silence that becomes even more overbearing than the bass.
Anger rises in your throat. Anger you have no right to feel.
After all, Satoru wasn’t yours. You weren’t his. He can do what he wants, as can you. How could you forget that? And why did you want to?
If you were a braver person, one who could be honest with herself, you would walk across this room. You’d tell him how you feel. You would say it now, out loud and to his face. At least then, he’d know how you felt.
The problem, though, was that you weren’t any of these things. You were terrified and hesitant—so all you could do was this. Look at him and hope he can put the puzzle pieces together on his own. You can only hope he likes how it looks once it is completed.
Your feet are moving before you can realize it. A moment later, you find yourself in the bathroom, pressing your back against the door to slam it shut.
You release a sharp breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. Your hands cover your face as you approach the sink, palms pressing against the countertop.
Then, you catch your reflection in the mirror.
You know better than this.
You know better than to wish for something that you have no right to.
You know better than to want Satoru. You know better than to envision a simple life with him. To want him in a way that is uncalculated and real.
Dropping your head, you close your eyes. Squeeze them shut, and hope that you were anywhere else but here, in this dingy bathroom with a flickering lightbulb above your head.
The door opens and shuts behind you.
You pick your head up, and there he is.
Satoru.
His chest presses to your back, his hands bracketing yours on the counter as he dips his chin into the crook of your neck. “Were you not going to come say hi?”
You roll your eyes despite yourself, refusing to meet his eyes in the mirror. “No. Seems like you were a little preoccupied.”
Silence stretched thin between you.
Then his hands find your waist, spinning you around to face him.
“Don’t do that,” he says, voice soft and almost pleading.
You swallow. “Don’t do what?”
“You know what,” he replies, “act like… you don’t care. Like you don’t feel anything for me, just because you’re upset.”
You avoid his gaze. “I’m not upset. It’s not like we’re dating. You can do what you want with…whoever you want.”
Satoru huffs, forehead knocking into yours before he pulls back. “How long are we going to keep doing this, baby?” he asks, hands finally coming to settle on your waist. “I don’t want anyone else. Not like how I want you.”
Finally, you tilt your head up, eyes meeting his.
It almost made you want to cry, realizing how easy things with Satoru were. How he opened himself up to you without fear, because he didn’t want an ounce of doubt to live in your head.
Maybe it was your turn to return the message.
“Me neither,” you finally admit.
His expression softens in relief.
“Good,” he murmurs, brushing your hair away from your face.
Your lips press together. “But why’d the blog say you were with a girl from the Zenin family?”
“The same reason that the stupid blog says you and Sukuna are together,” he says with a shrug. “It’s a rumor. People see you standing next to someone—at a very healthy distance, by the way, a very platonic and normal distance—and run with it.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “I don’t go around letting my rumored girlfriends kiss me on the cheek, though.”
You tilt your head, knowing full well that Satoru was capable of knowing that there were no feelings between you and Sukuna. “Careful, you almost sound upset.”
He shrugs his broad shoulders, tilting his head in the same direction you did. “Depends. Is he a good kisser?”
Your fingers are still gripping the edge of the counter. “He is.”
Satoru glances over your face, the corner of his mouth twitching once he notices the slight pout on your lips. “Better than me?”
You don’t want to give him the satisfaction, but you’re not a liar. “No.”
A small smirk. “Good.”
“Maybe you should get back to your friend,” you retort, shaking your head.
“You’re cute when you’re jealous,” Satoru coos, hand cupping your cheek, thumbing over your bottom lip.
You splutter. “What? I’m not.”
“No?”
“No.”
Satoru’s hand starts to pull away. Panic sparks in you, and your hand shoots up, wrapping around his wrist to keep his palm against your face. He smiles softly, thumb brushing over your cheekbone.
“...Only a little,” you finally admit.
Satoru’s fingers thread into your hair, guiding your forehead to his lips. “That’s okay. I was jealous too.”
“Jealous? You?”
“Jealous. Me.”
You clear your throat, and for the first time in your life, you decide to prod for further reassurance.
“Do you like her?” you ask, voice small.
He seems distracted, his lips on your cheek now in a chaste kiss. “Hm?”
“Do you like her?” you repeat, hands prodding at his chest to make him meet your eyes. “That girl you were talking to.”
Satoru scoffs, like the answer was obvious. “No. I’m a one-lady type of guy.”
That answer shouldn’t make your face feel warm, but it does. He’s turned you into mush, putty in his hands.
His thumb brushes over your hip bone. “Did you let Sukuna kiss you because you like him?”
You shake your head. “Maybe I just like kissing people. It’s fun, you know.”
“Oh, I know,” he says, nose brushing yours. “But do me a favor, yeah?”
“Yeah,” you murmur, heart rate doubling in your chest.
“The next time you wanna kiss someone, come to me instead,” he murmurs, hands sliding up your sides. “I’m better at it, anyway. Said it yourself.”
You can’t bite back your smile now, nor do you try to. “Okay.”
“Okay, baby.”
You hoped no one noticed how long you’d both been gone from the party, but when you exited the bathroom together—lip gloss smeared on Satoru’s mouth and your hair messier than before—it likely told the entire story for you.
☆
You wake up wrapped in a Digimon throw blanket.
A small, sleepy groan leaves you as you try to move—to stretch your limbs after a night of sleep.
Only, the heavily weighted blanket on top of you, known as Satoru Gojo, doesn’t make it very easy.
His arms are wrapped so tightly around you that you’d think he was afraid you might slip away in the middle of the night—so he set up precautions beforehand. His cheek is pressed against your bare chest, using your breasts as pillows.
The best pillows on the market, he says.
Blinking blearily, you scan his bedroom. Now, after only two months of dating, it looks like a shrine to you.
A framed photo of you hangs on his wall, another propped up on his bedside table. There’s one on his desk too—taken on the first day of your internship—set beside his computer.
Because, as he says, “seeing you smiling in that pretty little dress motivates me to study, ‘cause I need to pay for your tastes somehow.”
You’re smiling now, glancing down at him, his cheek squished against your skin. Your fingers glide through his hair before smoothing down his back, soothing the faint sting of the scratches you’d left the night before.
A quiet whine leaves him, and he fumbles blindly for your hand, guiding it back to his hair so you’ll keep playing with it.
“Good morning to you, too,” you murmur, scratching lightly at his scalp.
“Morning, baby,” he mumbles, voice rumbling against your skin.
Without opening his eyes, he presses a kiss to the underside of your breast, his mouth already trailing down the column of your stomach.
“What’re you doing?” you ask, smiling.
“Eating breakfast,” he replies simply, mouthing at your hip bone.
Just as he reaches for the hem of your panties, his phone begins to buzz on the bedside table. Undeterred, he tugs them down an inch.
“Ignore it.”
Then his phone buzzes again. And again.
A moment later, yours buzzes too.
Slightly concerned now, you reach for it, unlocking the screen to a message from Shoko.
shoko 💗: WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP
shoko 💗: [article link]
You tap the link, your eyes widening as you read the headline.
“What?” he asks, already pouting slightly at the interruption. “What is it?”
Wordlessly, you turn the phone toward him.
Satoru Gojo and Y/N L/N were spotted on the Gojo family’s personal yacht, indulging in promiscuous activities.
And to make matters worse, front and center is a picture of you sitting in his lap—his hand squeezing a handful of your ass like he’s afraid it might run away from him.
You press your palm to your forehead. “I told you we shouldn’t have taken the yacht out that day.”
Satoru hums, clearly distracted. “How do I save this picture? You look really sexy in this.”
“Satoru, focus!” you say, lightly swatting his shoulder. “What should we do?”
He shrugs, fingers resuming their slow work of tugging your underwear down your legs. “Right now, I’m thinkin’ I’ll finish my breakfast. We’ll figure the other stuff out later.”
You think you should protest—but the moment his mouth finds you, every argument dies on your tongue.
Because you know that he’ll make good on his promise. This will be figured out, one way or another.
And as long as you have Satoru by your side, you think you’ll be just fine.
Rumor has it you brought him home the next weekend to meet your parents.
Rumor also has it that from that moment on, the arranged engagement with Sukuna was off.
a/n: heyyyy yallll!!! how are you?
me?? posting 2 fics in one month?? #imonaroll #unstoppable
no, but seriously, if you read this all the way through thank you so much!! it’s the longest fic i’ve ever written so it’s a lil experimental for me. this is also my first time writing for gojo in about two years and it’s my second time writing him ever sooo i’m still figuring out how i want to characterize him lol
anyway i hope you enjoyed, as always please let me know your thoughts <3
a curse hits gojo when he is on a mission with you, causing him to turn into a cat! now he has to be in your care for an undetermined amount of time, which is a problem because he is desperately in love with you.
contents. gojo satoru x fem!reader • fluff • cat gojo • yearner gojo • down bad gojo lmao • some angst • attempts at humour • ~17k words • also can you guys tell i did the ears in the pics myself??? jahsjahq
THE mission had been simple. exorcise a low-grade curse in an abandoned warehouse on the edge of tokyo, maybe file a report, maybe grab lunch after. that was what gojo had been thinking about as he stepped through the broken doorway—lunch. specifically, whether you’d let him drag you to that new ramen place or if you’d put your foot down and insist on something with vegetables.
he should have known better. things were never simple with him.
the curse had been small, unassuming: a blob of shadows and static that barely registered on his six eyes. he’d let you handle it, hanging back with his hands in his pockets, watching the way you moved through the dim light. you were good, really good. he liked watching you work. the sharp focus in your eyes, the way your cursed energy flickered like a heartbeat.
but then the curse had done something unexpected. instead of attacking, it had shrieked— a sound that scraped against his skull like nails on a chalkboard— and exploded into a cloud of purple-black smoke. gojo had thrown an arm up instinctively, infinity flickering for just a fraction of a second too late.
the smoke had gotten in. through his mouth, his nose, his eyes. he’d coughed, stumbled, and then everything had gone sideways.
literally. the world had tilted, the ground rushing up to meet him, except the ground was suddenly much closer than it should have been. his clothes had pooled around him in a heap of fabric, and when he’d tried to step out of them, his body had moved wrong. all wrong. four points of contact instead of two. a tail. fur.
he’d looked down— down at paws, white-furred paws— and the last thing he’d heard before consciousness slipped away was your voice, sharp with alarm, calling his name.
when gojo woke up, it was to the smell of rain and old concrete. he was tucked into a corner of the warehouse, half-hidden behind a collapsed shelf, and he was still a cat.
a white cat, he realized, lifting a paw to inspect it. white fur, blue eyes; because of course even as a cat he’d have the six eyes, the same impossible blue staring back at him from the cracked surface of a puddle nearby. he was small, too. not a kitten, but not much bigger than one. his tail flicked once, twice, a test. it worked. everything worked, just… differently.
what the hell, he thought, except what came out was a confused little mrrp?
he tried to speak. opened his mouth, focused, pushed words up his throat and got a squeaky meow for his efforts. great. fantastic. this was fine. he was gojo satoru, the strongest sorcerer in the world, and he’d been turned into a cat by a curse so weak it shouldn’t have been able to touch him.
he sat down heavily— or as heavily as a cat could sit— and wrapped his tail around his paws. okay. okay. he could work with this. the curse had dissipated after that explosion, so the threat was gone. all he had to do was wait. someone would find him. probably you. you’d been right there, after all.
as if on you, he heard it! your voice, distant but getting closer, threading through the rain and the rubble.
“gojo! gojo, where are you? this isn’t funny!”
he should have meowed. he should have made some kind of noise to lead you to him. but instead he just sat there, frozen, as your footsteps grew louder. because you sounded worried and you never worried about him. you always said he was too strong to worry about, too annoying to miss. but your voice was tight, fraying at the edges, and when you came into view, picking your way through the debris, he could see your face.
you looked scared for him.
gojo’s chest did something strange. tight and warm and aching all at once, a feeling he’d been trying to ignore for months now. he liked you. more than liked you. liked you in the way that made him offer to go on missions with you even when he didn’t have to, liked you in the way that made him linger after training just to hear you laugh, liked you in the way that kept him up at night staring at his ceiling and thinking about the curve of your smile.
and now you were here, kneeling in the dust, your hands shaking as you pushed aside a broken plank of wood. your eyes swept the corner where he was hiding, passed over him, then snapped back.
“oh my god,” you whispered.
gojo blinked at you. you blinked back.
“gojo?” you said, and he could hear how stupid you felt saying it to a cat, but also how desperate. “is that… is that you?”
he meowed. it was the only thing he could do. but he made it count— looked you right in the eyes and meowed with as much yes, it’s me, you idiot as he could pack into a single syllable.
your breath caught and then you were moving, scooping him up off the ground with careful hands, cradling him against your chest. you were warm, warmer than he’d expected. your heartbeat was fast, rabbiting against his side where you held him, and your fingers were trembling as they smoothed over his fur, dusting him off.
“what happened to you?” you asked, your voice cracking. “you’re so small. you’re—god, you’re a cat. how are you a cat?”
gojo wanted to say something reassuring and to tell you he was fine, that this was just a minor inconvenience, that he’d be back to his annoyingly handsome self in no time, but all that came out was a soft, pathetic mew, and you made a sound like your heart was breaking.
“okay,” you said, pulling yourself together with visible effort. “okay. i’ve got you. i’ve got you, satoru. i’m taking you to shoko.”
he pressed his face into the crook of your elbow and let you carry him out into the rain. it was all still confusing for him too, despite how strangely calm he was feeling.
the trip to jujutsu high was a blur of motion and muffled sounds. you’d wrapped him in your jacket to keep him dry, and he’d let you, even though it was undignified and he was pretty sure his tail was sticking out at a weird angle. you ran most of the way, your cursed energy flaring with urgency, and gojo spent the journey trying not to think about how close your hands were to him and how gently you held him.
shoko was in her office when you burst through the door, soaked and breathless and holding cat-him like he was the most important thing in the world.
“shoko,” you said, “you need to look at him. it’s gojo. he’s a cat. a curse turned him into a cat.”
shoko raised an eyebrow. took a long drag of her cigarette. exhaled.
“you’re serious,” she said.
“do i look like i’m joking?”
shoko looked at you, looked at the cat… uh, him. the cat— gojo— met her gaze with unmistakably familiar blue eyes, and something in her expression shifted. she stubbed out her cigarette and gestured to the examination table.
“put him there.”
you did, reluctantly, your hands lingering on his fur for a moment before you stepped back. gojo sat on the cold metal table and tried to project as much dignity as possible. it was difficult when he came up to shoko’s elbow.
shoko examined him. she didn’t do much— a flash of reversed cursed technique, a long look at his eyes, a gentle press of fingers along his spine. gojo tolerated it because it was shoko, and because he trusted her, and because he could see you watching from the corner of the room with your arms wrapped around yourself like you were holding in a scream.
“well?” you said, the moment shoko stepped back.
“it’s a curse,” shoko said, reaching for another cigarette. “a transformation-type. annoying, but not dangerous. his body’s fine, his soul’s still his, which is the important part. the curse is embedded pretty deep, but it’s already degrading. i’d say a week, maybe two, and he’ll change back on his own.”
“a week or two,” you repeated. “he’s going to be a cat for a week or two.”
“unless you find the original curse user and force them to undo it, but that’s a needle in a haystack situation. my advice? stock up on cat food and patience.”
you made a sound that was half-laugh, half-groan. gojo meowed an indignant sound, because cat food? he was not eating cat food. he’d rather starve.
shoko glanced at him and he could have sworn she was hiding a smile. “one more thing,” she said, turning back to you. “since you were the one with him when it happened, and since his cursed energy is going to be… let’s say unstable while the curse runs its course, you’re going to have to look after him. keep him close. your energy will help stabilize his while he heals.”
you blinked. “what? me? why me?”
“because you were there. proximity matters with this kind of curse. his system is already keyed to yours. if anyone else tried to take care of him, it could prolong the transformation or cause complications.” shoko’s voice was flat, clinical, but her eyes flicked to gojo for just a moment. “congratulations. you’re a cat sitter.”
gojo watched your face cycle through about seventeen different emotions. surprise. worry. reluctance. and then, underneath all of it, something softer. something that made his heart— his tiny, cat-sized heart— skip a beat.
“fine,” you said finally, reaching out to scoop him off the table. you held him against your chest again, and he shuddered at how much he liked it and how right it felt. “fine. but you’re helping me buy supplies, shoko. i don’t know the first thing about cats.”
“neither does he,” shoko said, nodding at gojo. “this is going to be entertaining.”
gojo wanted to flip her off. he settled for a hiss, which was deeply unsatisfying and only made shoko laugh.
you carried him out of the office and through the halls of jujutsu high, and gojo tried to focus on the practicalities. a week or two as a cat. he could handle that. he’d handled worse. but then you looked down at him, your expression soft in a way you never let him see when he was human, and you said, “don’t worry. i’ve got you.”
and gojo realized, with a sinking feeling, that this was going to be the longest two weeks of his life.
because he was in love with you. completely, stupidly, helplessly in love with you. and now he was going to spend every moment of the next fourteen days pressed against your side, unable to tell you, unable to do anything except meow and hope you didn’t notice how he looked at you.
… your apartment was small. gojo had never been inside it before— you were private about your space, always deflecting when he offered to walk you home or come over after missions, but now here he was, deposited on your couch while you rummaged through a bag of supplies shoko had helped you pick up on the way.
a litter box. cat food. a small bed you’d grabbed on impulse, even though gojo had already decided he wasn’t going to use it. a brush. some toys.
“this is insane,” you muttered, pulling out a bag of dry food and staring at it in bewilderment. “you’re gojo satoru. you’re supposed to be untouchable. how did a cat curse get you?”
gojo meowed. it was a fair question, honestly. he’d been distracted, watching you.
you sighed and sat down on the couch next to him, the cushions dipping under your weight. for a moment, you just looked at him. at his white fur, his blue eyes, the way his tail curled around his paws.
“you’re still you in there, right?” you asked quietly. “you can understand me?”
he meowed again, and bumped his head against your hand. your breath hitched in wonder, yet soon you were petting him, your fingers sliding through his fur in slow, careful strokes. it felt good. embarrassingly good. gojo’s eyes half-closed before he could stop them and a low rumble started in his chest.
was he… purring?
oh god. he was purring. he was purring because you were petting him, and he couldn’t stop, and you were smiling now— a sweet smile, soft and wondering, the kind he’d do anything to see.
“you’re kinda cute like this,” you said, and gojo wanted to die. “don’t tell me i said that when you turn back.”
he filed that away for later. you think he’s cute. he was never, ever letting you forget it.
you kept petting him as the evening stretched on, and gojo let himself relax into the touch. it was fine. this was fine. he was just… gathering information. observing. definitely not enjoying the way your thumb brushed behind his ears or the quiet sound of your breathing as you settled deeper into the couch.
a week or two, shoko had said. a week or two of this. of you.
gojo closed his eyes and purred, trying not to think about how hard it was going to be to go back to normal after this. how much he was going to miss the weight of your hand on his fur, the softness in your voice when you said his name. but that was a problem for later.
-> day 1
gojo woke up slowly, consciousness filtering back in fragments. the couch was soft beneath him, softer than he expected, with a blanket that smelled like you draped over his small body. he stretched, arching his back the way cats did, and froze mid-stretch as the events of yesterday came crashing back.
right. he was a cat.
he blinked his eyes open, the world sharp and muted all at once in that strange way cat vision worked. your apartment was quiet, morning light slanting through the curtains in pale gold stripes. and then he heard a door creaking open, soft footsteps on wooden floors.
gojo turned his head and every thought in his brain promptly fell out and scattered across the floor.
you were standing in your bedroom doorway, and you were... you were barely dressed. sleep-rumpled hair falling across your face, an oversized t-shirt hanging off one shoulder, shorts that rode up your thighs. you were scratching lazily at your neck, eyes half-closed, clearly not fully awake yet. and your shirt— your thin, worn-out, very comfy-looking shirt— clung to you in a way that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
gojo could see everything.
well, not everything, not really, but enough that his cat-heart started hammering against his ribs, enough that he felt heat rush to his face even though he was covered in fur and you couldn’t possibly tell. your nipples were visible through the fabric, soft shadows in the morning light, and you seemed completely unaware. you yawned, stretched your arms above your head, and the shirt rode up higher, exposing a strip of your stomach.
gojo made a sound, a small, strangled mrrp that he immediately regretted.
you didn’t even look at him. just shuffled past the couch toward the bathroom, bare feet padding on the wood, and closed the door behind you with a soft click.
the bathroom door.
the bathroom.
gojo stared at the closed door for a long moment, his brain still short-circuiting. then his body reminded him, with an uncomfortable urgency, that he hadn’t used the bathroom since before the mission yesterday. that he was, in fact, a living creature with biological needs. and that somewhere in your apartment, there was a litter box.
he looked at it. shoko had made you buy one, a small plastic rectangle filled with gray sand-like pellets. it sat in the corner of your kitchen, pristine and unused, waiting for him.
no.
absolutely not.
he was gojo satoru. he was not going to squat in a box of sand like some common house pet. he had standards. he had dignity. he would wait.
so he waited. curled on the couch, tail twitching, ears flicking, every instinct screaming at him to find dirt and dig. the minutes crawled by. you were taking forever. what were you even doing in there? brushing your teeth? hair? he didn’t care. he just needed you to leave so he could use the toilet like a civilized being.
finally, the bathroom door opened. steam curled out, carrying the scent of your soap, and you emerged in a cloud of warmth. your face was damp, hair pulled back now, and you’d put on a bra. gojo tried not to feel disappointed about that.
“morning, cat,” you mumbled, not really looking at him as you headed for the kitchen. “hope you slept okay.”
gojo didn’t wait. he launched himself off the couch, four paws hitting the floor, and sprinted for the bathroom before you could ask questions. he slipped through the gap in the door— you’d left it open a crack— and landed on the cold tile floor.
the toilet loomed above him like a porcelain mountain.
okay, he could do this. he was smart. he was resourceful. he’d figure it out.
he jumped onto the small step stool you kept by the sink and from there onto the edge of the sink. the toilet was close now. close enough.
gojo gathered himself, calculated the distance, and leaped.
he misjudged.
the rim of the toilet was narrower than he’d thought, and his paws slipped on the smooth porcelain. for one glorious second he balanced, teetering on the edge, and then gravity remembered he was a cat and not, in fact, immune to its laws.
he fell straight into the water.
it was so cold. shockingly, insultingly cold. gojo splashed and scrambled, claws scrabbling against the sides of the bowl, but the porcelain was too slick and he was too small and the water was rising up to his chin—
“what the—”
you were in the doorway. your eyes were wide, your mouth open, and for a moment you just stared at the absolute disaster unfolding in your toilet.
“oh my god,” you said. then you were moving, crossing the bathroom in two steps, and your hands were in the water, around his small wet body, lifting him out. “oh my god, gojo, what were you thinking?”
he was dripping, soaking wet, cold, humiliated, and thoroughly pathetic. water streamed off his white fur in rivulets, and he was pretty sure there was something stuck to his tail that he didn’t want to think about.
you held him at arm’s length, your expression cycling through horror, disbelief, and something that looked suspiciously like suppressed laughter.
“the toilet,” you said. “you tried to use the toilet.”
he meowed. it was a defensive meow, a don’t judge me meow, but it came out small and wet and miserable.
you bit your lip as your shoulders shook and a second later you were laughing; full-body laughter that bent you double and made tears spring to your eyes. you laughed so hard you had to set him down on the bath mat, and even then you kept laughing, clutching your stomach, gasping for air.
gojo sat in a puddle of toilet water and glared at you with all the dignity he could muster, which was not much, considering he was dripping and shivering and his tail was doing that weird puffy thing cats did when they were upset.
“i’m sorry,” you wheezed, not sounding sorry at all. “i’m sorry, i’m not—it’s not funny—”
actually, it was funny. he knew it was funny. if the roles were reversed, he’d be laughing so hard he’d pass out. but that didn’t mean he had to like it.
you finally got yourself under control, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. “okay. okay, i’m done. i’m sorry. let’s get you cleaned up.”
you scooped him up again, more carefully this time, cradling him against your chest even though he was wet and probably smelled like toilet water. you didn’t seem to care. you carried him to the sink and turned on the warm water, testing the temperature with your elbow before you lowered him in.
“don’t scratch me,” you warned and he didn’t. as if he would. he sat in the sink and let you run water through his fur, let you pump soap into your palm and work it through every inch of him, because your hands were gentle and warm and he was too embarrassed to do anything else.
“you have to use the litter box,” you said as you rinsed him off, your voice softer now. “i know you don’t want to. i wouldn’t want to either. but you’re a cat right now, gojo. your body works like a cat’s. you can’t—” you paused, biting your lip again. “you can’t keep trying to use the toilet. you’re too small. you’ll fall in again.”
he meowed. it was a defeated meow, an i know meow, that made your face soften.
“look,” you said. “i’ll put it somewhere private, okay? somewhere you don’t have to feel weird about.”
you wrapped him in a towel afterwards— one of your towels, soft and worn and smelling like lavender— and rubbed him dry while he sat on the bathroom counter, limp and exhausted and strangely light. the humiliation was still there, burning under his skin, but so was something else. something warm.
you were being so kind to him despite the fact that he was as much of gojo as he was a small wet cat who’d fallen in your toilet and needed help. you were kind. you’d always been kind, even when you pretended not to be, even when you rolled your eyes at his jokes and called him annoying. and gojo sat there in his towel, letting you dry between his toes, and fell a little more in love with you.
“there,” you said finally, stepping back to admire your work. he was fluffy now, his white fur sticking up in all directions, and you laughed again, fondly. “you look ridiculous.”
he meowed. you look beautiful, he tried to say, but it came out as a squeak.
you didn’t understand. you just picked him up and carried him back to the couch, settling him on a fresh blanket, and went to make breakfast.
gojo curled into a ball and watched you move around the kitchen, and tried very hard not to think about the litter box waiting for him in the corner. he failed.
… you set a bowl of milk in front of him. just milk. in a little ceramic dish that you’d probably found in the back of your cabinet, the kind you’d use for dipping sauce or something.
gojo stared at it.
then he looked at you, sitting across from him at your small kitchen table with a bowl of cereal in your hands, like a normal person. you had a spoon. you were eating. the milk in your bowl looked exactly like the milk in his dish, except yours had floating bits of grain and sugar and his was just… milk.
he meowed. pointedly.
“what?” you said around a mouthful of cereal. “you’re a cat. cats drink milk.”
he was not a cat. he was a human trapped in a cat’s body, and humans did not drink milk from a dish on the floor. humans drank milk from a glass, or a mug, or at the very least a bowl that they held in their hands while sitting at a table like a civilized creature.
he walked over to your chair and pawed at your leg.
you looked down at him. “what? you want some of mine?”
yes. no. he wanted his own bowl of cereal, actually. he wanted to sit across from you and eat breakfast the way he’d imagined a hundred times before— casual, easy, stealing pieces of fruit from your plate just to watch you roll your eyes.
but he couldn’t have that so he’d settle for the next best thing.
he jumped onto the chair next to yours, then onto the table itself. you made a sound of protest, but he was already walking across the surface, navigating around your coffee mug and the morning paper, until he reached your cereal bowl.
he looked at it. looked at you. then lowered his head and lapped at the milk.
it was so good. the milk was cold and sweet, and the cereal bits that came with it added a pleasant crunch. his tongue worked in that weird cat-way, curling backward to scoop up liquid, and he couldn’t help the small sound of contentment that escaped him.
“are you eating my cereal, gojo,” you said flatly. “still got your sweet tooth as a cat?”
he meowed. yes. deal with it.
you watched him for a long moment, your spoon suspended halfway to your mouth. then you sighed that long-suffering sigh you always used around him and pushed the bowl slightly in his direction.
“fine. but we’re sharing. and you’re not getting your own bowl because i’m not washing extra dishes for a cat.”
gojo lapped at the milk again, you resumed eating from the other side of the bowl, and the two of you sat there in the morning light, sharing breakfast like it was the most normal thing in the world. he was pretty content with that.
he watched you between sips. the way your fingers curled around your spoon, the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when it fell into your face, the way your eyes kept flicking to him with something soft and wondering. you were thinking about something. he wished he knew what.
you finished the cereal before he did— you had the advantage of a spoon— and sat back in your chair, cradling your mug of coffee in both hands. gojo kept lapping at the milk, his tail curling contentedly behind him, and tried not to think about how domestic this felt.
“you know,” you said quietly, “it’s weird. having you here. like this.”
he paused, milk dripping from his whiskers, and looked up at you.
“you’re always so… much. when you’re human. loud and tall and everywhere. but right now you’re just—” you gestured vaguely with your mug. “you just sit there and watch me. it’s different.”
gojo didn’t know what to do with that. he meowed softly, hoping it came across as is that bad?
you shook your head, like you’d understood him. “no. not bad. just different.”
you finished your coffee in comfortable silence, and then you stood up and carried your dishes to the sink. gojo hopped off the table and followed you, because apparently his legs had decided that’s just what he did now. followed you. everywhere.
you noticed. “are you… following me?”
he sat down and looked at you. yes. obviously.
you made a face, amused and flustered, and turned back to the sink. he watched you wash your dishes, the stretch of your back, the curve of your neck. you dried your hands and walked to the bathroom, and he followed there too.
“gojo,” you said, pausing at the bathroom door. “i’m going to take a shower.”
he meowed.
“you can’t come in.”
he meowed again, more indignant this time. he wasn’t trying to come in. he was just… standing here, in the hallwa, which was a public space. you stared at him. he stared back.
“i know you’re in there,” you said finally, pointing at his small furry face. “i know you’re watching. don’t be weird.”
you closed the door. gojo sat in the hallway and listened to the water run, and felt his face burn even though he was covered in fur. he wasn’t being weird. he was just… curious about your routine and your life. about the small, private moments you never let him see when he was human.
the door opened twenty minutes later and you stepped out in a cloud of steam, a towel wrapped around your hair and another around your body. you looked down at him, still sitting in the exact same spot, and your expression did something complicated.
he meowed.
you shook your head and walked to your bedroom, and he followed there too. when you sat on the edge of your bed to dry your hair, he jumped up next to you, settling into a loaf position on your comforter. you didn’t tell him to leave. you just kept drying your hair, your movements slow and practiced, and every few seconds you’d glance at him like you were checking that he was still there.
you got dressed behind the door of your closer, not before giving him a pointed look, and gojo politely looked at the wall. mostly. he was only human. well. not human right now. but his mind was human, and his mind was very aware that you were changing clothes six feet away from him, and he was very determined not to be a creep about it.
you turned around in a fresh outfit and found him staring at the wall with an intensity that would have been suspicious if you knew him better.
“okay,” you said, grabbing your bag from the desk. “i have to go. shoko wants me to help with some reports, and i’m already late.”
gojo’s ears perked up. you were leaving? now? without him?
you walked to the front door, and he jumped off the bed and trotted after you, his claws clicking on the wooden floor. you slipped on your shoes, and he sat by the door, waiting.
“gojo,” you said, looking down at him. “i can’t take you with me.”
he meowed. loud. why not?
“because you’re a cat. i can’t just show up at jujutsu high with a cat. everyone will ask questions, and shoko will never let me live it down, and—” you paused, something flickering across your face. “and it’s not safe. you’re vulnerable like this. if something happened to you…”
you trailed off. gojo watched the worry settle into your features, the way your brow furrowed and your mouth pulled down at the corners. he meowed again, softer this time. i don’t want to be alone.
you crouched down, bringing yourself to his level. your hand reached out, hesitant, petting him with slow strokes along his back, from the nape of his neck to the base of his tail. his eyes half-closed without permission and that stupid purr started up again, rumbling through his small chest.
“i know,” you said quietly. “i know you don’t. but i’ll come back early, okay? i promise. i’ll finish up as fast as i can and i’ll come straight home.”
you scratched behind his ears, right in that spot that made his back leg twitch, and gojo leaned into your touch like a desperate animal. which, he supposed, he was.
“be good,” you said, standing up. “don’t destroy my furniture. use the litter box. eat the food i left you. and for the love of god, don’t try to use the toilet again.”
he stood in the entryway for a long moment, staring at the closed door. the apartment felt different without you— quieter, colder, emptier. your presence lingered in the air, in the smell of your coffee and the warmth of the spot on the couch where you’d sat, but it wasn’t enough.
he wanted you back already. very pathetically. but then his ears twitched, and he looked around, a different kind of feeling creeping in.
you’d left him alone in your apartment with nothing to do for hours except… explore.
gojo’s tail curled up, slow and curious. this was your space; the space you never let him see, the space where you were just you, without your armour and your careful walls. and now he had unfettered access to all of it.
he walked back into the living room, looking at everything with new eyes. the books on your shelf, worn and dog-eared. the stack of dvids by the television. the blanket on the couch that you’d wrapped around him last night, still rumpled from his body.
he jumped onto the couch and sniffed the blanket. it smelled like you, like lavender and something warmer underneath, something that was just yours.
okay. okay, this was fine. this was an opportunity. he could learn things about you— little things, private things— and store them away for later, when he was human again and he could finally, maybe, do something about the way he felt.
he hopped off the couch and padded toward your bedroom, the door still open from this morning.
gojo paused at the threshold, his heart beating too fast. this felt… invasive. wrong. but you’d said he could roam, hadn’t you? you hadn’t said don’t go in my room. you’d just said don’t destroy your furniture and use the litter box. so he stepped inside.
your bed was unmade, the sheets tangled from sleep. your pajamas— the t-shirt and shorts from this morning— were draped over the back of a chair. a half-empty glass of water sat on your nightstand, next to a book with a bookmark sticking out of it. your scent was everywhere here, thick and intimate, and gojo breathed it in without meaning to.
he jumped onto your bed. the mattress was soft. the pillows smelled like your shampoo. he walked in a circle and he curled up right in the center of the warm spot where you’d slept.
he was going to learn so much about you today. he was going to open every drawer and sniff every shelf and piece together the version of you that existed when no one was watching.
and then, maybe, when he was human again, he’d know exactly how to love you.
… it was strange how natural it felt— padding across wooden floors on four paws, whiskers twitching at every draft, ears swiveling toward every tiny sound. his body moved differently now, lower to the ground, more deliberate. he found himself sniffing things without meaning to. the corner of the couch. the leg of the kitchen table. the bottom of the door you’d walked through.
you smelled like coffee and soap and something faintly sweet. he filed that away.
the kitchen was first. he jumped onto the counter and walked along the edge, inspecting everything. your spice rack was organized alphabetically, which made him smile. your refrigerator was covered in magnets: a tiny mt. fuji, a cartoon sushi roll, a faded advertisement for some local festival. there were photos tucked under some of them, and gojo pressed his nose close to look.
you with shoko, both of you younger, making silly faces at the camera. you with nanami, both of you looking serious and slightly uncomfortable, like someone had forced you to pose together. you with geto— gojo’s heart twinged at that one, old grief surfacing— your arm around his shoulders, both of you laughing at something off-frame.
and then one of you alone. sitting on a beach somewhere, the sunset behind you, your hair blowing across your face. you looked happy. peaceful. gojo stared at it longer than he meant to.
he moved on.
the bathroom was next. he hopped onto the edge of the sink and peered into your medicine cabinet through the gap where you hadn’t quite closed it. toothpaste. floss. a hairbrush with strands of your hair tangled in it. skincare products lined up in a specific order— cleanser, toner, moisturizer, all the same brand. a bottle of painkillers. a small box of band-aids with cartoon characters on them.
he felt like a spy, like a thief! like someone who was collecting pieces of you to keep forever.
the bedroom was the most revealing. he’d already been in there, but now he had time to really look. he jumped from the bed to your dresser, walking carefully around the scattered items on top. jewelry in a small ceramic dish. a watch with a cracked face that you never wore anymore. a folded piece of paper that he nudged open with his nose.
it was a letter. from someone named kaori. your mother, maybe? the handwriting was neat, careful, the kind of cursive that older generations used. i hope you’re eating enough, it said. you always forget to eat when you’re busy. don’t work too hard. call me when you have time. love, mom.
gojo’s chest ached. he stepped away from the letter, suddenly feeling like he’d seen something he shouldn’t have. but he couldn’t stop. his paws carried him to your closet next, pushing the sliding door open with his head. your clothes hung in neat rows— work clothes on one side, casual on the other. a shelf above held folded sweaters and a shoebox that he somehow managed to knock down with his tail.
the box spilled open. photographs. lots of them.
old ones, mostly. you as a kid with missing front teeth, holding up a fish you’d caught. you as a teenager in a school uniform, looking bored at some ceremony. you with people he didn’t recognize— friends from before jujutsu high, probably, before your life had become curses and missions and death.
and then, near the bottom, a photo of you with him.
gojo stared at it. it was from years ago, back when you’d first joined. he remembered this day— some group outing that yaga had organized, forcing everyone to go to an arcade. in the photo, he had his arm slung around your shoulders, too casual and close. you were laughing at something he’d said, your head tilted back, your whole face bright with it. and he was looking at you.
he was looking at you the way he always looked at you — like you were the sun. he hadn’t known anyone had taken this picture. he hadn’t known you’d kept it.
gojo sat in the middle of the scattered photographs, surrounded by pieces of your life, and felt something crack open inside his chest. you were so much more than he’d let himself see. you had a mother who worried about you. you had a past that didn’t involve him. you had a whole world inside you that you kept hidden behind light sarcasm and rolled eyes.
he wanted to know all of it, every last bit.
the afternoon stretched on. gojo explored every room, every drawer, every hidden corner. he found the spot under your bed where you’d dropped an earring months ago and never bothered to retrieve. he found a stash of chocolate in your desk drawer— emergency supplies, probably, for difficult days. he found a notebook in your living room, half-filled with grocery lists and random thoughts and one line that made him freeze: satoru was annoying today. i couldn’t stop smiling.
he stared at that line for a full minute. then he closed the notebook with his paw and walked away, his face hot, his tail doing that weird puffy thing again.
by the time the sun started to set, gojo had mapped every inch of your apartment. he knew which floorboards creaked. he knew which window had the best view of the sky. he knew that you kept a spare key under the fake rock by the door, which was a security risk he’d be lecturing you about later.
he was curled up on the couch, when he heard footsteps in the hallway, keys jingling. your voice, muffled through the door, saying something to someone on the phone.
“yeah, i know. i’ll be there tomorrow. i just—he’s alone, okay? i don’t want to leave him alone for too long.”
gojo’s ears shot up. his tail started wagging— no, cats didn’t wag, they flicked, but it was definitely wagging adjacent. he jumped off the couch and ran to the door, his claws skittering on the wood, and sat there waiting as the lock turned.
the door opened and there you were. tired, your hair slightly windswept, a bag slung over your shoulder. you smelled like the outside; cool air and concrete and a hint of the coffee shop you must have passed on the way home. your eyes found him immediately, your face softening.
“hey,” you said, your voice gentle. “you waited by the door?”
he didn’t answer. couldn’t answer. but his body answered for him— launching forward, jumping up, paws reaching for you. you caught him without thinking, your arms wrapping around his small body, pulling him against your chest.
gojo buried his face in your neck and purred, embarrassingly loudly. he couldn’t stop it. he pressed his forehead against your jaw and purred and purred, and your hand came up to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading through his fur.
“awe, so sweet,” you murmured. he felt the words vibrate through your throat. “god, you’re so soft. how are you so soft?”
he meowed against your skin and you laughed, carrying him inside after kicking the door shut behind you.
you walked to the couch and sat down with him still in your arms whilst he curled up in your lap like he belonged there, because maybe he did, at least while he was a cat.
“shoko had more information,” you said, your hand stroking along his back in slow, rhythmic motions. “about the curse.”
gojo looked up at you, his ears forward, his full attention on your face. you were staring at the wall, your expression thoughtful, your thumb tracing absent patterns through his fur.
“she said it’s anchored to your emotional state. something about the way the curse was designed— it feeds off… i don’t know, attachment? connection? she used a lot of big words.” you frowned. “basically, the more stressed or agitated you get, the longer it’ll take to wear off. so you need to stay calm. relaxed. which is hilarious, considering it’s you.”
he meowed. i can be calm.
“you literally fell in my toilet this morning.”
fair point.
you sighed, leaning your head back against the couch. your hand kept petting him, steady and soothing, and gojo felt his eyes starting to droop. the purring hadn’t stopped. he wasn’t sure it knew how to stop.
“she also said your cursed energy should stabilizing,” you continued. “which is good. means the curse is breaking down faster than she expected. you might only be a cat for a week, not two.”
gojo felt a spike of something— panic, maybe, or longing— and forced himself to take a slow breath. he had to stay calm.
“so that’s good news,” you said, and you almost sounded disappointed. almost. “you’ll be back to annoying me in no time.”
he wanted to tell you that he didn’t want to go back. not yet. not when he had you like this, soft and unguarded, your hand in his fur and your body warm beneath him. not when he’d just started to learn who you really were.
but he couldn’t so he just purred louder, pressed his face against your stomach, and let you talk.
you told him about your day. about the reports you’d filed, the mission briefings you’d sat through, the way nanami had given you a look when you’d said you had to leave early. a cat, he’d said, and you’d said yes, a cat, and he’d said it’s gojo, isn’t it, and you hadn’t been able to deny it
“he knows about the mission,” you muttered. “everyone knows. shoko told ijichi—i mean, she told everyone, basically. so now the whole school knows that gojo satoru is a cat. i hope you’re happy.”
you talked until your voice went hoarse and the sky outside turned dark, the apartment filling with shadows. and then you stood up, carrying him with you, and walked to the bathroom to brush your teeth. he sat on the edge of the sink and watched you, the way you moved through your nighttime routine with practiced ease. wash face. brush teeth. tie hair up. moisturize. the same steps, every night, a ritual he’d never seen before.
you changed in the bedroom with your back to him again while he looked at the wall like a gentleman. then you climbed into bed and held your arms out.
“come here,” you said. “you’re sleeping with me tonight. i don’t want you falling in the toilet again.”
he should have been offended, but instead he jumped onto the mattress and walked up your body— over your legs, your stomach, your chest— and settled in the curve of your neck, his small body tucked against your shoulder. you pulled the blanket up over both of you, and your hand found his back again as the room went dark.
gojo lay there in the quiet, listening to your breathing slow, feeling the steady rise and fall of your chest beneath him. you were warm. you were safe. you were here.
for the first time in a long time, gojo felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
he closed his eyes, pressed his nose against your pulse point and let the sound of your heartbeat carry him to sleep.
day 3
next two days changed a lot.
not the curse— that was still firmly in place, still humming through his small body like a low-frequency buzz. but gojo himself had changed. adjusted. surrendered, maybe, to the strange rhythm of being a cat.
it started with the little things. the way his tail developed its own vocabulary, curling and flicking without his permission. the way he caught himself watching birds through the window with an intensity that felt almost predatory, his back legs bunching beneath him before he remembered he wasn’t actually supposed to want to eat them.
by the second morning, he’d stopped trying to use the toilet.
(he used the litter box. he didn’t think about it. if he thought about it, he’d die of embarrassment, so he simply didn’t think about it. you’d cleaned it without comment, without teasing, and that was the kindest thing anyone had ever done for him.)
by the second afternoon, he’d figured out how to open your bedroom door. he’d launched himself at it, paws outstretched, and the door had swung open on his first try. he’d felt so proud that he’d done it three more times, just to prove it wasn’t a fluke.
you’d come home to find every door in the apartment wide open, including the bathroom, and you’d stared at him with an expression caught between exasperation and genuine concern.
“what are you,” you’d said, “a cat or a burglar?”
he’d meowed. both. i’m both now.
but the real change was deeper than that. it was in the way he felt when you came home— that rush of warmth, that stupid wagging-adjacent tail, that desperate need to be in your arms. it was in the way he’d started sleeping on your chest every night, your heartbeat under his ear, your hand a warm weight on his back. it was in the way he’d stopped counting the days until he turned back.
this was the life, he thought.
he woke up on the third morning— no, wait, the second morning? time was weird when every day was the same soft blur of naps and pets and you— and stretched luxuriously, his front paws extending, his back arching, his tail straightening out behind him. the sun was warm on his fur. the pillow beneath him smelled like your shampoo. and you were still asleep next to him, your face slack and peaceful, your lips slightly parted.
gojo watched you sleep. he’d never admit to that when he was human, but right now, with his cat-brain humming contentedly, he let himself look. the way your lashes fanned across your cheeks. the way your hand had ended up curled near his body, like you’d been reaching for him in your sleep. the way you mumbled something unintelligible and turned your face into the pillow.
you were beautiful. he’d always known that, but seeing you like this— unaware, unguarded, soft— made something twist in his chest.
he leaned forward and licked your nose, just a tiny swipe of his rough cat-tongue across the tip of your nose. he didn’t even think about it; his body just did it.
you scrunched up your face, snorted, and opened your eyes.
“did you just… lick me?”
gojo meowed. maybe.
you stared at him for a long moment. then you laughed— a groggy, morning laugh that turned into a yawn halfway through— and reached out to scratch behind his ears. “you’re so weird. you know that? you’re the weirdest cat i’ve ever met.”
he purred. thank you.
the morning passed in that easy, lazy way that mornings had started to take on. you made coffee and shared your cereal with him again— he’d stopped pretending he didn’t want it— and he sat on the back of the couch while you scrolled through something on your tablet, your other hand absently stroking his fur.
and that was when he saw it.
your tablet. the screen was bright, glowing with text. you were reading something and your finger was scrolling, scrolling, scrolling. but more importantly, there was a keyboard. a digital keyboard, popping up when you tapped on a search bar, with letters he could theoretically press. with his paws.
gojo’s ears shot up. his tail went straight. he stared at that keyboard like it held the secrets of the universe, because maybe it did. maybe, just maybe, it held the ability to talk to you.
he’d been silent for two days. two days of meowing and purring and hoping you understood what he meant. two days of watching you guess and getting it wrong half the time. two days of wanting to tell you things and having no way to say them.
he waited until you set the tablet down to refill your coffee. the moment you turned your back, he was on it— paws pressing against the screen, trying to figure out the pressure, the angle, the how of it all. the keyboard had popped up automatically when his paw hit the search bar, and now letters were appearing, jumbled and wrong.
aklsdhf, the screen read. qweiur.
not great. but possible.
he tried again, more carefully this time. used one claw to tap a single letter. h. yes. e. yes. l. l. o.
hello.
the word sat there on the screen, glowing and perfect, and gojo’s heart raced so fast he thought he might pass out. he could do this. he could actually do this.
you came back with your coffee, and he quickly pawed the screen clear, hiding the evidence. not yet. he wanted to wait for the right moment. wanted to say something that mattered.
for some reason, that night, you were quiet.
not the comfortable quiet of the past few days, but something heavier. something that pressed down on the apartment like a physical weight. you’d made dinner— rice and vegetables and some kind of fish that gojo had eyed with interest until you’d put a small piece on a plate for him— and you’d eaten in silence, your eyes distant, your mind somewhere far away.
now you were lying on the couch, your tablet abandoned on the coffee table, your arm thrown over your eyes.
gojo watched you from the arm of the couch, his tail flicking. something was wrong. he could feel it— the shift in your energy, the way your aura had dimmed to something small and subdued. you were sad. or lonely. or both.
he didn’t like it.
he jumped down from the arm and padded across the cushions, placing one paw on your stomach, then another. you didn’t move, so he climbed all the way up, settling his entire body on your belly, and tilted his head to look at your face.
you moved your arm and looked down at him. your eyes were tired, rimmed with something that might have been unshed tears if he looked close enough.
“hey,” you said softly. “what are you doing?”
he meowed. checking on you.
you stared at him for a long moment and sighed, your hand coming up to rest on his back as you turned your gaze to the ceiling.
“you’re going to think this is stupid,” you said. “you’re going to make fun of me when you turn back.”
he wouldn’t, he absolutely wouldn’t, but he couldn’t tell you that, so he just purred and pressed his forehead against your sternum.
another long pause. your hand moved in slow circles on his fur.
“it’s just…” you started, then stopped. swallowed. started again. “it’s been quiet. before you got here, i mean. my whole life has been quiet, but i didn’t notice it until recently. or maybe i noticed it and i just… didn’t want to admit how much it bothered me.”
gojo’s ears went back. he listened.
“i come home to this apartment every night and it’s empty. no one waiting for me. no one to talk to. i eat alone, i sleep alone, i wake up alone. and i told myself i was fine with that. i am fine with that. mostly.” your voice cracked, just a little. “but then you showed up. and now there’s someone here when i come home.”
you laughed, but it was wet. shaky.
“and i know you’re not really a cat. i know you’re gojo and i know you’re going to turn back and leave and this is all going to go away. but right now, in this moment, it’s… nice. having company. not being alone.”
your hand stopped moving. your breath hitched.
“i didn’t know how lonely i was until i wasn’t lonely anymore.”
the words hung in the air, fragile and heavy. gojo lay there on your stomach, his small body rising and falling with each of your breaths, and felt his insides churn with sadness.
he knew that feeling. he knew it so well it lived in his bones.
the strongest sorcerer in the world, and he went home to an empty apartment every night too. he ate alone. he slept alone. he woke up alone, in a bed that was too big for one person, in a house that echoed when he walked through it. he filled the silence with noise— with jokes and complaints and relentless teasing— because silence was the thing he feared most.
and then there was you. there had always been you, in the background of his life, rolling your eyes at his antics and calling him an idiot. but he’d never let himself get close. never let himself want more than stolen glances and missions that took too long and excuses to be near you.
but now— now he was here, on your couch, on your stomach, in your life in a way he’d never been before. and you were lonely. and he was lonely. and maybe you could be lonely together, and maybe that would make it less lonely for both of you.
he wanted to tell you. god, he wanted to tell you. he wanted to jump off the couch and run to the tablet and type out everything he’d been holding in for months. i’m lonely too. i’ve been lonely for years. and being with you— even like this, even as a cat— is the least lonely i’ve ever felt.
but his paws were clumsy and his heart was full. you were crying now, silent tears sliding down your temples into your hair, yet he couldn’t leave you to type when you needed him here.
so he did the only thing he could do. he climbed up your chest, carefully, placing each paw with intention, until he was close enough to press his nose against your cheek. and then he licked your tears.
one. two. three.
you made a sound— half-laugh, half-sob— and your arms came around him, pulling him tight against your chest. you buried your face in his fur. he let you, purring as loud as he could, hoping you could feel the vibration against your skin.
“you’re such a good cat,” you whispered, your voice muffled. “the best cat. i hope you don’t remember i said that.”
he’d remember all of it.
you fell asleep on the couch, exhausted from crying, your body curled around his. gojo stayed awake, watching the shadows move across the ceiling, listening to your breathing even out. his mind was racing, full of words he couldn’t say and promises he wanted to make.
he’d tell you, not now, not like this, but soon, when he was human again and he could wrap his arms around you properly and look you in the eyes and say all the things he’d been practicing in his head for months.
i’m here. i’ve always been here. and i’m not going anywhere.
he pressed his nose against your collarbone and closed his eyes, and let the promise settle in his chest like a stone.
day 5
“shoko wants to run some tests,” you’d said that morning, stuffing him into a carrier that he’d immediately protested with the most pathetic meows he could muster. “stop that. you’re being dramatic.”
he was not being dramatic. he was being cat. there was a difference.
the carrier was small and cramped and smelled like plastic, and gojo spent the entire train ride pressing his face against the mesh door, watching the world blur by.
jujutsu high looked the same as always, but everything felt different from this angle, low to the ground, the world towering above him. you carried the carrier up the steps and through the main gate, and gojo’s ears swiveled, cataloging every sound. the crunch of gravel. the distant thwack of training dummies. someone yelling, probably one of the first-years.
shoko was already there, leaning against the wall with a cigarette dangling from her lips, and the look on her face when she saw the carrier was the most entertained gojo had ever seen her.
“you actually brought him,” she said, pushing off the wall. “i didn’t think you would.”
“you said you needed to examine him.”
“i said it would be funny to watch him squirm in a carrier.”
you shot her a humourless look, but you were already opening the door, reaching inside to scoop him out. gojo emerged into the fluorescent light of the hallway and immediately regretted everything. he was small. he was vulnerable. he was being held like a baby in front of shoko, who had seen him at his worst more times than he could count but never like this.
“my god,” shoko said, “can’t believe that you’re the size of a guinea pig.”
gojo hissed at her. it was deeply satisfying.
“he’s feisty,” shoko observed, straightening up. “good. the curse hasn’t affected his personality.”
“can you just do the examination?” you sighed. “he’s heavy.”
“he’s like five pounds.”
“he’s dense.”
shoko snorted and led the way to her office, and gojo endured the examination with as much dignity as he could muster. she poked and prodded, flashed lights in his eyes, pressed her fingers along his spine in that way that made his back leg twitch. she muttered things to you— cursed energy flow is good, transformation is holding steady, no signs of degradation— and you listened with a furrow between your brows, your hand resting on his back the whole time.
“he’ll be fine soon,” shoko said finally, stepping back to light another cigarette. “just keep doing what you’re doing.”
“which is…?”
“keeping him calm. relaxed. happy, if possible.” shoko’s eyes flicked to gojo, and he could have sworn she was hiding a smile. “shouldn’t be too hard. he looks pretty happy to me.”
gojo meowed. mind your own business.
you didn’t seem to notice the subtext. you just thanked shoko and scooped him up and carried him out of the office, and gojo thought that was the end of it. he was wrong.
because the hallway outside shoko’s office was no longer empty.
ijichi was standing there, clipboard in hand, his glasses fogging up like they always did when he was nervous. he was saying something to someone— nanami, maybe, or one of the assistants— but the moment he saw you, his mouth snapped shut.
“is that…” ijichi’s voice cracked. “is that gojo-san?”
gojo looked at him. ijichi looked back. something primal rose up in gojo’s chest— something that had nothing to do with being human and everything to do with being a cat confronted with a very nervous, very twitchy man who had once spilled coffee on his favorite shirt.
he hissed.
ijichi made a sound like a deflating balloon and stumbled backward, his clipboard clattering to the floor.
“he hates me,” ijichi whispered. “even as a cat, he hates me.”
“he doesn’t hate you,” you said, but you were laughing, your shoulders shaking, and gojo felt a surge of triumph. he’d made you laugh.
he hissed at ijichi one more time, just for good measure.
you were still laughing when you turned the corner. gojo was still feeling smug, but then he saw nanami, walking down the hallway with a stack of papers in one hand and his usual expression of mild exasperation on his face. he was dressed in his work clothes— the suit, the tie, the whole thing— and his shoes were polished to a shine.
his pants were pressed to a crisp line.
gojo’s tail went straight. his ears went forward. his entire body tensed with the kind of focused energy that usually preceded something stupid.
“satoru, no,” you said, but it was too late.
he launched himself out of your arms— you weren’t holding him tightly enough, too relaxed from laughing— and hit the ground running. four paws skidding on the polished floor, claws scrabbling for purchase, and then he was moving, a white blur of fur and chaos, heading straight for nanami’s legs.
nanami looked down. nanami saw him. nanami’s expression did not change, which was exactly the wrong response.
gojo bit him.
not hard since he was a small cat, his teeth weren’t exactly weapons of mass destruction, but hard enough to be felt. he sank his tiny fangs into the fabric of nanami’s pant leg and held on, dangling from the cuff like a particularly aggressive accessory.
nanami stopped walking. looked down. raised one eyebrow.
“is this gojo,” he said.
“yes,” you said, running over to pry him off. “i’m so sorry. he’s been weird all morning.”
gojo held on. he didn’t know why. something about nanami’s calm, unflappable demeanor made him want to cause problems. maybe it was the cat instincts. maybe it was just gojo.
“he’s biting my pants,” nanami observed.
“i can see that.”
“he’s not letting go.”
“i can also see that.”
there was a moment of silence. gojo dangled from nanami’s pant leg, his jaws locked, his eyes defiant. nanami looked down at him with the same expression he wore during mission briefings— mildly annoyed, deeply unimpressed.
“if you value your teeth, gojo,” nanami said quietly, “you will let go.”
gojo did not let go.
you finally managed to pry his jaws open— which was humiliating, by the way, your fingers prying his mouth apart like he was a disobedient puppy— and scooped him up against your chest. he squirmed, trying to get back to nanami’s pants, but you held him tight, your hand pressing firmly against his back.
“i am so sorry,” you said again, backing away. “he’s not usually like this.”
nanami looked down at the teeth marks in his trousers. looked at gojo. looked back at you.
“yes,” he said. “he is.”
gojo watched him go with a profound sense of victory as he walked away.
you, meanwhile, were not victorious. you were embarrassed, your face flushed, your grip on him tighter than necessary as you carried him through the rest of the building. as if he was your actual pet.
“what was that?” you hissed at him. “you can’t just bite nanami. he’s going to bill you for those pants. do you know how much nanami’s pants cost?”
gojo meowed. worth it.
“it was not worth it. nothing is worth nanami’s disappointed face.”
but your voice was lighter than it had been this morning, and when you finally escaped the building and stepped outside, you were almost smiling again. gojo counted that as a win.
you didn’t take him straight home. instead, you walked past the gates of jujutsu high, through the streets of tokyo, toward a part of the city he didn’t recognize. the sun was warm on his fur, and the carrier was slung over your shoulder, and he had his head poking out of the top, watching the world go by.
“there’s a park near here,” you said, almost to yourself. “i used to go there a lot. before… everything.”
you didn’t elaborate. gojo didn’t push. he just watched your profile as you walked, the way your eyes softened when you passed a bakery, the way your steps slowed when you reached a small green space tucked between buildings.
the park was tiny— a few trees, a bench, a patch of grass that was more brown than green. but there was a fountain in the center, a small concrete thing with murky water, and sitting next to it was a cat.
a stray. orange and white, with matted fur and one torn ear. it looked up as you approached, its eyes wary, and gojo felt something shift in his chest.
“hey, baby,” you said softly, crouching down. you were already reaching into your bag, pulling out a small pouch of cat food— you carried cat food with you?— and shaking some into your palm. “i haven’t seen you in a few days. i was worried.”
the stray cat blinked. then it stood up, stretched, and padded over to you with the casual confidence of a creature who knew it was about to be fed.
gojo watched, frozen, as the stray rubbed against your leg. as you scratched behind its torn ear and made soft, cooing sounds that you’d never made at him, not once, not even when he was being the most adorable cat in the entire world.
the stray ate from your palm. you smiled at it and gojo, from the carrier, felt something hot and irrational bloom inside.
jealousy.
he was jealous of a stray cat.
“you’re so pretty,” you were saying to the orange-and-white menace, your fingers stroking along its matted back. “look at you. you’ve been taking care of yourself, haven’t you? good job, baby.”
gojo meowed loudly. i’m right here.
you glanced at him. “what? you want some too?”
no. he did not want some. he wanted you to stop petting that mangy alley cat and pet him instead. he was right there, in a carrier, watching you shower affection on a creature that had done nothing to deserve it.
the stray finished eating and rubbed its face against your knuckles. you laughed— a soft, happy sound— and scratched under its chin.
gojo hissed.
the stray’s ears went back. it looked at him with flat, unimpressed eyes, and then it turned its back on him and pressed its head into your palm.
how dare it.
“gojo,” you said, with warning in your voice. “be nice.”
he would not be nice. he would never be nice. not to this interloper, this pretender, this cat that was getting more of your attention in five minutes than he’d gotten all day.
the stray finished its meal and licked its paw, utterly indifferent to gojo’s rage. you stayed crouched there for a few more minutes, talking to it in that soft voice, and gojo sat in his carrier and stewed.
finally, you stood up. brushed off your knees. looked down at the stray with something like regret.
“i have to go,” you said. “but i’ll come back, okay? be safe.”
the stray meowed and walked away, disappearing into the bushes. gojo watched it go with a sense of deep satisfaction. good. it knew its place.
you picked up the carrier and looked at him through the mesh. your expression was unreadable.
“were you jealous?” you asked.
gojo turned his head away. no.
“you were. you were totally jealous of a stray cat.”
he was not. he was not. he was simply… concerned. about your safety. stray cats carried diseases.
you laughed, the sound bright and warm, and gojo felt his anger melting despite himself. you started walking again, the carrier swinging at your side, and he watched the park disappear behind you.
“don’t worry,” you said, quieter now. “you’re still my favorite cat.”
he meowed. i’m your only cat.
“for now,” you said. “who knows what’ll happen when you turn back.”
gojo thought about that for the rest of the walk home. about what it would mean to be your favorite anything when he was human again. about whether the way you looked at him— really looked at him, past the jokes and the noise and the infinity— meant what he hoped it meant.
he didn’t have answers. but he had time.
day 7
gojo had stopped counting the days until he turned back. now he was counting something else entirely— the number of times you smiled at him, the number of times you reached for him without thinking, the number of nights he fell asleep to the sound of your heartbeat.
but tonight, when you emerged from your bedroom, all of his counting ground to a halt.
you were dressed up. a dress, navy blue, falling just above your knees, with a neckline that made his mouth go dry. your hair was different too, curled softly around your face, and your lips were shiny with something pink and tempting.
gojo sat on the back of the couch and stared.
you were beautiful. you were always beautiful, even in your ratty sleep shirts with your hair a mess and your face bare. but this was different. this was weaponized beautiful, the kind of beautiful that made him want to crawl inside your closet and destroy every other outfit you owned so you could never wear this dress for anyone else.
“don’t look at me like that,” you said, smoothing your hands down your sides. “you’re making it weird.”
he couldn’t help it. his eyes were glued to you, tracking every movement as you checked your reflection in the mirror by the door. the dress hugged your waist. your lips caught the light. your earrings— tiny gold hoops— swung when you tilted your head.
where were you going? who was this for?
you didn’t tell him. you just slipped on a pair of heels and grabbed your purse, and crouched down to give him a quick pet on the head.
“be good,” you said. “don’t destroy anything. i’ll be back later.”
soon you were gone, the door clicking shut behind you, and gojo was alone in the apartment with nothing but his thoughts and the lingering scent of your perfume.
he sat in the dark for a long time, his tail wrapped around his paws, his mind spinning. a date. you were going on a date. someone else had asked you out, and you’d said yes, and you’d put on that dress and those heels and that lip gloss for someone else.
the jealousy was immediate and irrational and all-consuming.
he wanted to follow you. wanted to track you down and sit in whatever restaurant or bar you were at and glare at whoever was lucky enough to be sitting across from you. but he was a cat. a small, white, useless cat who couldn’t even type properly.
he looked at the tablet, sitting on the coffee table where you’d left it. the screen was dark, but he knew it was charged. he knew how to turn it on. he’d been practicing in secret, late at night when you were asleep, tapping out messages and deleting them before you could see.
tonight, he decided. tonight he would finally do it. not because he was jealous— okay, partially because he was jealous— but because he couldn’t wait anymore. couldn’t keep all of these words locked inside his small cat body.
he jumped off the couch and padded over to the tablet. pressed the power button with his nose. the screen glowed to life, and he waited impatiently for it to wake up, his tail flicking.
the keyboard appeared. gojo took a deep breath and started typing.
it took seventeen attempts.
seventeen times he typed out the sentence, and seventeen times he messed it up— pressing the wrong letter with his clumsy paws, hitting delete when he meant to hit space, accidentally closing the app entirely and having to start over. his claws were too long for the screen. his paws were too big for the individual keys. his patience, which had never been his strong suit, wore thin with every failed attempt.
but he kept going.
wil you go out woth me
delete. delete. delete.
will you go out woth
no.
will you go out woth me
close.
will you go out with me once i’m human again?
yes. yes, that was it. his paws were shaking, his heart was racing, and the sentence sat there on the screen in all its imperfect glory. he read it over three times, checking for mistakes. there was one— with was missing an h, but he’d hit the wrong key and he couldn’t figure out how to fix it without messing everything up.
it would have to do.
he added a signature, because he was gojo satoru and he couldn’t resist. — catoru
there. done. now all he had to do was wait.
the hours crawled by.
gojo curled up on the couch with the tablet propped against a pillow, the screen still lit, the message still waiting. he watched the door. listened for your footsteps. imagined a hundred different ways this could go— you laughing, you blushing, you saying yes, you saying no, you throwing him out the window.
he hadn’t thought about the possibility of you coming home sad.
but when the door finally opened, well past midnight, the energy that entered the apartment was wrong. heavy. deflated. your footsteps dragged on the floor, slower than usual, and when you flicked on the light, gojo’s heart sank.
your makeup was smudged. your eyes were red. and you smelled faintly of alcohol.
you didn’t look at him, didn’t say hello. just kicked off your heels— one, then the other, both landing crooked by the door— and dropped your purse on the floor with a thud.
gojo meowed. hey. i’m here.
“hey, gojo,” you said, but your voice was flat. wrong. you walked past the couch without stopping, heading for the bathroom, and gojo heard the sink turn on. water running. the sound of you splashing your face.
he jumped off the couch and followed you, the tablet forgotten for the moment. sat in the bathroom doorway and watched you scrub at your face with a towel, watched your shoulders shake with something that wasn’t quite crying but wasn’t not crying either.
“bad night?” he tried to say, but it came out as a questioning meow.
you looked at him in the mirror. your reflection was tired, your eyes puffy, your pretty lip gloss long gone.
“i got stood up,” you said, your voice cracked on the last word. “he didn’t even show. i sat there for an hour like an idiot, drinking wine by myself, waiting for someone who was never going to come.”
gojo’s chest tightened. the jealousy was still there, but it was buried under the realisation that you were sad. you were hurt. someone had made you feel small and unwanted, and gojo wanted to find that person and show them exactly what it felt like to be on the receiving end of his infinity.
but he couldn’t. so he just walked into the bathroom and rubbed against your ankles, purring as loud as he could.
you reached down and picked him up, holding him against your chest. your dress was soft under his paws. you smelled like wine and disappointment and the faint remnants of your perfume.
“i had three glasses,” you admitted. “maybe four. i lost count. and then i walked home because i didn’t want to take the train and cry in front of strangers.”
you weren’t crying now, but you were close. gojo could feel it in the way your breath hitched, the way your fingers trembled against his fur.
you carried him to the bedroom and set him on the bed while you changed out of the dress. gojo turned his back and listened to the rustle of fabric, the soft sound of you pulling on your sleep shirt. when he turned around, you were curled up on your side, facing the wall, your shoulders hunched.
he climbed onto the pillow next to your head and nudged your cheek with his nose.
“not now, baby,” you whispered. “i’m tired. we can play tomorrow.”
but he didn’t want to play. he wanted you to see the tablet. he wanted you to read his message. he wanted to tell you that you weren’t unwanted. that someone was waiting for you. that he was waiting for you.
he meowed again. more insistent this time. pawed at your shoulder.
you sighed and rolled over, looking at him with red-rimmed eyes. “what? what do you want?”
he couldn’t answer. so he jumped off the bed and ran to the living room, his paws skidding on the floor, and nudged the tablet with his nose. the screen had gone dark— it had been hours, of course it had— and he couldn’t turn it back on. couldn’t show you. couldn’t do anything except stand there on the coffee table, tail drooping, feeling useless.
you appeared in the doorway, watching him. your expression was tired, confused.
“what are you doing?”
he pawed at the tablet. meowed. pawed again.
you walked over and picked it up, turning it over in your hands. the screen stayed dark. you pressed the power button, and gojo held his breath, waiting for the message to appear, waiting for you to see—
nothing. the tablet was dead. out of battery, probably, because he’d left it on for hours like an idiot.
“did you want to play a game?” you asked, and your voice was so gentle, so kind, so completely unaware of what he’d been trying to do.
gojo deflated. sat down heavily on the coffee table and wrapped his tail around his paws. no. i wanted to tell you i love you.
you picked him up anyway, cradling him against your chest, and carried him back to the bedroom. the tablet stayed behind, dark and silent, its message lost.
you climbed into bed and he curled up on your chest, the way he did every night now. your hand found his back, your fingers tracing slow patterns through his fur. you were quiet for a long time, your breathing slow, and gojo thought you’d fallen asleep.
“i’m going to be sad when you turn back,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “isn’t that stupid? you’re gojo satoru. you’re annoying and loud and you never shut up. but you’re also… here. you’re always here. you sleep on my chest and you wait by the door and you make me feel like someone gives a shit whether i come home or not.”
gojo’s little heart clenched.
“and when you’re human again, it’s going to be different. you’re going to be different. you’re going to go back to your life and your missions and your stupid jokes, and i’m going to go back to being alone. and things are going to be awkward because i spent two weeks talking to you like you were a cat, telling you things i’ve never told anyone, and you’re going to remember all of it.”
your voice cracked.
“you’re going to remember all of it, and you’re going to look at me differently, and i don’t know if i can handle that. i don’t know if i can handle you knowing how lonely i am and pretending you don’t.”
you swallowed. your hand kept moving on his back, steady and soothing, even as your eyes filled with tears.
“so yeah. i’m going to be sad. because right now, like this, you’re mine. you’re my cat and you sleep on my chest and you don’t talk back and you don’t judge me. and when you turn back, you won’t be mine anymore. you’ll just be gojo. and gojo doesn’t… gojo doesn’t belong to anyone.”
gojo wanted to scream. wanted to claw his way out of this tiny body and wrap his arms around you and say i’m yours, i’ve always been yours, i’ll always be yours. but he couldn’t. he could only purr, loud and desperate, and press his face against your collarbone.
“you’re a good cat,” you whispered. “the best cat. i’m going to miss you so much.”
you fell asleep like that, tears drying on your cheeks, your hand heavy on his back. gojo stayed awake, watching your face in the dim light, his heart so full it hurt.
he would tell you. tonight was ruined, tonight you needed sleep and comfort and the quiet presence of something that loved you. but soon. tomorrow, maybe, or the day after. he would find a way to type that message, or he would wait until he was human again and say it with his own voice.
i’m yours. i’ve always been yours.
he curled up against you, his small body pressed to your chest, and closed his eyes.
day 8
gojo woke up warm.
not the usual warmth of your body pressed against his small cat form, but something deeper. fuller. his limbs felt long again, his spine straight, his hands—
his hands.
he had fingers. ten of them, attached to palms, attached to arms that ended in shoulders that felt broad and solid beneath the blanket. his legs were tangled with yours under the sheets, and his chest was pressed against your back, and his arm was wrapped around your waist like it had always belonged there.
he was human again.
gojo lay there in the gray morning light, barely breathing, cataloging every sensation. the weight of his own body. the stretch of his skin. the familiar hum of infinity settling back into place around him like a second skin. his six eyes were online again, drinking in the world with perfect clarity— the dust motes floating in the air, the texture of your pillowcase, the soft curve of your shoulder where your sleep shirt had slipped down.
and you. curled against him like he was something safe, your hand clutching his forearm, your breath warm against his wrist. you were still asleep, your face relaxed, your lips slightly parted.
gojo watched you and felt like his heart was going to crack right open.
he didn’t move. didn’t dare. this was a dream, surely— he’d fall through it if he breathed too hard, wake up small and furry and alone on your pillow. but your weight was solid against him, and his fingers were real when he flexed them, and the morning was too quiet and too perfect to be anything but true.
he’d turned his infinity off and turned back. sometime in the night, while he’d been curled against your chest, listening to you breathe, the curse had finally released him.
you stirred. your hand tightened on his arm, and you made a small sound— the same sound you made every morning, the one he’d come to recognize as not yet, five more minutes— and pressed back against him.
gojo’s breath caught.
you were so warm, and you fit against him like you’d been made to, and your sleep shirt had ridden up sometime during the night and his bare thigh was pressed against the bare skin of yours and he was very, very naked.
oh god. he was naked.
the realisation hit him like a truck. he was naked in your bed. his clothes— his human clothes— had been left behind in that warehouse a week ago, destroyed or lost or scattered to the wind. and now here he was, skin to skin with you, your body tucked against his like it was the most natural thing in the world.
he should move. extract himself, find a blanket, find something to preserve the last shreds of your dignity and his. but you were so comfortable, and he was so happy, and the morning light was painting gold stripes across your face, and he couldn’t. couldn’t move. couldn’t breathe. couldn’t do anything except watch you wake up.
your eyes fluttered open.
for a moment, you just blinked— unfocused, still half-asleep, your brain clearly not processing what your eyes were seeing. a man. in your bed. an arm around your waist. a chest against your back.
and then you saw his face.
“good morning,” gojo said, and his voice came out wrong— rough and low and cracked from a week of disuse, like he’d forgotten how to shape words with a human mouth. but it was his voice, his, and he watched your eyes go wide, watched the sleep evaporate from your face, watched you suck in a breath that made your whole body go rigid.
“gojo?” you whispered.
he smiled. it felt strange on his face— too big, too bright, too human after a week of cat expressions. but he couldn’t help it. you were looking at him like he was a ghost, and he wanted to reassure you, wanted to tell you he was real.
you turned in his arms, fast. your hand came up to touch his face— his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth— your fingers were shaking. “you’re human. you’re—when did you—how—”
“sometime last night,” he said. his voice cracked on the last word. “i woke up like this. with you.”
you stared at him. your eyes were bright, wet, and your lips were parted, and your hand was still on his face, and gojo thought he might die if he didn’t kiss you right now.
so he did.
it was clumsy— his nose bumping yours, his lips missing their target before he corrected, his hand coming up to cup the back of your neck with fingers that still felt too new. but when his mouth finally found yours, everything else fell away.
you made a sound against his lips; a small, surprised, oh sound that melted into something softer, and then your fingers were in his hair, and you were kissing him back, and gojo satoru had never been happier in his entire life.
he pulled back too soon, his forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing hard. your eyes were closed. your lips are pink and slightly swollen, and he’d done that, he’d done that, and he wanted to do it again and again until he forgot how to do anything else.
“i’ve wanted to do that for months,” he said, and his voice was still rough but he didn’t care. “years, maybe. i don’t know. i’ve lost track.”
you opened your eyes, looked at him. your expression was dazed, confused, overwhelmed— all the things he was feeling reflected back at him.
“you’re naked,” you said.
gojo laughed. it came out raw and bright, and he felt it in his chest, in his throat, in every part of him that had been small and silent for a week. “yeah. i noticed.”
“you’re naked in my bed.”
“technically, i’m naked in our bed.”
you made a sound— half-laugh, half-groan— and pushed at his chest, enough to put a few inches between you. “gojo. satoru. you need to—you need to put something on. i can’t—i can’t think when you’re—”
“when i’m what?”
“naked!”
he grinned.
“i’ll find something,” he said, and he meant to get up, he really did. but his legs felt strange beneath him; weak in a way they’d never been, unsteady after a week of four paws and a tail. he swung them over the side of the bed and stood up, and immediately his knees buckled.
you caught him. your hands on his arms, your body pressed against his side, holding him upright. “whoa. easy. easy. you’ve been a cat for a week. your body needs time to adjust.”
gojo leaned on you, more than he needed to, maybe, but you were warm and steady and he liked the way you fit against him. “i’m fine. i’m perfect. i’m better than fine.”
“you can’t stand.”
“i can stand. i’m choosing not to.”
you sighed and guided him back to the bed. he sat down heavily, the mattress dipping under his weight, and looked up at you. you were still in your sleep shirt, your hair a mess, your face flushed from the kiss. you were beautiful. you were so beautiful he couldn’t look away.
“stay there,” you said. “i’ll find you something to wear.”
you disappeared into the closet and gojo sat on the edge of the bed and tried to remember how to be human. his hands looked right. his feet looked right. everything was in the right place, more or less, and his cursed energy was humming along like it had never left. he flexed his fingers, curled them into fists, stretched them out again. human. human. human.
but then his eyes landed on the tablet.
it was still on the coffee table in the living room, where he’d left it last night. dead battery, probably. but the message— his message, the one he’d spent seventeen attempts typing— was still there. waiting.
“here,” you said, emerging from the closet with a pair of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. “they’re not your size, but they’ll work until we can get you home.”
he pulled on the clothes, they were tight in some places and loose in others, and they smelled like you, and stood up again, more carefully this time. his legs held.
“i need to show you something,” he said.
you frowned. “what? satoru, you can barely walk. you should sit down. i’ll make breakfast, and then we can—”
“no. it’s important.” he took a step, then another. his body remembered how to do this, even if his muscles had forgotten. “the tablet. last night, before you came home, i—i typed something. i wanted you to see it.”
your frown deepened, but you didn’t argue. you just followed him as he walked, with one hand on the wall for balance, to the living room. the tablet was still on the coffee table, dark and silent. gojo picked it up, found the charger you kept by the couch, plugged it in.
the screen glowed to life.
he navigated to the notes app with fingers that felt too big and too clumsy, and there it was. his message.
will you go out woth me once i’m human again? — catoru
he turned the screen toward you.
you read it. once. twice. three times. your lips moved silently, shaping the words, and gojo watched your face cycle through confusion and recognition and something that looked a lot like hope.
“you typed this,” you said. it wasn’t a question.
“with my paws,” he said. “it took seventeen tries. i was going to show you last night, but your tablet died, and then you were sad, and i couldn’t—i couldn’t make you look at it when you were already hurting.”
you looked up at him. your eyes were bright again, but not with tears this time. with something else. something that made his heart stutter in his chest.
“you wanted to go out with me,” you said.
“i want to go out with you. i’ve wanted to go out with you for a really long time. i just—” he swallowed. “i didn’t know how to say it. and then i was a cat, and i couldn’t say anything at all, and i thought i’d missed my chance. but i’m human now. and i’m asking. properly. will you go out with me?”
you stared at him for a long moment. the tablet hung between you, the screen still glowing, the misspelled words still waiting.
suddenly, you laughed.
it was a wet sound, shaky and bright, and you were crying, but you were smiling too, and you set the tablet down on the couch and stepped into his arms like you belonged there.
“yes,” you said against his chest. “yes, you idiot. yes.”
gojo wrapped his arms around you and held on. you were warm and solid and real, and you fit against him the same way you had in bed— like you’d been made to be there, like the universe had designed the two of you to slot together.
“i heard you,” he said quietly. “last night. what you said about being sad when i turned back. about not being yours.”
you went still in his arms.
“i heard all of it,” he continued. “and i need you to know—i am yours. i’ve been yours for a long time. i just didn’t know how to tell you.”
you pulled back just enough to look at his face. your eyes were red, your cheeks wet, and you were the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.
“you’re not going to forget?” you asked. “all the stuff i said? all the embarrassing, lonely, pathetic stuff?”
“never,” he said. “i’m going to remember every single thing. i’m keeping all of it.”
you laughed again, softer this time, and you reached up to wipe your tears with the back of your hand. “you’re going to be insufferable about this, aren’t you?”
“absolutely,” he said, grinning now, wide and bright and full of so much joy he thought he might burst. “i’m going to be the most insufferable boyfriend you’ve ever had. i’m going to tell everyone. i’m going to tell nanami. i’m going to tell ijichi. i’m going to tell that stray cat.”
“don’t you dare.”
“too late. i’m already planning the speech.”
you hit his chest and he caught your hand, holding it against his heart. you could probably feel it pounding. he didn’t care.
“look,” he said. “i was a cat for one week, and it was the best week of my life. because i was with you. because you took care of me. because you let me sleep on your chest and eat your cereal and fall in your toilet—”
“oh my god, we’re never talking about the toilet again.”
“—and i fell in love with you,” he finished. “i was already in love with you. but being a cat made it worse. better. more. i don’t know how to explain it.”
“you don’t have to explain,” you said. “i know.”
and then you kissed him.
it was better than the first one— slower, deeper, more certain. his hands found your waist, and your hands found his hair, and the morning light filled the apartment with gold, and gojo satoru thought that maybe, just maybe, getting turned into a cat was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
you pulled back eventually, breathless, and rested your forehead against his.
“catoru,” you said, and you were smiling. “you signed it catoru.”
“i panicked.”
“it’s cute.”
“i’m cute.”
“you’re something.”
he laughed and you laughed, the sound filling the apartment like sunlight.
outside, the world was waking up. missions waited. curses waited. the endless, exhausting work of being a sorcerer waited. but right now, in this moment, none of that mattered.
gojo was human again. he was in love. for the first time in a very long time, he wasn’t alone.
“so,” he said, pulling back just enough to look at your face. “breakfast? i’m thinking cereal. from your bowl.”
you groaned. “you’re never going to let me eat alone again, are you?”
“never,” he said, and he meant it. “never, never, never.”
you rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. you took his hand and led him to the kitchen. gojo followed.
the end.
[ an. hope you guys liked this!! might be a little rushed sorry about that. comment if you wanna be added to my permanent taglist!! ]
pairing dad's best friend!satoru gojo x university student!afab reader
synopsis sensing your distance from afar, your father sends the only person who he thinks understands you, right into the lion's den; satoru tells you the truth about your mother
tags angst, unbalanced unhealthy relationship dynamics, toji + meg cameo, smut, risky sex, spanking, recording sex, panty-sniffing, use of pet names (daddy, baby girl, etc), light anal stuff, nsfw
word count 8.2k
author's note i'm sooo excited for this one!! @macbethinchains and i big-brained and wrote all over this track together. i just want everyone to know that the sex tape idea came from her brain (obvi), and now it's the most important gear to their story 🫶 you're the dilfjo to my ella and ily
If Megumi is being honest with himself, he'd realize that he'd rather be anywhere else but here.
It's… hot. The hottest recorded Summer in his lifetime. News channels buzz with right-wing content, blaming the forecast on science, not humans. Rain shutters pulled, facing out to the expertly-kept side garden, he sits next to Geto, nursing the evening green tea he still indulges in like he's stuck in the twentieth century.
When Dad doesn't want to cook, they find themselves here — basking in the lonely sanctuary Geto keeps when his favorite daughter isn't around. The twins are… about. In, and out of the front door to meet friends in town, but not without stopping in to run for items and to say goodbyes they forgot to grab. Megumi thinks they're both grating and unfamiliar. So much so that he hardly regards them. They're nothing like you — not carrying on your prose or poise when they exist around him. They just don't exist for him, and that's not what Megumi is used to.
Still, he enjoys your Dad well enough. The conversation is short and focused on him, his after-school plans, and the news of the new Prime Minister. Still, Megumi can't just sit next to him and swallow down the obvious — the one thing keeping their string connected through the coldness. "Have you heard from her?"
"Mm," Geto swallows over his scalding sip of tea — lips cherry red with the lingering heat. Then, he smiles and chuckles like he was waiting for this, reaching up to tuck some hair behind his ear. "I was ready to ask you the same thing."
"I have a friend in Tokyo who does some pretty good work in Martial Arts." Geto hums out his words like he's offering the boy song lyrics instead of opportunity. "He's been my little spy on her for the past few days… But he is a shitty one — pardon me."
Megumi laughs a bit, sitting back in the rickety, hand-woven bamboo. Vaguely, across the tatami, they hear footsteps close in. Heavy ones that they don't have to place, because a second later, Toji's head slips from the open doors. He's smiling like he just walked into a confessional — two overflowing plates of flayed fish with all of their expertly doted-on sides being his heavy white flag.
Suguru sits up, ease painted all over his once-tense face. "Now, doesn't that look delicious?"
"Ah— you made it."
"Which is why it looks so delicious, mm? Here, Fushiguro." Suguru takes the plate handed to him and hands it off, bowing in Toji's direction. "Thank you, Zen'in, for—
"Don't even finish your sentence." Toji holds the other plate out for him deftly — looking over his shoulder like a mere passing glance was too much to give the man who slaved over his dinner.
"Pull up a chair, won't you? You can unroll the futon—
"Not letting you finish that one, either," Toji mumbles as he walks back into the house, sweatpants dragging behind his bare feet. He grumbles all the way back to the kitchen, more than satisfied to pick at the fish carcass and drink Geto's beer while he talks to the kid. On the TV, the horse race drones on invisibly, backing the quiet chews and the click in his aging jaw.
"Thank you for the meal."
Suguru nods, crossing his knees as he sits back in his chair, leaning over to pick at his hearty dinner, but more interested in the conversation Megumi seems to want to hold. Through closeness and years, easy conversation like this is rare. "Anyhow, Satoru is a fine martial artist. I believe he specializes in Judo, but he dabbles in quite a bit. Kenjutsu is another one of his strengths."
Megumi doesn't give up eye contact, polite and hesitant to poke at his food with this harsh, authoritative figure hovering so close. There is no you to shield Megumi from your father's all-seeing gaze, just the chirp of the evening crickets and the low hum from the outdated box television just inside. But, when Geto mentions something about sword-wielding, his eyes catch the glimmer of the moonlight, shooting up as he takes in a small flake of roasted fish.
It's… stupid, just a hobby he entertains in his elective course, but Geto knows. He helped Toji commission Megumi's first Katana when he left for school. Since then, he's always kept it in the back of his heart for his daughter's favorite.
So, he continues, "No harm in taking a few courses while you're out for the summer, mm? Free of charge?"
"You want me to do it there? In Tokyo?"
"Well, I just assumed you'd be happy to be with her for a weekend. Surely you and Okkotsu can find something nice to do while the girls are enjoying themselves." Suguru continues eating away at his dinner, stopping to chew pristinely. "Just an idea." He doesn't forget to add — turning his tone into something pitchier than his everyday, calculated drawl. "The girls and I were thinking… Well, we were deciding whether to still take our vacation up there this summer. Of course, we wouldn't dream of imposing, so I would rather offer it to you."
Megumi doesn't know what to say. Or, rather, he doesn't want to say it. "She left for Tokyo, and I haven't heard from her since." The topic has been sitting unsaid on his chest for a while — something he's been shouldering down in favor of the eerie calm your absence seems to hold. "So, I think she's okay without me."
"Fushiguro…" Suguru's voice softens into something fatherly and gentle, petting the kids back, a way he had to learn after the loss of his wife. He's become so empathetic to human nature, now, that he's sure he could cry on cue. "Would you let me give you some advice on my daughter?"
Megumi doesn't answer, so Suguru gives it anyway. "She needs structure." He starts, stopping at the perfect second to scoop a bite of food into his mouth. He chews gracefully, then continues. "The only way I will ever see her, or get her to do anything, is if I orchestrate it."
"I think she's just that way with you."
Suguru shakes his head like it's the easiest thing ever. "Not when she waits by the phone all day, awaiting your invitation to the lake or into town. There is no dominant bone in her body — that kid."
Megumi chuckles, because he doesn't know what else to do. He knows that Suguru is right, and he hates that he's right. That pitiful, soft-spoken way you get about yourself is suffocating, but he'd never relay that to your Dad — your best friend.
"If you won't do it for her, do it for me… please."
So, Megumi gets on the train the next day, and it's all so stupid.
He didn't agree right away. In fact, he let it simmer and sizzle all night while he rested his head over the situation. Of course, it didn't sit right with him, but he wanted to try. After a morning searching high and low, he discovered that the running rates with one of the highest-acclaimed Martial Artists in Tokyo were far higher than what his Dad takes home in a month. They're luxe — exclusive and showy, just like the bright-haired, smiling face on the business website.
Gojo Satoru — 6th Dan Black Belt 20+ active service years. Multifaceted.
So he agrees, even if it's only for a few shoddy credits that he can put towards his career, hopeful for a life in the city that lets him nurse his hobbies. It's what he studies so hard for, and the six figures staring back at him in blue light last night didn't lie.
Megumi packs that morning, then calls Geto to take him up on the offer. In fact, he overpacks for the two or three days he's expecting to stay, though Geto offered him a week. It felt like he was intruding on the handout enough as it is — never mind his apprehension about being in such a city alone.
The train ride feels like a ritual, and the walk to the hotel accommodation is like a knife to the gut. He's tried to get in contact with you, but his messages don't go through — he can't find you on social media, but it doesn't ever cross his mind that you would block him. It's not in your nature, you two are attached at the hip if he lets you get close enough, so surely you should come running back to him with open arms… right?
The room is dark, save for the moody recessed lighting that creates a shadow over his nose, casting a color block in his shape against your skin. You can't even pretend to pay attention to whatever mindless, old anime is playing on the screen — he's been balancing sweet snacks on your lower belly and down your bare, sticky legs and licking them off. With each cheeky bite, he counts off, using a single number to track the serving size, deciding the one he just bit off your skin is lucky number eighteen.
"That tickles." You whisper in passing, reaching for your phone to distract your attention away. He's being tempting on purpose, knowing how easy you are and how long of a day he's had at work.
"Put that phone down, or I'll smash it to pieces." He hums around a sticky, fruity chew, dipping and letting his lips smooch at the skin leading into the simple cotton of your panties. You don't answer, blinking tiredly against the dimmed blue lights as you scroll through numbing text threads. "Hm? Don't be like that."
"What did you mean when you said that at lunch?" You finally gather the nerve to peek over your metal shield and stare down into his shadowed gaze, framed by wispy white hair that's fallen from his descent on your body. "To Higuruma-san?"
"What did I say? About the licensure? I assumed you just weren't listening." He goes back to plopping tiny candies on your skin, counting nine before blinking up at you again. "Don't be like that… What? A couple of big men made you feel small?"
Then you go to withdraw, folding your legs and pulling your shirt down as your smirk fades into a straight look of annoyance. Your top lip twitches as he sits up with you, a hand over the back of his mouth as he gains his bearings.
"You can't be serious, kid."
"You're such a dick."
"Yeah? That's what you need — doing all of that damn mumbling around…" He lies back down in the spot you kept warm, pressed up against the huddle of pillows you love to steal from him in the night. Satoru can't lie and say that he hasn't felt your energy shift since getting back home, but it's been too subtle to comment on. Now, you're showing your age by running from communication instead of giving it to him. "Stop with the mumbling. I can't help you if I can't hear you."
"Even if you heard me, there's nothing you can say to change my mind. So, it's just stupid." You shout, shoulders flying up as you make your way to his bathroom to get some space, if only for a second. You leave the door open only by a crack. Something inside of you just doesn't feel right, shutting him out like this. So, you hide. "So just forget I brought it up, it's so fucking stupid…"
A few tense seconds pass. Satoru sits up, blinking stars out of his eyes, moving his collection of snacks back to the nightstand. He wants to stand up and chase you back into his arms, knowing it'd work well enough to reel you back in. But, as he goes to stand, he can't help but shake his head, muttering just loud enough for you to hear, "You know, you can really act like your mother sometimes."
Your heart stills, the shadow of the echo hitting your ribcage as you stand, shellshocked, on the other side of the bathroom door. His footsteps are heavy, and so is his touch as it falls upon the doorknob. Time doesn't move — you don't really think about anything, because you can't deal with it. Everything you've ever known about your late mother was condensed into girlish yearning and a single picture your Dad kept in his bedroom. She has always been a ghost, never to be spoken about.
"Baby girl," He whispers, hands sliding blindly against the wall as he searches for a switch. "You're just standing in the dark? I'm sorry."
"W-why would you say that… about my Mom?" You instinctively take a step forward as he pushes against the door, arms crossed over your chest like you're shielding your heart from information that you're not ready for. Tears haven't fallen yet, but your eyes burn like they're about to.
Stepping in behind you, flipping the switch so that the room is engulfed in white, bright flames, Satoru doesn't say much. "What do you mean?"
"I'm…" You scoff, eyes burning red and heavy as you walk forward, making the space between you two more manageable. He can't reach out, and you don't want to see that kicked-puppy expression right now. "H-how am I acting like her? Why would you even say that?"
"I'm sorry you—
Satoru steadies himself, his light brows knit together. A chuckle gets lost in the room before he continues, shaking his head. "Sorry, I figured your Dad told you — we all went to the same University."
You're struck silent, staring straight into the wall with your knuckles between your teeth.
"And I mean, she was a girl to write home about, hm?" He offers, treading gently — slowly. He approaches you from behind, closing his hands over your shoulders gently. "Looked just like you, so gentle and beautiful like you are, my girl."
"I don't want you to talk about her."
"Why? It's no good to run from the truth. Your Dad is notorious for doing so, but it doesn't mean that you have to." His voice is even and gentle, knowing you're nothing but a festering, open wound when it comes to letting him in. You two know not to talk about Dad — God forbid you bring up your Mom, and now he knows. Still, all he wants is for you to listen to him, maybe just take what he's saying into account, so you could actually start to heal from a lifetime of half-truths. "Let me in."
"S-shut up, stop." You plead, voice curling around the edges as he turns you around, pulling you into his chest in an embrace that makes you feel so unbelievably small.
"Noooo," He smiles, huge hands rubbing up and down your back, bunching your soft shirt so his hands can slip against your skin. "Hey, I'm sorry, okay? Do you forgive me?"
"I just don't want to talk about it." You whisper, throat singing and raw as you try to give him words you know you can't hold in your chest forever. "I don't want to talk about that at all."
"Let Daddy in." He purrs against the shell of your ear, licking over the fuzzy silver jewelry you keep there. It tickles — you shiver, thighs rubbing together as you finally wrap your arms around him, starting low on his waist, letting your nails dig into the hard, toned skin. Satoru likes that, smiling against your body, kissing you again, and reaching behind you to squeeze your ass. He peeks over your shoulder so he can watch the way your simple, cotton panties get lost between the swell of your cheeks.
You want to cuss him out — know that you should, and run for the hills so you can cry to your best friend, but his grip holds you hostage, keeping you exactly where he wants you. In a way, you're trapped, but you're doing nothing to free yourself from this situation, so you relax. "Don't… say that. Are you crazy?"
"For you? Yeah?" He grunts, clawing at a handful of your precious ass before raining a smack against the unsuspecting skin. You squeal, jumping to the tips of your toes, grip digging in his bare skin with a vengeance. Against your tummy, you can feel the hard, aching length of his cock dig into your flesh — a sign, and the only one you need. You shiver, knowing there's nothing you want more right now than the brunt of his need.
"C-can we do it… Nice this time? Wanna have s-sex with you, but I wanna try—
Satoru doesn't let you finish; he lets your lewdly dipped words run down his spine like lava, erupting some corrupted part of his soul that wants to do the exact opposite of what you asked for, just to make you cry. "Want me to teach you how to make love? Nice 'n slow?"
You nod breathlessly, hands trailing up to his shoulders, where they grab as he walks you out of the bathroom. The entire way to the bed, he's in your ear, chuckling, licking, and whispering small phrases of endearing words that he knows will lower you into a dripping pile of want.
Again, you're so easy. It's easy to fall back into his arms after he spikes your blood. It's easy to rely on the feeling of his touch as it crosses his skin, as if he owns it. It even makes you smile as his voice tickles your soul, whispering, "Gonna fuck your little pussy like I love you." He spanks your ass again, reddening the other cheek.
You gasp, humming into his mouth as his words lead into a sensual kiss, carrying you all the way to the side of the bed. He lingers, the backs of his legs pressed against the wood as his lips focus on your jawline, sucking harshly, leaving little marks on the sensitive, paper-thin skin. In a burst of courage, you take the reins, pushing him onto the mattress and climbing over his lanky body before he can comment.
You sit your ass right down on his bulge, grinding your hips into the hardness, letting it slip right into that little space against your core. He can feel the heat you're exuding for him, head tossed back as you grind back down on him. "Touch me," You mewl, reaching down to grab his thick forearm, leading it against your clothed chest, and down to your tummy. Satoru's touch is big and warm — inviting and opening you up to all of his little quirks and nuances.
"Pretty baby," He replies, breathless as he blinks up at you. Satoru takes control of the arm you grabbed, leading his fingers to your bitten lips. "Suck 'em, sweetie…"
You reach for his wrist, wrapping both hands around his veiny limb, rubbing it gently as you lead two fingers into your mouth. Satoru's digits are salty and almost metallic — beaming with the afterglow of the light switch and sweetness. You hum around them, circling your hips like you're a professional concubine, reeling him in with little to no skill or strength. You can see it in his face when you blink down at him — how his thin, sunken eyes sparkle with something darker than lust. Satoru wants to possess you. He wants you on a leash within arm's length at all times, and he wants people to know. You're just so attractive to him — that naive look in your eye, and the tiny shake in your body as you try to seduce him. It all adds up to the perfect sequence of foreplay, needing to reach out and physically stop your hips when he swears he's about to soil his briefs.
"No more," He orders so naturally that it makes you weak. Since telling him how dominant you needed him to be that first time, he's never let that fall or falter. He grabs you and pulls you into place, gives piercing looks when you speak out of line, and commands you with words unsaid. You're constantly ready for him — singing in the core of your stomach whenever he just exists around you.
"Gonna cream my pants, just looking at you." He grunts, lifting his hips from the mattress and taking you with it. You gasp, falling over to your side so he can crawl over your body, taking it slow, but treating you with force. He flips you to your stomach and props your hips up.
"Will you let me cum inside?" He mumbles it in passing like it's the most casual collection of words he's ever touched. Satoru rises to his knees behind your propped body, smiling as you settle face down, ass up. He tugs at your panties, admiring the way the soft fabric sticks to your warm arousal, darkening around your slit and peeling away in strings of want. He guides you out of the pair, one foot followed by the next, with a strong hand over the small of your back. "Want to give it to you, baby."
"Give it to me." You slur, too taken and horny for your mind to even put this situation into perspective. You bury your face into the sheets, breathing out, wanting, determined breaths from your nose as he spreads you open, smiling at the mess he sees behind his favorite pair of thighs.
He brings the panties he stole from you to his nose, breathing heavily into the soiled want, smiling as the savory afterglow hits the back of his nose. It's like he can taste you in the spit he has to swallow down, raw and real — he's elated. "You taste as sweet as you are." He hums, moving the panties to his lips, sucking and licking at the crotch, humming obscenely as he fishes his rock-hard erection from his shorts.
Your cunt is winking at him, puffy and sensitive as you fiddle and writhe against the sheets. "P-please…" You mutter, pushing your ass back on him like it'd get you closer to the truth. "I want it so bad."
"Fucking risky," His words are muffled against the fabric of your underwear as he strokes his leaking cock against your entrance, letting it sit heavily across your sopping pussy, just teasing you for the inevitable. "But, mm— your hole was made for breeding."
You go to speak, but the only thing that comes out is a hard, uncomfortable moan as you feel him push past your quivering hole. He starts easy at first, needing to collect his composure as he feels your heat wrap around him like a glove. He groans into your panties, both hands situated at your hips, squeezing and pulling at the flesh of your ass. His cock bends with the tightness of your being, and the pressure makes him fucking feral. His blood is running hotter than it's ever been, and he knows he can't last like this.
But when he looks down and sees the way your hole is struggling to take him, he blacks out. With a stutter of his hips and a deep growl, Satoru tosses his head back and cums faster than he ever has — grip bruising and hips shivering as he pumps you to the brim with his load before he can even get inside of you.
Surprised, yet oddly taken, you squeak and lift your head, trying to look back on his shirtless, tall figure, but coming up short when your neck can't bear the awkward stretch of the maneuver. He fills you up, and that's exactly what it feels like — you feel overwhelmingly full, like your belly is on fire, and it just keeps pumping. He whines and groans against every spurt, cursing against your name and inhaling traces of your sweet cunt in the underwear he's sucking on like a soothing device.
When he finishes, he pinches off the base of his cock, stroking off the shaft not buried inside of you like he's milking himself dry. His essence is already leaking out of your hole — bubbling and nasty, mixing with arousal and dripping down into the sheets. "Oh, baby— fuck, I just came so hard."
"'m so full,"
"I know, baby doll." He grunts, tossing your soaked panties behind him. He pulls himself back together inside of you, slowly pushing his hips deeper, forcing more of his pearly white seed out in a ring around his pale cock.
"U-uncomfortable," You moan, shifting so you can bury your head back in the sheets. You whine and buck forward every time he pushes deeper, tears burning your eyes as you try to get used to the foreign feeling. "So—oooo deep," You rub your feet together, propped by your joined knees, and the pressure rushes straight to your toes. Overwhelmed, you twirl and flex them together.
Satoru stares and admires the sight like he's in love — blue eyes sparkling, pink lips parted as his cock pushes in even deeper. Arousal-soaked cum leaks and pools from your hole, and it's so lewd that he needs to reach for this again. He can't let his memory go astray.
"W-where's your phone?" He calls you out through the intimacy by name, slapping down on your left cheek like it'd bring you back to reality. Under him, you're struggling to take it all, forehead pressed to your crossed forearms, sweat beading at your brow.
"Don't know — Mmf, on t-the thing."
"What thing?"
"The be- ah, fuck! Mm, I don't know."
Satoru shakes his head, deeming you a useless pile of need as he quickly feels and glances around his immediate space for any sign of a recording device — yours or his. Still, he knows he doesn't keep his phone around, and yours is always glued to your hip. "Need you to see this… Fuck, it's so sexy."
You hum, experimentally rocking your hips back into him, then gasping and withdrawing as he feels around for the phone. After a few seconds, he finds it, already knowing your passcode, and presses against the homescreen and all your new-gen apps for that familiar little camera icon in the bottom left. His thumb shivers as he clicks over it, swallowing down thick breaths as his night-heavy room flicks onto the screen.
"Pose for the camera, little one — show 'em what you got." He purrs deep in his wrecked throat, angling the camera to your fluttering cunt, groaning as the mingling cum drips down your thighs and around his cock every time one of you moves. He zooms in on it, too, pulling your cheeks apart and ogling at the sight. "Soooo sexy,"
"Wait, I don't—
"Shh, there you are…" His hands slide up your back, getting lost in the lip of your t-shirt, gathering it past the tiny little tramp stamp tattoo so he can see it as he fucks into you slowly. He audibly shivers as the moonlight kisses it into view, the camera shaking as it peeks down to his cum-covered cock, then to his thick fingers massaging over your tattoo. He swallows thick enough for the camera to catch, "Oh, Geto."
You whine, gnawing your bottom lip as his cum drives deeper and deeper inside of you, touching parts of your soul that you didn't even know existed. You reach down to cradle your tummy, rocking back into Satoru's steadying touch as you wince. "Mm, there's so much—
"Shh," He bites, swallowing into the camera as it catches the ghost of your movement. He pans down to your shaking arm, massaging the base of your stomach, then chuckles like a whisper. "You feel me in your womb, baby? Gonna give you a bunchhhh'a little blue-eyed brats to wrangle."
Satoru smiles as you whine and plead against these words spoken in the heat of the moment. They feel real with dripping honey and layers of want, but even in your inebriated state, you know the truth above all. "Want y-you,"
He nods, breath shaking as he records the tip of his thumb slipping through the mess on your skin. You finally find it in you to turn your head to the side, blinking up at his shirtless, toned body, flushed in crimson, so uber-focused on your sex through the screen that he can't focus on anything else. Satoru drags his thumb over your puckered, virgin asshole, chuffing when you bite out an unassuming whine.
Your heart races as you shuffle to sit back up on your forearms, arching your back dangerously, letting your chest kiss the mattress. Satoru smiles so wide behind that camera, massaging your hole with his thumb, seated halfway inside of you as his softening cock hardens right back up for you.
"Look at you… Just taking it." His voice is gone in a pitch you've never experienced before, and it makes your insides churn and swim like you're seasick. "Taking it all for Daddy, mm? Want me to give you some more? Another fucking load — watch you go crazy and dumb for it?"
Broken, and facing the camera as he finally pans it to your fucked-up smudged face, you say something you thought you'd never ever say in this position. "Please, daddy."
"So, Megumi — may I call you that, Megumi?" Satoru stands against the sun in his high-rise studio with a custom-made bokutō in his outstretched hands. He's tight in an all-black training getup — all compression, all sticking to his curves and ridges like he's a professional model too good to age out of his quirks.
In front of him, the kid Suguru, whom he was told about the day before, stands wordless and put off by the demeanor this world-class instructor is flaunting around like yesterday's pay. Still, Satoru smiles widely, flicking down at the bamboo, then to the dark-haired kid, offering it up like his left lung.
"You can call me whatever."
"Megumi," he coaxes, extending the makeshift sword towards him, wordlessly beckoning the kid to pick it up. "Suguru tells me that you have some formal experience with the concept of Kenjutsu. Have you ever wielded a proper katana?"
"I own one." Megumi deadpans, reaching his open palms up, letting Satoru shrug the custom piece into his grip. "Had it for years."
"Ah! Look at you — nearly a pro already." Their hands brush as the faux-weapon gets passed hand-to-hand. Megumi's shoulders slouch like the piece has real weight, weary with where to look, or even where he's standing right now.
As he gets adjusted to the weight, Satoru backs up with the biggest smile on his face, retrieving his own bokutō from its propped home against the window. Everything he owns is custom-made, but this tool was handed down to him through three generations of Kenjutsu masters. He holds it with grace, like he's holding onto a real weapon, hand curling with effort as he lowers the tool to his side.
Megumi watches him silently, swallowing back a weight in his throat as the older man takes two steps, holding himself in an unbreakable stance in front of him.
"Now, I really wanna talk to you about the history and use of Kenjutsu through the years, but I'd hate to be a bore."
"That sounds like a topic I'd pay six figures to get lectured to me." Megumi follows the instructor's lead, lowering the tool to his side, lips parted as he watches Satoru smile after everything he says. He knows what this is and recognizes that they can be polar opposites and the space can still be comfortable. Megumi feels… comfortable.
"Gonna show you how to properly hold a katana. What's the length of yours, at home? Do you remember?"
"N-No, my oji got it for me as a gift. Took one summer of training rounds until my Dad stopped paying for it."
"Your Oji is a good man, hm? Respectable?" Satoru brings the wood to his chest, turning his fist inward so the wood spans his chest. Megumi follows suit, assuming this intro lesson is an unspoken game of follow-the-leader. "He cares about you like a father, I can see."
"He just has a lot of money."
"A lot of connections, too." Satoru turns the bladed end of the tool inward. "The hardest thing about mastering something new is mastering the movement." He leans into his teaching mode like it's second nature, demonstrating a few resting and movement positions, never blinking, his smile never faltering as he bends and holds his body in ways Megumi hasn't seen before.
Satoru manages to make the apprehensive kid smile during the first half of the session; their conversation flows like the wind, bouncing between them as they scale the room in different offensive and defensive poses. When Megumi misreads a bluff, he ends up with a blunt bokutō at his throat. He likes that the instructor doesn't play around or baby him when there's an opening to be had. Satoru understands his strength from just one day in his presence, and Megumi knows he wants to be back.
They're talking about their next session when you walk in.
You swear it's an accident — it's been an off day, one you didn't want to keep on the record, just because you felt so ugly and sick. It's Satoru, and whatever he did to you last night. You walk with a cramp, toes pointed inward in discomfort as you sit down and stand up.
Of course, he was all apologies and praises as he cleaned you up and out this morning, feet in the air like a boy, excited because he woke up with you next to him. Now the pain medication is wearing off, and you're tired of wasting time on the phone — trapped in a city too big for what you truly want.
So, you get up and walk to him, because you can. Satoru's never told you yes or no to work visits; you two have yet to really exist outside of the bedroom, but you want to try.
You're dressed… normally, as the elevator door opens to his floor. You're not fishing for eyes or compliments, just for Satoru's attention, because it couldn't be more obvious that you're wrapped in one of his shirts, comfortable in leggings and sandals. The goal is lunch — maybe a sweet crepe that you two can pretend to share, but Satoru ends up with most of it.
The goal is definitely not to run into your estranged ex.
As you drag down the hallway of glass-paned rooms, you're not paying attention to anything that isn't screaming at you. Then, it hits as you round the corner into Satoru's main studio, facing the west end of the city, looking out into an afternoon full of life.
They're not focused on you like you're focused on them, not at first. You're frozen in your tracks as you watch the boys wave around fake swords with smiles and stares. They're serious, stopping at occasional moments to nod or speak. Satoru dips in a squat after a few moments, taking time to drink water, of course, not without offering Megumi some.
It doesn't cross your mind to run or even duck. You can't hide, and you don't have a reason to. Instead, you walk closer to the glass walls, hovering your hand over the metal frame as their familiar voices bounce off the glass.
It feels like you're swallowing down fragments of this room — glass so sharp and heavy that you can't help but feel it for the rest of your life. You can hear them go on vaguely about the Japanese army and how their bloodline bled right back into their natural hobbies.
Satoru's a well-known eccentric — blaming his incredible talents on the obsessive time he spent on harnessing them, and making them his own. Accordingly, he lacks professional boundaries. He can really feel it bleed through this time when he throws Toji's son side-swipes and backhanded jabs, then looks up to see your shocked face through the wall.
Megumi notices the lapse in attention just in time, deciding not to land the perfect counter-attack on his unsuspecting senior when he sees his face drop. It's absentminded and stupid, the way Megumi whips his head over his shoulder to see who his instructor is ogling.
"Geto," Satoru mumbles, tossing his tool on the polished floor. He goes to greet you immediately, remembering he hadn't told you about this off-the-books lesson. It's something Suguru slipped onto his radar with a simple text, and you had no idea. "Sorry, just a moment—
Satoru also has no idea that this kid is the one you've devoted your life to.
Megumi doesn't say anything as Satoru crowds the door, only letting it open a crack, so he can slide out. You step back as he walks closer, brows furrowing as Megumi takes a break, watching you two with an expression so tense it feels like he's about to blow up.
Satoru doesn't touch you, not the way he would if it were just you and him. He makes sure the door is shut, dips his tone, and smiles in your face as you peer up at him. "Sorry, I should've told you I had a busy evening… I figured you'd know the kid, Suguru said he was coming down—
"What? My Dad sent him down here?"
"What?" Satoru feigns just as clueless as you feel, settled in face pulled together as you reach forward to grab his forearms. You can feel Megumi's glare burn from inside the studio, but you don't know what to do with it — it's not comfortable like Satoru's is anymore. It almost feels… demeaning. "He's your friend, right?"
"I'm gonna kill him."
"Who? Your Dad?"
"Megumi and my Dad." You whisper, gazing up at him, shaking your head clear of it, then peeking back in through the glass. Megumi waits like a fish in a bowl, stretching his thin arms above his head. "And you. You said you'd be back this afternoon."
"I forgot about this lesson, but I was going to pick up sushi."
"You're useless."
Satoru takes it as you push him away, both hands on his sturdy chest. "Ah, I know."
Somehow, Satoru can never quite let you go. He lets his touch linger over your bent elbow as you walk to the studio door. Megumi's standing on the other side, looking like he has all the time in the world for you, but you're just too terrified to take it.
"C-can you stay out here?" You whisper towards him, pulling your touch away just so it wouldn't teeter on too much, especially when Megumi was so close. He has the senses of a stray cat — razor sharp and honed in from trauma. It's something you grew to appreciate, but not something that makes conversation easy.
"For a moment, but he has like ten more minutes of this lesson—
You ignore him, reaching out for the knob and putting just enough weight on it for the hardware to click. You take a deep breath, you keep to yourself, reminding yourself that you're not afraid of him — The same Megumi who used to poke fun at you for wetting your pants as a kid.
The second the door clicks, Megumi lowers his stretched arms, breathing out an invisible sigh. He's being dodgy with his eye contact, peeking out at Satoru outside the studio, who shifts, wanting to get a better look at this conversation he was blatantly kicked out of.
He's thinking about it now. Suguru told him nothing — no attached history, sure, they may be friends, but that was it. The way you two are approaching each other looks more and more like you have history that runs deeper than friendship.
"Why are you here?"
"Your Dad—
"And you agreed?"
Satoru can't help it — he leans closer to the glass, studying the venom and the carelessness behind the joined tones. He almost wants to pick up his phone and call his best friend, but he assumes his neutrality would be for the best.
"Nobody came here for you. Anyways, you blocked me."
"Oh, so you finally noticed?" Your eye twitches as Megumi puts the sword down, moving about the room like he's packing up to leave early. Feeling brave with Satoru's gaze pressed against the glass, you continue poking. "I've been seeing someone who doesn't make me feel disgusting, by the way."
"Hope he realizes what a mess you are, quickly." You're right, Megumi's leaving — he walks to the head of the room and slips his shoes back on, shooting Satoru a quick look as he reaches for his bag. "Out of my way."
Megumi pushes past you as he leaves the room, and you're too flustered to care. "Can you just—
Satoru knows he has to call his friend when the two of you storm off down the hallways towards the elevator, spinning around each other like a pair of mating flies.
"Megumi, if you would just stop—
"Don't touch me, I'm just going to leave."
"Can we talk about it?"
Then the dreaded, "There's nothing to talk about." The elevator doors ding open. You give Satoru a passing glance, seeing him smiling into his phone while Megumi holds back sanity in an open elevator. You choose the bear's den, slipping into the elevator while Satoru turns back to his office without a care in the world.
"My Dad sent you here to spy on me."
"Your Dad sent me here because I wanted him to. Again, maybe everything is not about you."
You're trying too hard to keep up with him, shuffling steps as you two argue through the entrance of the office building you've once respected. "Why the fuck else would you be in his studio? You two think I'm crazy!"
Megumi's making a point not to match your energy, pulling his sunglasses down when the harsh sunset strikes his eyes. He has plans to take the train for ramen — the one tourists clog like fatty arteries, and he did not want you there.
"Can you leave me be?" He deadpans, holding his dark backpack close to his body as he walks. You gasp, tears welling in your eyes but refusing to fall, as they turn into anger.
"Admit that you two are spying on me."
"You sound crazy. Please go away." It's an art, learning to ignore you once you get into one of these fits. Your constant quest and crawl for attention is similar to an annoying puppy biting at the bit. Megumi just needs to kick you away, put you down for a little, then speak to you once you've fizzled out.
He slips his headphones in his ears the second you open your mouth to speak, not even blinking an eye as he blasts Western rock in his eardrums. You leave him at the corner of the block, heart in your ass as he heads to the station without you even on his mind. You hate just how he fits into the evening rush, and you hate how you can't make him out once you blink.
Anger, resentment, and loathing circle in the pit of your stomach like a disgusting cocktail. It's sick and potent like a liquor, but all you want to do is throw it up — you can't hold it.
Carrying all of those nasty emotions, you turn around back towards Satoru's office, eyes bloodshot with the buried need to sob or punch something. You can't apologize to the lobby workers as you pass by, too focused on your quivering bottom lip as you thumb the call button.
You're not even paying attention to what you're feeling or what truly happened there. Sure, you lied and said you were seeing someone, but you really weren't. You were seeing the best thing that's ever happened to you, and you want nothing more than to rub it in Megumi's face. Still, you mash that floor button and step out like you have some wits about you, even if you have to act.
Satoru's voice carries like a song — his laughs and warmth, kissing the walls and the sun-streaked glass. It brings about an unusual sense of calm, even though it feels like your world is crumbling. You follow the familiarity into the space, gnawing on your lip as you try to ignore, to settle your emotions before they pop all over the wrong person.
"Running like wolves in my studio… These kids… Ah, she's uh — Oh, Megumi and I just clicked nicely, yeah. You know I'll talk to her, thinking she's scared of you, too… Alright, friend."
"…'Toru," You whisper once he finally peels the phone from his ear, leaning his heavy bodyweight against the cool windowsill at the end of the hallway. "W-was that my Dad?"
He stands up as soon as he sees you, breath picking up when he sees your pitiful, pent-up expression. His care makes you feel worse, causing those tears you've been holding up so well to finally break through the surface.
"I—Fucking, I hate him,"
Megumi sits beside you because he has to.
Because Suguru Geto himself called his phone and told him to.
It'd just be a meal — a slight peace-offering after what Satoru reported back to him, but it's the least of what you two needed.
Still, you went, because you're stupid and still think Megumi could love you — could love this life you can give him, if he just let you in. His issue is that he sees you as a sister; everything else is taboo and ugly, and it's impossible to exist.
So you do all the talking, blaming it on the one sip of beer you had before pushing it away. "All week after I landed, I just slept." You go on, touching on small talk as you pull out your phone. He's staring straight ahead, elbow on the table as he digs into a steaming bowl, giving it the attention he could never give you. "But in my last few days, look, we went to the National Garden. And see, look how many ramen packs were on that wall, it had to be at least a thousand." You go on and on, shoving him to grab his attention as you scroll through meaningless tourist pictures.
He wants to ignore you, but he also wants to say that he's here just for your Dad — he doesn't care about what you and Maki did. It's all none of his business, but it doesn't stop him from looking down as you swipe through.
Your voice is a jumbled, emotionless mess in his ear, meaningless and stark against the happy memories you're smiling around. He wants to tell you to shut up so bad — to just let him… think, but he can't bring himself to do so.
Instead of brushing you off, he leans down and takes another bite of his food, letting you swipe through your more recent memories. Satoru took you on tours through the bustle of Shibuya, but Megumi didn't need to see the ghost of his hand on your thigh or neck — certainly not pictures of him posing with his mouth around obscene street food.
You smile as you scroll past, tickled at the small, dumb collection that shows some real sense of love in your shared situation. You like Satoru, and you know he likes you, but that's all you can bring yourself to hold onto.
When Megumi sits back up, wiping his lips after a huge bite of noodles, you shove your phone in his view, urging him to look at the life-size animal plushies you two found in a gift shop in Shibuya. The picture is blurry, and it's one taken of you, so Megumi just assumes Maki might've been there with you.
But something catches his eye. Something Megumi can't really wrap his head around, and something he wishes he never fucking saw.
In the tiny carousel at the bottom of your phone, the third thumbnail of a video sits, staring back at him. Megumi's heart drops — the chopsticks fall. On the screen, he knows it's you. That little mark you have on your back, the hue of your skin, and the undeniable, sickening tattoo that croons out your surname is as undeniable as it is trashy. He has to swallow his noodles twice.
It's fleeting — you snatch your phone back immediately, but the damage is done. Megumi knows what he saw, he knows it's you and Satoru, and he knows… what you two were doing…
…He feels sick.
You try to call for him as he stands up, collecting yourself to chase after him as he turns off and locks down. Megumi will spend his life trying to unsee… that, and he'll spend a lifetime gaining even an ounce of respect back for you as you stand up to chase him… again.
Megumi doesn't give you a reason when he leaves. Not that you really deserve one.
He leaves that next day and swears to never set foot in Tokyo, or see you, ever fucking again.
˖ ࣪ 𑣲 ❤︎ 𝓝.𝐄𝐑𝐃 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 & 𝓝.𝐄𝐑𝐃 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐒𝐇𝐈 𓂃 ⊹ take a bet on who can win your soft, stupid heart first
♡. satoru and satoshi rivalled each other for years academically. a constant clash of science and art. but what happens when they decide to compete on something neither of them truly understood? love :: college!au :: smut :: angst :: rich!reader :: toxicity :: toxic views on love :: manipulation :: dry humping :: fingering :: semi-public sex :: p in v :: f.oral :: obsession. . . :: gojo twins
♡˖ ࣪ ㆍ ꒰ nerd!satoru ꒱ ㆍwho's always been about order. controlled, calculated order. problem solving and mathematics were his forte. science was his middle name. theoretical, terrifying, something so sharp and straight. with his killer blues glaring through crystal clear, rimless glasses. they called him laplace's demon when he reinvented the theory of negative matter with nothing but a pair of chopsticks and a whiteboard marker. a vicious valedictorian.
♡˖ ࣪ ㆍ ꒰ nerd!satoshi ꒱ ㆍ who's always been about chaos. he was all art, and literature and understanding the complexities of the human mind. practical, havoc induced, with his contacts, loose tie and piercings. they called him a maniacal genius when he wrote the sixteenth chapel into a sequence of ink, paint and chalk smeared numbers across the courtyard concrete. there's a method to the madness. a control only he knows in the chaos. an academic weapon.
♡˖ ࣪ ㆍ ꒰ nerd!satoru ꒱ ㆍwho's always hated his brother for everything he was. for the challenge he was. the threat to his status quo. somehow the bastard managed to follow him into one of the most prestigious universities in japan. they were doomed to be rivals until the end of time.
♡˖ ࣪ ㆍ ꒰ nerd!satoshi ꒱ ㆍwho always loathed his twin for everything that he represented. for his staunch ways and his prejudiced attitude. science vs art and mind vs heart in a battle that would clamour reality for the centuries to come.
♡˖ ࣪ ㆍ ꒰ nerd!satoru ꒱ ㆍthought you, the cute little art major who he shared his unfortunate psychology class with, were wasting your time. what was someone like you even doing in this university? you looked puzzled whenever the professor asked questions. glorified your notes in a puke of pink highlights and gel pens. had more charms on your nails than A's to your name. just what was a bimbo doing here? probably daddy's money. no one could say the same about him, at least he earned his spot here. even if his parents did pay the fees.
♡˖ ࣪ ㆍ ꒰ nerd!satoshi ꒱ ㆍunderstood exactly the kind of person you were. the kind who had your head in the clouds and was so disconnected from the world around her. he realised you were a little trustfund princess the day he sat next to you in his theory of art class. it was the way you smiled at him, the way you shook his hand so overly excitedly. bubbly. he didn't have an issue with you, just wished that you committed more of your time to actually understand the theory of humanities and its power rather than just be here for the experience. but what should he expect from a rich kid, right? he had to work hard to be here. get every scholarship he possibly could on his name cause his parents wouldn't waste their time with him.
♡˖ ࣪ ㆍ ꒰ nerd!satoru ꒱ ㆍhad the idea after yet another heated debate across the law faculty hall. the second he and satoshi returned to their apartment that he, regrettably, shared with him— he challenged him. to something both of them struggled at: human connection.
♡˖ ࣪ ㆍ ꒰ nerd!satoshi ꒱ ㆍknew better. he really did. he wasn't even sure how the arguement spiralled into the idea of betting on you. the sweet, pretty girl from his art class. but he'd never back down from a challenge with his twin.
"so what?" he huffed, leaning his head on his hand as he slumped back into the couch. "we just compete for her affection?"
"you're always on about how she's brimming with soul and personality," satoru shot from the doorway.
"so let's see which one of us unconventional romantics can get her? an honest challenge isn't it?"
"unconventional romantics is one way to put it." satoshi sighed.
because satoru never understood the heart. to the point where he found love illogical.
and satoshi understood the heart too much. to the point where he found love evil.
so, really. it was an honest, even challenge, wasn't it?
♡˖ ࣪ ㆍ ꒰ nerd!satoshi ꒱ ㆍwas the first one to make a move. started talking to you more— and of course you excitedly spoke back. all bright eyes and bushy tailed. a cute little thing, really. but he knew the human heart and psyche. knew how things like this could be a ploy, a disguise. so he just had to get into your head, find your mask, and reflect whatever that dark part of you really wanted. a prince charming? a heartbreaker? a rebel? love was so. . . gullible. predictable.
it seemed for you, all he had to really do was give you some attention. listen.
"has anyone ever told you how pretty your eyes are?" he smiled, full of charm and poetry that all the girls swooned over.
you too, it seemed. typical.
you brightened, bristled. grew flustered and bowed your head with a fluttered little smile. "ah, you really think so? your eyes are pretty, too."
bingo. so the trustfund princess just needed a little attention. this'll be easy.
before he knew it, you were both going out for coffee every wednesday.
he became the guy that saw you. who took you for cute little coffee dates. compared you to music and poetry. who read books with you cuddled under the tree in the courtyard.
as he learnt your heart. learnt your tells. learnt every little, pretty thing about you.
♡˖ ࣪ ㆍ ꒰ nerd!satoru ꒱ ㆍtried a different approach. he didn't understand the heart, or the mind, but he knew that nothing in this world came for free. humans were all about using one another for their own gain. they confused convenience and allyship for companionship. everyone knew that relationships were built on what you could do for a person, so that's the route he took.
he stopped you after class. stood in front of you and peered down over the rim of his glasses at your big eyes staring back up at him.
"you need help studying, don't you?" he arched his brow. "a tutor for the module? I could help."
and oh, how easily you accepted the offer. all smiles and excited nods. he wondered if you really thought you were fooling anyone with that hopelessly sweet act.
that's how satoru got his hands on you. every friday afternoon he invited you back to his apartment to tutor you in whatever psyche module was your newest bane.
acts of service. that's how he'd get your heart. by showing you how much he could do for you.
"I feel bad taking up so much of your time," you pouted one afternoon. "I'm sorry you're always so busy helping me."
"don't you worry about that," he hummed, not once looking up from the textbook. "anything for a pretty girl like you."
when he heard your breath hitch was when he knew he had a chance.
he became the guy that took care of you. writing you notes when you'd miss a class. helping you with your homework. setting up little study dates and even introducing you to his video games.
as he learnt your mind. what you truly lacked: someone to help you.
♡˖ ࣪ ㆍ ꒰ nerd!satoshi ꒱ ㆍwas the first one who got something physical out of you. he knew how to time it, when to do it. when the sun dipped perfectly into the horizon and bathed the campus in its golden, purple hues. when the atmosphere would spin into something out of a fairytale and you were both leaning against one of the outer railings. prattling on about the newest book you'd been reading together.
he made sure to suggest the book. made sure it was romance. to get into your feels. make you think he was the prince and you were his fated princess.
it was all clockwork, really.
when you laughed at one of his jokes, he fixed some of your hair. leaned in real close. smiled at you.
when your eyes fluttered and your heart stuttered.
when your breath hitched.
and you whispered his name.
"can I?" he asked, pressing a thumb to your cheek. soft, sensual. because giving pretty girls choices made their heart flutter.
you nodded, of course. so shy. so his, whether you knew it or not.
he pressed his lips to yours. kissed you like something out of a fantasy. the climax in which the male lead finally confesses to the female protagonist and they burst in a travesty of love and affection.
he cupped your face with both hands, like in the books. yanked you closer and kissed your breathless, like in the movies.
and when you whimpered against his lips and clung to his jacket, he parted with panting breaths and a hushed whisper.
"you're beautiful, babydoll." he murmured into your mouth, nipped at your lip.
when you teared up, he knew. he had you wrapped around his little finger.
♡˖ ࣪ ㆍ ꒰ nerd!satoru ꒱ ㆍkissed you shortly after. nothing overly theatric and carefully cemented like his brother did. he didn't have time for that. and in his experience, girls never wanted that. they never wanted the prince charming or the perfect guy. they wanted the rough one. the one who would love, and leave them, and break their hearts but still call them his.
it was during another study session. you were getting more comfortable with him. so touchy, so affectionate, so hopelessly human in everything that you did.
it was when you answered a question right during his little pop quiz. got all shy when he expressed praise and slipped an "accidental" good girl.
"what's the matter?" he drawled, when your eyes couldn't meet his. you fiddled with your fingers. tried to make up some excuse.
satoru snatched your chin between his forefinger and thumb. made you face him. said—
"eyes on me, sweetheart."
as he brushed a thumb over your lower lip. stirred your fluster and drew you closer.
"y'know, I've been helping you out sooo much these past few weeks," he crooked his head, smirked. something faint, velvet, so uncharacteristic that he knew it got to you. he saw it in the way you pressed your thighs together.
"don't you wanna. . . give me a little gratitude?"
the kiss was rough. desperate. you kissed him back as if you were waiting for it all your life. clung your arms around his neck and let him pin you back into the table.
kisses turned into makeouts— turned into touches— turned into dry humping over the sprawl of notes and textbooks.
this is what girls wanted, right? unpredictability? someone rough and reckless?
he could be all of that. in a calculated, unexpected way for someone like him.
he held you through your shaking body and whimpered whines. flipped your skirt up and humped the thick curve of his erection into your panties. nurturing the heat until your sweet cunt twitched against him through the fabric.
"this what you wanted when you came here today?" he grunted from above you, gripping beneath your jaw and holding your head to the table as you soaked through your panties.
"that why you wore that skirt? wanted me to rub on your pretty panties and make that cute cunt all slutty f'me?"
he ground just right on your clit until your spasmed again. once— twice— until your thighs were ruined together with the notes.
he didn't go any further than that. makeouts, humping and dirty talk until you were a hiccuping mess in his arms.
just so that he could confirm that you were that kind of girl.
just so that he could prove to himself that even a stuckup nerd like him could make a pretty girl whine without even touching her properly.
♡˖ ࣪ ㆍ ꒰ nerd!satoshi ꒱ ㆍfollowed shortly after on your body, too. poor girls who craved attention were just so easy. he knew how to play you like the strings of his guitar. he made you feel special, made you feel seen, made you feel like you were the only girl in the world. his pretty babydoll.
really, it was only a matter of time before you found yourself in his lap in some private study room of the library.
grinding on him so desperately. kissing him so sweetly. acting like an angel when he knew what a depraved little thing you really were.
like he said, love was an evil thing. a predictable thing.
all it took were some sweet words to your ear and some little touches before you were squirming on him.
clinging to his neck while he pulled your panties aside and played with your clit. whispered all tenderly for you to be quiet. to be his "good babydoll" while he made you feel good for doing sooooo well all semester.
praise, that's what you needed to feel seen.
"such a cute little clit," he cooed to your ear, one hand squeezing your ass while the other swirled his thumb over the nub. nuzzling into your neck and kissing your cheek when you shuddered and whimpered.
"sshhhh babydoll, just giving you a little treat. you can be quiet for me, can't you?"
oh, watching you try while you squirmed on his fingers that fucked you knuckle-deep was such a sight.
your thighs quivered. soaked. filthy cream bubbled on his knuckles as he pumping two fingers endlessly in your slick velvet. massaging your walls and rubbing your sweetspot. spitting on your clit and swirling his thumb on the poor nub while encouraging you to ride his hand.
"there you go babydoll, that's it." satoshi pressed a tender kiss to your lips while his fingers were anything but. fucking into you fast and feral. stringing your slick all over.
"gonna cum for me? yeah? know you are baby. c'mon, take what's yours. what you deserve."
and oh, you earned it all right. spasming all over his hand and whining into his neck while you pitifully rode his palm. bucking and hiccuping as you begged him.
begged him for more.
so really, could he be blamed for fucking you then and there? he was just giving you what you wanted.
fuck, you squeezed him so good. thighs quivering in his palms and your face limped in his shoulder as he throbbed so deeply within you.
"soooo big," you whimpered.
"yeah? but fuck, you're taking it all sooooo well," he squeezed your ass and pressed a smooch to your temple. ground his hips up in that filthy, deep roll that had you hiccuping little sobs into him. "gonna fuck my girl like she deserves. such a pretty girl taking cock so perfectly."
oh, how he fucked you. shallow, and rough, and maddening. pummeling your poor pussy and smooching your cervix with every pound. as his praises never once ceased on your ear.
he wasn't sure how many times you fluttered and splattered around him. only that you were good at it.
"messing me so much, mngh. wanna do this every day?" he breathed, rough. playing with your clit while he relentlessly hammered inside of you. "wanna cum 'round my cock every day? be my little cocksleeve princess?"
"m-mhhm!" you sobbed into your shoulder, gripping to his back as you helplessly rocked with him. "please s'toshi— please, please please. feels so so good. I love you." you croaked.
you were too dazed to realise he hadn't said it back.
♡˖ ࣪ ㆍ ꒰ nerd!satoru ꒱ ㆍdidn't say it back, either. when he had you on your back on his couch. with your eyes rolled and your hands quivering in his fluffy white hair. your thighs spread and your chest stuttering like a poor bird as he worked between your thighs. tongue and mouth ravaging you into a teary, whimpering mess.
"I-I love you— I love you toru—" you croaked, reaching down for his hand that held your thigh tight.
he only laced a pinkie with yours.
didn't say a thing as he kissed filthy smooches up to your clit and circled sharp with his tongue.
"yeah baby?" he cooed, slick dripping down his bobbing throat as he lapped beneath your clit with the flat of his tongue. staring up at you through his fogged up glasses. "love me? love toru's tongue so much?"
"s'much!"
"needy little slut."
his chuckle rumbled into you as he slobbered his way back to your slit. licking, kissing, sucking and sucking. he squished your thighs tight and shoved them back further. put your poor, swollen cunt on vulnerable display and slithered his tongue in. fucking you on the reckless muscle and grinding his nose and the bridge of his glasses into your clit while you spasmed.
you painted his face. again and again. until you were clawing at his hair and whining his name like a prayer. begging for a break. for mercy.
he just pushed you higher into overstimulation. made you sob his name. recorded the evidence for his brother.
♡˖ ࣪ ㆍ ꒰ nerd!satoshi ꒱ ㆍhates to say that he actually jerked off to that needy little audio of you squealing and sobbing for his brother's tongue. fuck, you were so pathetic.
he had a pair of your panties that he pocketed from the first time he'd fucked you. bunched around his dick and fisting it into a frothing, cumming mess at the thought of you.
his head tossed back on the bed. his mouth hung open and deep groans rumbling through the room as his hand delivered a nasty shlick shlick shlick rhythm. as he thought about your pretty body. your pink nails that dug into him. the way you listened and opened up for him so easily. that sweet cunt of yours.
that pretty smile.
those doe eyes.
that gorgeous laugh.
wait—
his cock spilled at that last thought. shot into your pair of ruined panties. his face tipping into his pillow as he helplessly bucked into his pillow with your name shuddered on his lips.
and a horrible realisation in his mind.
wait.
fuck.
why the hell was he cumming to the thought of your. . . smile? oh no.
♡˖ ࣪ ㆍ ꒰ nerd!satoru ꒱ ㆍrealised it too. devastatingly. he'd seen you with someone else in class. laughing away with some mindless punk he didn't even remember the name of. as you showed them your textbook and they helped you through some topic that you didn't understand. it was the way you thanked them. hugged them.
was he. . . jealous?
no, jealousy was a futile human emotion, and satoru was not about uselessness. he only did things that benefited him. that were logical.
so why did the thought of you relying on someone else twist a pit in his gut?
it hit him like a brutal black hole after class, when he'd given you study notes that he hand wrote especially for you.
you threw your arms around his neck with an adorable little, "thank you toru!"
and smooched his cheek. left behind your cherry lipgloss on his face as you trotted off so happily.
he realised with terror. that it was an undeniable fact. something that was irrevocably apart of the universe, now. written in the stars.
his heart was fluttering.
and it was all for you.
♡˖ ࣪ ㆍ ꒰ nerd!satoshi ꒱ ㆍrefused to believe it. that he'd actually grown fond of you. that maybe, just maybe. the love that he thought to be so evil and predictable was actually. . . the thing stuttering his heart every time he looked at you.
he'd spend so much times learning about all your tells. understanding every little thing about you so that he could spin your perfect fantasy— that he hadn't realised when you became his. when he stopped pretending.
this was bad. this was very bad. he couldn't love. love made people do stupid things. love wasn't something real. it was fabricated, it was romanticised, it was. . . it was.
exactly what he felt for you whenever you ran over to catch up to him when he was leaving campus.
whenever you threw your arms around him in that warm hug and prattled to him during your wednesday coffee dates.
backlit by the golden afternoon light. when the sun dipped just perfectly into the horizon and bathed you in a gold, purple, perfect glow.
you were.
a fantasy. reality.
and now when he kissed you. cupped your face just like the first time. he meant it.
he really wanted you to be his.
♡˖ ࣪ ㆍ ꒰ nerd!satoru ꒱ ㆍkept up the act. because he'd be damned if his bastard twin best him at anything.
♡˖ ࣪ ㆍ ꒰ nerd!satoshi ꒱ ㆍbit the bullet and continued with the challenge. because no way was his jackass of a brother beating him in anything ever again.
♡˖ ࣪ ㆍ ꒰ nerd!satoru ꒱ ㆍwasn't sure how you found out. you saw notifications pop up on his lock screen while he was getting you both snacks from the kitchen. texts from his brother.
you didn't confront him. you just. . . cried.
holding his phone, looking at him with those doe eyes so shattered.
he tried to console you. tried to explain. he was never good at that.
"s-so what I was just— just a bet? is that it?" you croaked.
he said something stupid. he panicked.
said you started it when you were so desperate for attention that you slutted it up for twins.
you left the apartment in tears. and for the first time in his life— facts didn't comfort satoru anymore. because facts told him it was all his fault.
♡˖ ࣪ ㆍ ꒰ nerd!satoshi ꒱ ㆍtried to call you that night after he finished his late lecture as routine, only to find out his number had been blocked.
and that he had several missed calls from satoru.
he knew before he even called him back what had happened.
"how could you be so stupid?" he hissed over the line when his twin explained. raking a hand through his hair.
they weren't even arguing, for once.
satoru was silent. too silent.
satoshi was emotional. too emotional.
it's when they both realised. devastatingly. terrifyingly.
"you love her." satoshi stated, a fact.
"you do too." satoru whispered, a conviction.
in the silence, something burned. now, the challenge shifted.
on who could get you back. who could make you theirs. who deserved you in their own twisted way.
because when a crazy scientist learns that love is one addictive chemical,
and when a maniacal genius unlocks the dangerous side to passion in his artist mind.
science and art mould into something deadly.
the mind and the heart shatter into something darker.
when two individuals who obscured the meaning of love so twisted in their own philosophy. something ticks. festers. something like.
˖᯽ ݁˖ SYNOPSIS ，After recently resigning from the Zenin Corp because of their inhumane ways of treating . . . well, practically everyone with basic decency. You were now applying for a position as the personal assistant of the sole heir to the Gojo company. Much to your surprise, he had kept the interview short and the next second you were already sitting in the lobby waiting to be fetched for the first day of work— However, the company strictly forbids relationships in between employees . . . Question, how were you supposed to keep your feelings intact with Gojo Satoru as your boss?
❯❯❯❯ TAGS : 21.2K ，office romance . doesn't follow the jjk plot . non-sorcerer au . naoya mentioned . naoya being an ass . mentions of power abuse (by naoya) . at some point satoru's a dick (bcs of work ethics) . a lil angst . tension if u squint a bit . no smut . oneshot . percentage and maths and stuff and bla bla proper name place name backstory and stuff . angry confession . third party conflict (not romantically) . miscommunication . nepo baby third party . cursing . jealous satoru . unfortunately, not even kissing
When you first stepped foot into the Gojo family business for an interview as their son's —Gojo Satoru— personal assistant. He doesn't even bother with reading the CV you worked hard building, nor the portfolio you stayed up all night for 3 days to revise. All he asked you were:
How long have you been a PA?
Why did you leave your last work place?
Are you currently in a relationship
The last question didn't mean anything. In fact, he was actually trying to clarify that the company restricts relationships in between employees to maximize labor to the fullest, and you could somehow understand that considering that they were one of the biggest company besides the Zenin's.
Your previous work environment . . . a bit toxic. The Zenin's were known for their nortorious way of being inhumane anyways— you worked as the PA for the heir of the company, Naoya Zenin. To put it out in one word, he was utterly disgusting. And you wondered what his mother craved during his pregnancy for him to turn out the way he is now. That man thought of you as nothing but a maid, and all he does everyday was to tell you to fetch him a cup of coffee or tea, then asks you to clean around the office (and fetch his things).
That didn't matter anymore. He's not your boss anymore, "You are to be by my side at anytime of the day except when I tell you that you're not, and you go home like everybody else. Our company prioritizes fairness, and you are an employee here, being my PA doesn't mean you have to wait for me to go home," Satoru explained, pressing the elevator button for the two of you— he had gone out of his way to fetch you himself for your first day, something even Naoya Zenin couldn't do. Mind you, that jerk didn't even know you existed until your first year there.
"Your table is in my office. It makes things much easier, every one of my PA has their own table— my old PA had to stop because he was moving away," Satoru reminded professionally, he was dressed in a black suit with a white button up inside, a tie loosely hung around his neck. He walked with a sense of purpose, like he knew he mattered, "I will show you around myself. Once we get this done, I'll have schedules sent to your email, please remind me."
You quietly followed him, ears perked up every time he explained something. Even as simple as how the coffee maker works, you jot it down onto the paper stuck to your clipboard. It would have been terrible if you had to ask for help while nobody was around, "Like I said, the pantry is free for everyone to use. You may eat here or in the employee cafeteria like most of my employees do, we have snacks in the cabinet. You wash your own dishes here, so make sure to do that."
Next were the meeting rooms. They were spacious, named "Alpha, Beta, Charlie, and Delta". Satoru opened each one of the door to let you take a peek inside, but you could tell how this was boring him. Who knows how many times he had to explain this to every single new PA?
Then for the next 15 minutes, he spent going up and down different floors, showing you around the company. And by the end of it, he had guided you back to his office. The furniture inside was modern and elegant, light searing inside lightly as the curtains blew from the air conditioning. This was a big contrast from the gloomy and dark room you spent for the last 3 years by Naoya Zenin's side inside his office. You hated every second of it.
"Sir?"
Satoru looks at you, halfway reaching out to pull his chair out, "Yes?"
You cleared your throat, "Apologies. May I have your schedule sent now? And everything else that might relate to you, such as a diet meal plan. I have always planned them during my past experiences, so if you'd allow me," he seemed fairly impressed— his past PA doesn't know about meals and proteins and all, so he had to hire his own private chef to take care of it.
"I suppose I could, my meal plan's usually sent to the private chef—"
"I can do that for you, sir! You can just let me communicate with your chef," Satoru sank down onto his chair, tapping his keyboard a few times whilst nodding his head.
"Alright. Thank you, I'll have it sent to your work email."
Your work area inside his office was spacious, an elegant desk made out of fine wood. It had its own cabinet, shelf, and even a pen holder. And the chair. Oh, don't even. The chair felt like pillow on your bottom. In your defense, Naoya Zenin told you that you should be thankful that you even received a working area when you asked him if you could bring your own chair from home— oh, and he still said no. What a dickhead.
In the first hour, your time was consumed fixing his schedule on an Excel sheet. Making it neater for you to look at, apparently he has a board meeting with a big client from out of Japan in two hours. You'd set an alarm half an hour before the meeting to remind him, Satoru had his nose buried deep in his own laptop, fingers typing quickly, the click clack from his keyboard echoing.
When the pop up for your alarm appeared, you clicked it off, "Mr. Gojo?"
Satoru hums to signal he was listening.
"You have a board meeting with the Yamazaki in half an hour in Delta," you reminded him, eyes barely peeking over the side cover on your table if you hadn't stretched slightly, "I just figured I should remind you beforehand so you could get ready for it."
Satoru nods his head, "Thank you."
He leans back on his chair, fingers threading against his white locks, brushing them back as he blows out a soft exasperated sigh, "Would you like me to make a cup of coffee for you? Your diet meal plan has information that you only drink coffee with milk and a lot of . . . creamer. A lot of creamers can lead to elevated blood sugar level and bad cholesterol. Would you like me to make you black coffee—"
He held his hand up, cutting your words immediately, "I am aware of the coffee I drink everyday, I do check ups and I have no complications nor does my organ. I understand your worries, but yes, coffee would be nice. Thank you. Extra milk and creamers."
You stood up and walked out of the office, heading to the pantry. The mugs stocked there were an expensive brand— must be careful. Even the coffee smells different. Despite him telling you extra, you might have . . . added lesser than what normal people would. This was just black coffee with half a teaspoon of creamer and milk.
With fingers crossed, you just hoped that he doesn't notice the lack of creamer and milk. It felt like a death trap when you slid the mug onto his table and rushed back to your seat, head slowly cowering down to pretend that you were busy. Yes, busy typing your worries on the note app of your laptop, "(Name)?"
Your body flinched slightly, but you maintained a professional look, "Yes, sir?"
"I'll let you off this time," he sipped quietly on the coffee, blue eyes not leaving the screen of his laptop.
" . . . Yes, sir. Apologies."
The meeting was boring. Very boring. You could tell that Satoru was bored as well— his client was a nervous looking middle aged man trying to explain the collaboration they wanted to have with the Gojo company. The powerpoint was messy, the whole presentation was messy, the client stumbled over his words over and over again. His shirt was slightly untucked and tie loosely hanging.
You winced when he stumbled over his shoe trying to move to the other side of the room. His team was so over it, most of them were pursing lips as nervously; Satoru drummed his fingers on the wooden desk gently, eyeing the presentation intently.
Standing by his side, you almost let out an unprofessional scoff when his client accidentally ripped off the connecting cable from his laptop to the projector. Satoru held his hand up, "I take it, nobody prepared well for this presentation?" His voice was slow and calm, like calm before the storm. Your breath hitches at the sight of his taught jaw.
"Sir—"
"Let me finish," Satoru halts him, "you made me wait for fifteen minutes from our designated time. Wasted fifteen more minutes to connect your presentation— which I assumed was well made and prepared," Satoru spoke out, his chin resting on his knuckles, "then present a powerpoint that seemed like a five year old made it? Was this intentional or is nobody in your team taking this collaboration seriously? You had a month to prepare for the presentation and proposal."
Your eyes were gazing into the guilty faces of the team. They fiddled with their fingers anxiously, one of the giyrl sitting on the far right raised her hand slowly, "Mr. Gojo, I apologize. Our original file got deleted two days ago by accident—"
"Two days is plenty of time. I can make fifty pages of powerpoint in a day by myself," Satoru scoffed. He snapped his fingers towards you, "You. Come here."
You slowly walked towards him, "Yes, sir?"
"Cancel future meetings with this company, we no longer want to align with the collaboration. You lots couldn't even present the concept well," he muttered, leaving no room for complaints, "then. I'm ending the meeting right here and saving us our time, please pack up and leave the building. Thank you for coming today. We wish you the best of luck."
Your eyes blinked feverishly at the sudden decision, but your finger noted his words down nonetheless. He was the boss here, and his commands are absolute— the crestfallen look of the team was apparent, you could see how most of them looked like they were on the verge of breaking down right then and there.
When they walked out of the room, you stayed quiet. Satoru sat on his seat for a bit before he stood up, "Anymore meetings for today?"
Fumbling with the file, you nod, "You have a meeting with the marketing team right after lunch. And then a meeting with HR to discuss the new social media interns at four, sir. That's all for today."
Satoru huffed, "That's the kind of thing I deal with everyday, and you're gonna be dealing it with me," he spoke in a teasing tone. Much to your surprise, he has a silly side to him as well, "you can have an early break. Leave me for a bit."
"Yes, sir."
Satoru walked out of the meeting room, looking distressed and annoyed. His eyes peering down to the ground as he walked, skillfully finding his way around without even looking. You hesitated but walked towards the office . . . taking the route he just walked upon; and he was already far gone, you assumed taking a breather because that meeting was definitely a waste of time.
Since he gave you the honor of taking an early break, you wouldn't mind at all. You don't get the same chance twice in a row. Carelessly opening the door to his office with a big smile, you halt at the sight of your boss sitting right there on his assigned area, elbows resting on the chair handles— his head buried deep into his palm. However, the sound of the door seemed to attract his attention, "I thought I asked you to take an early break?"
"Oh," was all you could muster out before scrambling to smooth down your shirt, "I, um, I was going to take my meal, sir. Apologies for the sudden intrusion," in your defense, you thought he might have taken a short break outside his office (because, that's what you would have done anyways).
He cocked his head as a signal for you to go get it, "Remind me half an hour before the meeting, please."
"I understand. I will."
Scurrying out with your lunchbox, you went to the employee cafeteria, already regretting the fact that you managed to do that. Lesson one, always knock even when you're unsure who's inside— at least that would put a better look on you, "Stupid, stupid, stupid," you berated yourself inside the empty elevator.
For as long as possible, you dragged on your early lunch. Hoping that Satoru wouldn't notice your absence, your eyes were keeping track on the hands of your watch. When it strikes forty-five minutes before the actual lunch hour, you packed up and pressed the elevator button. The journey went too fast to your liking, and your heart rapidly beats, hoping he wouldn't bring up your unprofessionalism right on the first day of work!
This time, you knocked on the door to his office before entering. Shoulders pulled back to make your posture look straight and professional as you sauntered to your desk, tucking the lunchbox back into your bag. Satoru still sat there, hand holding onto a pen tightly, eyes never wandering off from the stack of papers strapped to the surface of his desk.
You don't dare to even look at him from the corner of his eyes. Sure, he has acted differently from that wretched Naoya, Gojo Satoru was professional, unlike the heir to the Zenin company. Satoru seemed to realize the skittish movements from your side of the desk, the way your fingers fidgeted against your thighs, the constant twitches on your eyes as you stared at the laptop screen, unfocused. Even with the side cover on the table, he could see the state you were in.
A small smirk appeared on his lips, "(Name)?" His eyes went back to the documents right after witnessing the slight flinch from your body.
"Yes, sir?"
"Are you unwell?" He questioned.
You shake your head, "No, sir. I was just . . . working on arranging your schedule," the voice came out smooth and trained, like you had done this before— Satoru lets out a soft hum, acknowledging you (your lie). He doesn't say anything after, a bit satisfied at your quick and somehow believable lie. If it were anyone, they'd believe it, he thinks.
Somehow, the two of you made it for the next couple of hours without speaking. Satoru too indulged in his paperwork while you were indulged in overthinking the door earlier. If you could read his mind, Satoru does not give a single care in the world about it, but you couldn't and you'd just have to deal with the thoughts repeating over and over like a broken cassette for the rest of your life.
And if you somehow, one day (hope not), get laid off because of it. You'd definitely think that the reason was that door.
"Mr. Gojo, your meeting will start in fifteen minutes, please head to Alpha," you informed him, moving your head back slightly to ensure that he was listening.
"Yes, thank you," he spoke.
You got ready to stand up to follow after him, but he stopped you, "You may stay here. Interviews are confidential," his voice wasn't reprimanding, just emotionless. The dark circles under his eyes were dark, a reminder of his pressure as the next owner of this whole company. Right as he was about to exit, he stops and turns towards you, "oh, and do me a little favor. My chef should have already sent today's lunch to the lobby downstairs. Can you help me fetch it while I'm gone, please?"
Please. The word everyone seemed to have a hard time implying was now always said to you. It's always "(Name), get me coffee" or "(Name), get my papers". This was the first time someone of a higher position had deliberately used the word 'please' to ask his assistant for something, and it made you respect him even more. Nodding boldly, you spoke, "Of course, you can leave me to do that, sir."
An appreciative smile from him threw you off a little. Although it didn't last long, he left the office with you standing right there— wondering what the hell just happened. This was basic human decency, but working with the Zenin had made you think that people have lost the concept of it that even the word 'please' made your heart flutter the slightest bit.
Immediately, you took off running towards the elevator. Your fingertip punching the button twice, hoping it'd come faster. When the elevator brought you down to the first floor, you made a beeline towards the lobby— leaning onto the receptionist counter, "Hi," the woman behind the counter smiled at you, "I think Mr. Gojo's lunch was sent here? I'm his PA and I was told to come and fetch it."
"Oh, yes! Miss (Last Name)," she nods her head, reaching for the bag under the counter, "just in time."
"Thank you so much!"
"You're welcome."
Even the receptionist here is very nice. Was it the Zenin's personality that made them recruit people just like them? No wonder people often avoided collaborations with them— you've overheard Naoya saying how a couple of companies had rejected a collaboration under business issues. And now, you were second guessing that they had rejected because of the Zenin's personality; even if that was true, you wouldn't be surprised anymore.
One time, the receptionist told you off for wasting their time. You were accidentally given the wrong schedule by Naoya, and still, they clarified it was your fault three times before leaving you alone. And Naoya constantly brought it up in meetings, even without saying your name, you knew he was talking about you.
Arriving back at the empty office, you feel giddy. The bag was set on his table neatly, right by the stack of documents before making your way back to your desk. His meeting didn't last long with the marketing team, he came in looking worn out. A loud sigh blowing out of his lips, the sight of the brown paper bag made his eyes perk up the slightest bit. You couldn't blame that— that was exactly you and food.
"Thank you for fetching this," he told you.
His meal was quickly finished. You didn't know if it was the stress adding up or if he was just hungry, but he packed the whole thing up and tucked it back inside the paper bag. Clearly, he was more than professional; he worked like this job was meant for him. Calculated fingers moving and gliding along the keyboard like each keys were processed in his brain seconds before he pressed on them. In a way, that was really admirable.
You wouldn't think that comparing him to Naoya Zenin is apple to apple. Either way, Satoru Gojo was better in every aspect— personality (even if you had just started working today), professionalism, even his looks. If you hadn't met him, you'd think he was a model just passing by in the said company. The Gojo family had always been quite famous for their looks so you shouldn't even be as surprised, but seeing him in real time just made you stop and gawk. When else would you be able to see a tall . . . what? Probably 6 feet-ish more with striking blue eyes. Even his perfume smelt like the angels personally collected their tears and stocked them up in a bottle just for him.
"Is there anything you'd like to say to me or are you going to sit there and stare at me?" Satoru questioned out boldly, "You do know staring for a certain duration is considered as impolite, yes?"
Shit. You hadn't even realized you were staring at him head on, your body slightly turned towards him in a way that made it fairly obvious that you were gawking at him like a girl in love. Your head whipped back to your laptop, "No, sir. I was just caught up in my mind . . . I tend to do that when I'm thinking. It won't happen again, apologies."
"I'm not reprimanding you, I was just curious."
"Ah," you whisper out, "yes, I understand. I figured that I should clarify before you get the wrong idea and . . ."
Satoru looks up towards you and the moment your eyes meet, you averted your gaze away, "And think that I was slacking off," you lied, again. It was half a lie, you were comparing him to Naoya Zenin— in your eyes, Naoya Zenin was sitting right next to Gojo Satoru and you were listing off all the shitty things the Zenin had done to you! And half admiring Satoru from where you sat, but that was besides the point and he doesn't have to know.
"Don't worry about it, I just find it odd that you were staring," he replied, void of any emotion— or you couldn't read him well enough.
The rest of the day went by smoothly. No more staring caught by him, you hoped. His meeting went exceptionally well, although he looked stressed, still. By the end of the day, you were at least happier than when you worked with Naoya, where you constantly feared he'd find the wrong in one hundred of your rights just to find the chance to humiliate you. Sometimes, you wondered if you were a male, would he have done the same or just leave you be as that?
The Zenins seem to have a hard time getting told by a female. Every single on of them— and if you stepped into their company, the only females you'd notice were the cleaning ladies, the receptionists, and the lower socially ranked employees. No raises, just hit fairly. You hated that. Scoring a position here seemed like jackpot now that you see it, Satoru Gojo sees skill, not personal preference.
And that's grace.
Satoru grunted, pulling his tie looser than usual, "You may clock off, don't bother waiting for me. I'll be here all night," he murmurs out, shutting his eyes briefly to rest his eyes, "safe trip. Good job on your first day."
The appreciation made your heart flutter again. As you packed up, you gave his figure another glance, "Thank you for the warm welcome, Mr. Gojo I felt welcomed here. I will be on my way home then, please have a safe trip home yourself. Good night."
You showed up half an hour earlier than your designated time— you always do. It was fairly hard to keep up an early hour, but the constant anger from Naoya in the past forced a habit into your body to the point it worked like you had programmed it. Already sitting on your chair, typing a message to Satoru's private chef at 8 AM, and bolding out today's schedule to write it down on your clipboard. Oh, plus point for the coffee with extra creamers and milk already on his desk with a cute silicone cover on top.
Satoru was surprised to see you already there. Clocked in, typing your laptop like you belonged in the office, "Good morning," he said.
"Good morning, sir. I've prepared your coffee, and your earliest meetings will start at ten today. It's the meeting with Shoji—"
"My father. Yes, I remember, thank you for reminding."
"Should I assist you in the meeting, sir?"
Satoru shook his head, "No need. You may just stay here, it will only take a bit," he muttered out like he had just tasted something distasteful. Just from that itself showed you the dynamics of their relationship— you assumed, rich and controlling dad forcing his son to talk about something his son doesn't like, they don't have a good relationship, son has to follow everything because dad's the boss. At least, that's what you've learned from years of binging romcom movies off sketchy websites when you didn't have the money to buy yourself memberships from official sites.
"Are you judging me from that staring? I feel like your mind works wonders with that imagination, I just do, I just can't prove it as of now," he genuinely chuckled out loud when he caught your eyes squinting, the bobbing you did as if you were trying to square him from top to bottom, "I will though."
You froze. Shit. Again? Head bobbing? Seriously? Satoru shook his head, "Don't be so uptight, I enjoy quite the banter. Though, I would appreciate if you don't do that to the other employees, they might not b as carefree as I am," he advised, his eyes land on the coffee mug, "did you get me coffee?"
Your head bobbed confidently, "I checked your schedule for today, you have quite a lot of meetings from ten. I thought you might needed a cup of coffee to start your day," he smiles at your thoughtfulness, flicking the cover off, letting the aroma of the coffee waft around the office, "I hope I didn't add too much creamer."
"Still less than what I always do," you gawked at the revelation, "kidding."
"I hope you are, sir. You are . . . going to kill yourself with that much creamer and milk. I don't need to be included in a documentary and be an initial suspect—" you figured your words have gone way off the line and halted. Looking back towards the screen of your laptop, pulling the chair closer to the desk so that he couldn't see you anymore, at least not your face.
"Go on, finish it."
"Apologies, that was very . . . inappropriate of me, it won't happen again."
"You apologize a lot, don't you? Old boss? Parents?" He asks curiously. Both, you'd like to say, but you decided to shake your head and chose the safer option, "I saw your CV before you came here, you sent a soft copy to my HR, no? Working with the Zenin for almost four years, that's quite an impressive number. I have heard words regarding their work environment. And the fact that you stayed there for almost four years is magnificent. Surely, Naoya Zenin was the most participative on your apologetic nature. Not all, most."
Oh, so he did see your CV. No wonder he didn't bother with your printed copy— you nodded, "Ah, yes. He was . . . something, alright. It was an experience for me, not a fun one. But, definitely an experience."
Satoru hummed, "Some of my employees are transferees from the Zenin's company, they were as apologetic as you were. Such a shame that they let you all go with ease, I'm not complaining though," you gulped, "don't worry. We don't do it like them. Not under my watch at least."
Was it ethical to talk about your old boss to your new boss? He doesn't seem like he just knew, so . . . this should be fine, right? 10 AM quickly arrived— and you realized how Satoru was dragging the minutes despite your fifteen minute early reminder to head to the meeting room. When he finally decides to stand up, he gave you a glance, "Reminder. I get . . . cranky when I talk to my father, so I'd appreciate if you don't talk to me right after. Just a heads up."
You didn't answer him, but got the note of it.
Satoru was not lying when he said he'd be in a cranky mood after talking to his father. God, he couldn't stand that man at all even if he's his own blood. This was the third time his father had asked for a meeting and Satoru couldn't possibly keep lying that he's busy. So, what better if the old man continued pestering on him while he runs away?
"Dad," Satoru mutter. His father seated on the chair nearest to where Satoru would usually sit during a meeting, "make it quick."
His father was an exact copy of him. Just with added lines along his face, "Is that a way to greet your—"
"Yes. Make it quick, I don't have much time, dad," even addressing him as 'dad' made Satoru's stomach churn in disgust, he'd rather call this man as something more befitting such as . . . sir, or unkind sir. Anything other than 'dad', really. Satoru took a seat across from his father, impatiently drumming his fingers, "are you going to talk or just sit there?"
"My friend has a daughter."
Satoru already know where this was going, "Absolutely not."
"It's not marriage."
"Then what?"
"She really hopes for a position in here— she's good with social media, has a lot of followers, I thought it might help boost the company's engagement," Satoru scoffs loudly, "it is worth a try, son."
"You're sugar coating. You're hoping she gets a position, sway me, and we get married. I know your game, old man, and I don't intend to play it. I have a healthy company right now, I don't need your friend's daughter to ruin it for me," his father, Shoji Gojo cleared his throat as if caught guilty, "I was right! You are insufferable, how long are you going to treat me like a kid? I am old enough to be finding who I want to be with for the rest of my life. I don't need your help."
"Finding someone fit. I don't want my son marrying some skank—"
"Watch your tongue, the company has my name now. Not yours. I'd suggest you watch what you're saying around here," Satoru seethes out loudly, his fist clenching, "as to your friend. If his son really wanted his daughter to land a job here, send her CV and portfolio in like every other person. Not everyone appreciates the easy way in, I can't be bribed by money like you did."
Shoji Gojo's name was infamous. Everyone knew him as this . . . top three founder of the biggest company, his branding showing rich elegance and kindness when in reality, he's just a shark like every other person. Giving out to people in need just to earn the public's eye. Realistically speaking, that's how business is right now, but Satoru would like that to stop— he wanted healthy business, hence why he's trying to evolve the empire his father built upon rich people's bribes and money and turn it around into realistic proof of his own hard work along with his employees. Not hungry sharks hoping for shares.
This wasn't the first time his father had tried to set him up for an arranged marriage, this attempt was subtle unlike the other ones. But, still, Satoru wasn't that stupid to not notice his father's antics. Posing as a newcomer hoping for a position instead of actually working for it . . . what was this? The 90s? Satoru scoffed at the thought, "You should watch your tongue. I still own this company, no matter whose name is on that will right now— people still know me as the founder of this company. I correct myself, I'm not asking you to accept her, I'm demanding you, is that not clear?"
"Not clear. And no, she isn't an employee if she doesn't apply like every other person. End of story," Satoru spat out.
His father slammed his hand on the table. Satoru thanked himself for applying soundproof foams on the wall, he would hate for his employees to hear his father, "I am your father, and I demand you to obey what I say."
"And if I decline?"
"Don't dream of ever viewing me as your father anymore."
Satoru shrugged, "You've never been a present father anyways. In my eyes, you're as good as dead," his father looked taken aback.
Before Satoru could pull himself away, his father's palm had flew across his cheek, hard. The slap rang out loudly, plus points for the big rings his father currently wore adding salt to injury— the younger Gojo doesn't retaliate, that would be low of him to fight an elderly. Instead, Satoru nods his head, "Alright. Did I deserve that? No, but I'd be the bad son if I were to do it back to you. So, I'll leave it as that. Please, leave the building before I call the security on you."
His father left with no other words beside an expression that clearly directed his anger, veins popping out from his forehead that Satoru thought it might burst anytime now. The room was silent, only the constant tick tick tick from the clock hanging right above the whiteboard echoed softly, Satoru waited for a bit, his thoughts processing the conversation that just happened.
A few minutes passed by and he walked out, his employees sparing a glance but asked nothing. He knew by their looks they were curious what happened, every single time Shoji Gojo comes here— Satoru's left in a sour mood. Though, he never does take it out on anyone after and stayed completely professional and as he should as the boss, he doesn't look at them and walked by.
Your heart did a little jump when the door opened wider than usual. Satoru walking in, he took off his suit, draping it against the rest of his chair. You realized by now that he was incredibly annoyed, and decided to listen to him. Don't try to talk to him and go on with your work, (Name). Don't meddle, don't look— he's looking. You swivel your face away, typing random letters into the word you had opened.
"(Name)."
Shit, shit. Was he mad that you looked his way when he's looking so angry? Come on, eye contact. Professional. You look at him, the lump in your throat increasing, "Yes, sir?" Now that you took a good look, he had a red mark on his fair skin. You noticed as well how he kept sucking his cheek in, biting on it. He winced out softly, " . . . Would you like me to fetch you some ice for that?"
"Please. Thank you."
You were out and running with your heels. Thankfully, the carpeted floor made it quite easy for you to run, the cushion under your heels made you balance well. The ice bucket inside the fridge was . . . nearly out, and while at it, you filled the molds up with water from the dispenser before shoving them back inside the cold space. You wrapped the ice cubes inside a few sheets of paper towel, running back to Satoru's office, "I got the ice."
"Yes, I can see that. Thank you," he chuckled.
"I take it the meeting—"
"Did not go well," Satoru finished your sentence for you with a small smile, "don't ask details, we've only known each other for a day," his voice was teasing. You accidentally breathe out a loud mocking breath and your lips pursed tightly, "oh?"
"Apologies, sir."
"Stop apologizing for things that don't bother me," it did bother Naoya.
Well, by now you should have understood that the man sitting right in front of you wasn't Naoya and he will never be. You might not know Satoru well, or as well as everyone else here, but you could already see the vast difference between Naoya and him. Obvious differences!
"Sorr—"
"Mm?"
"Yes. My bad," the apology was more casual and Satoru laughed out softly. While, on the other hand, you were freaking out internally. Is this a good laugh or a 'you're fired' kind of laugh? You didn't know.
"It's alright."
Everything went by normally the rest of the day. You assisted him during meetings, helping him organize his plans for the future, messaged people here and there for future meetings. Actually work and not . . . just wasting around making coffee for everyone. You felt needed here, not just as some placeholder for future people.
You packed up your bag, ready to settle down for tonight. Standing there in the lobby, deadpanning at the downpour right in front of you— they didn't say anything about the rain tonight. Hence, why you took out your umbrella because it made your bag quite heavy, "Stuck, huh?" Someone called from behind you.
It was embarrassing to be stuck. You've been standing in the same spot for the last half an hour, thinking it would die the next five minutes. That's what reassured you for half an hour anyways, but to be caught by your boss, "Oh, yes, sir. Just waiting, it will die down in a bit, I hope."
"You hope?" He puts his palm up, facing the sky, "Doesn't look like anytime soon. I could drop you off, if you'd like."
You shake your head immediately at the offer, "Oh, no, no. I assure you, it'll stop in a bit . . ."
He shrugged, "Alright then. Safe trip home."
Satoru left without another word. And somehow, you regretted the choice you made two hours later when the rain hadn't ceased— instead, it grew harsh. Thunder rumbling loudly, and you forced yourself to run under the droplets, hugging your bag tightly to make sure the laptop inside there didn't get wet. Good news, it didn't. Bad news, you woke up with a newfound headache and a snotty nose.
"I guess you should have accepted my offer," Satoru spoke, voice laced with deep sarcasm and worry, "you could have just sent an email. I would have excused you."
"It's my third day."
"And? If you're sick, you're sick."
" . . . It's a mere cold," your body chilled, you had brought a thick sweater to the office today. You wondered if he'd let you put it on, because Naoya hated when you didn't dress according to the dress code— he doesn't even let you sign a sick leave, unless you're on a hospital bed or dead. Beside those two? Don't ever dream of it.
A sharp peep from the AC remote attracted your attention, "I raised the heat a bit, if it's still too cold, you may inform me. And . . . wear the sweater, the weather is a bit moody today," he mumbled out softly.
"Thank you, sir."
You hoped this only stayed for half a day, or less. Usually it does, but apparently, today just didn't seem like it's your day at all— the growing headache made your focus falter, Satoru had to call your name thrice to actually get you to look at him. Your feet staggered during meetings, even when Satoru brought you a seat, your head lolled back every now and then, unknown to the heaviness on it.
From the corner of his eyes, Satoru noticed your head slowly going rest on the seat's back. Eyelids trying so hard to stay locked in position, but the stutter on it made him huff lightly. You were trying so hard to be the perfect PA that you're sacrificing your health for it, maybe if he were Naoya, he'd actually force you to be awake. But, his eyes gazed back to the screen, taking mental notes of it while you slowly fell into a slumber your body forced upon you.
When the meeting ended, Satoru watched his employees walk out of the room. Your soft snores was all he could hear, he didn't wake you. Nor did he move, for a second he considered waking you up to remind you to go home early, but the state of slumber you were in stopped him from doing just that. You had your clipboard resting on your lap, fingers still curled loosely around your usual (favorite color) pen. He waited for another hour before shaking you awake gently, "(Name)."
You roused awake, pulling your head up in a way that made your neck hurt. Looking around, the meeting room was empty, the blue screen shining towards the wall— and you realized that you had slept through the meeting on the first half. And now your boss was waking you up, fuck, "Sir, I—"
"Are sick. Understandable, you should head home and rest."
"I feel better—"
"I wasn't giving you an option, I was demanding you," he stood up and stretched, "I'm a grown man. I can handle my meetings without my PA for a day, you're underestimating me."
You end up getting a bus home. Eyelids growing heavy, but you forced them to stay up for the sake of your safety. Satoru Gojo isn't here to wake you up this time. With only the will to arrive home safely, you made it to your living room before crashing onto the couch and falling unconscious— somehow, you figured that you needed medicine, but opted not to because the pounding in your head was killing you.
Two months passed by just like that. The easiest work you had done, during those two months, you had traveled to 3 different countries to assist Satoru Gojo in a meeting with different clients; it was fun. You had time to explore different countries, buy different merchandise, and make memories you couldn't achieve in the years you worked.
You sat down on your assigned seat, muscle memory from the two months. Satoru came into the office fuming, he slammed his briefcase onto the table before unlocking it, his hand darts out to fish a few documents he freshly printed in his apartment before driving here. You don't dare question him— throughout the two months, you have seen different faces he made. Worry, anger, sadness, genuine happiness. You wondered what drove him into this state of anger first thing in the morning.
With rushed steps, he walks out of the room. You followed his steps seconds later, head peeking out to take a look. The transparent barrier between his office and the employees sitting area made you shiver. You could see everything from here. Satoru walked to the HR section, slamming the papers down, "I didn't approve of this CV, nor this person. Nor did their documents made it to my email, why pray tell is she approved to start next month?" His voice wasn't booming in anger, but the veins popping out of his wrist made you think otherwise.
HR seemed a bit baffled at the sudden accusation, most of them shook their heads in retaliation. Satoru breathes in gently, in a composed tone he spoke, "Either the person who approved this application fess up, or I am getting rid of the whole HR right here and now."
One of the HR, looked towards an older employee sitting on the far right. He seemed relaxed at Satoru's outburst, but Satoru didn't care, "You did it?"
"Under the command of your father, sir."
"Am I your boss or is he?"
" . . . I—"
"Pack up."
You pursed your lips at the sight of the termination. The said HR was baffled, however he forced himself to pack up his things and walk out, body language full of shame. You would never dream of seeing Satoru's outburst like this, he walked towards your way, and you pulled yourself inside running back to your desk.
He slipped the paper onto your desk, "Email this woman, tell her there has been a mix up with her application and that she's not going to be working in here. Now."
You eyed the address and typed it in.
To: [email protected]
From: (name)(lastname)@gojo.pa.co.id
Subject: A Mix of Applications, Our Apologies
Dear, Miss Yujing.
We apologize for the sudden email to you regarding this matter— we apologize for our unprofessionalism. It has come to our utmost attention that your application has been in a mix up by our HR. Therefore, there has been another candidate that had been accepted prior to you. We hope that this message finds you well, and we apologize once more for our negligence in handling this matter.
Satoru threads his fingers inside his hair in distress, angrily typing on his own laptop. You feared the poor laptop might break under the pressure of his fingers anytime now, "Sir, I've sent the email to the person."
"Yes, notify me about their reply."
To: (name)(lastname)@gojo.pa.co.id
From: [email protected]
Subject: Please Re-Check
Dear, Miss (Name)
Uncle Shoji informed me that I'll be starting next month, my father confirmed it to me. Is there some sort of a mistake? I'm sure Uncle Shoji told me that he saved up a position for me right in the marketing team, please inform me as soon as possible because I'll be flying from China soon to reside in Japan, thank you.
Sincerely,
Ling Yujing
Now you understood why he was annoyed. She hadn't sent in an application— the reason he was angry two months ago from the meeting must be this sole reason. Swallowing lightly, you cleared your throat, "Sir, she replied. Apparently, your father had confirmed about her position to her father."
Satoru shuts his eyes, "Dial my father."
Using the telephone, you dialed his father's number. When it reached the older man, you spoke, "Mr. Gojo?"
"Who's speaking?"
"I am (Name)(Last Name), your son's personal assis—"
"Let my son speak for his own. He doesn't need a woman to speak for him," oh, so he's just like Naoya.
Satoru snatched the phone from your grip, "Don't talk to my employee like that. I want to keep this short, you either tell her that her application doesn't value here or I will," his voice seethes out softly, hand pressed to his hip, "I don't do any of that dirty stuff here. I want my employee to have the skills to nurture this company— I don't need you to ruin the empire I'm going to build for my family."
His father cackled, "Think about it. Her father thought of investing in our company if we accept her, it'll be easy money. I'm not asking you to marry her directly, get to know her, then marry her. It shouldn't be that hard— that's how your mother and I met."
"And that is why she never wanted to look at me. I wasn't born out of love and you know it," Satoru spat out in anger, "you think I'm stupid enough to play into your scheme?"
"I've informed her she's starting next month. I am not losing the company just because you're too naive to know how to operate it," his father loudly said. At least loud enough for you to hear it.
You fidget with your fingers, watching at the loud cut of the dial sang inside the phone. Satoru froze in that position, inhaling sharply, "I seriously do not care if he dies soon," he muttered, slamming the phone back into its place, "marriage, my ass."
You slowly asked him, "Should I inform her of this?"
" . . . Please, do. I apologize for the profanity and for how my father talked to you, he's always been like that, even to my mother."
You shake your head, "It's alright. I've gotten used to Naoya's antics over the years, it's nothing new," your hand waved around sheepishly, downplaying the fact that you're letting these men trample over your dignity like you mean nothing, "thank you for not treating me like that though, it's a breath of fresh air."
Satoru hummed, his eyes gazing into yours. You looked into his eyes deeply, entranced by the color, "You shouldn't get used to that kind of treatment, I hope you slowly forget what that feels like while I'm here, yeah?" He murmured out softly.
You stare into his eyes, unblinking. Every word he said flowed into our ear like music, before you could reply back, you blinked a couple of times and averted your gaze away with a nervous chuckle. The hot wave climbing up your neck made you press your palm onto your nape, "No worries about it, I'm slowly starting to forget that . . ."
He nods again, "That's good to hear."
The thumping on your chest didn't cease at all. It was supposed to, you try to reassure yourself that this wasn't special treatment— this was a normal boss-employee treatment. You were accustomed to being treated like chopped liver that you think a little kindness, which if you think, is the bare minimum, made your heart flutter wild. Jesus, when did he get so handsome? For the past two months, you realized how attractive Gojo Satoru is.
His voice was soft, like he was coaxing a baby to sleep. You could just sleep every time he spoke a command to you. Since when has he been this dreamy? Has his hair always looked that fluffy?
"How are you enjoying your stay here for the past couple of months? Nobody has treated you unfairly?" Satoru questioned, trying to recede his anger by jumping into different subjects. Crossing his arms as he leaned onto his desk, "You do know you can inform me of these things."
"Ah, no. Everyone here has always been helpful, it's delightful to have this kind of work environment," you tell him truthfully, "everyone's always helping me with new things around. They don't think of me as just an obstacle or a maid, I like that."
"Jesus, what did that Naoya even do to you?"
Oh, he didn't have to know the details of it, "Well, let's just say . . . he lives up to his reputation," it wasn't meant to be funny, but he laughed, sipping on the already cold coffee you made for him this morning, "it's not funny. He's a wicked man."
"I understand that. I've met him before, and yes, I do agree that he lives up to his reputation," Satoru nods, "anywho, you should send the email to her right now. And then inform me of what she say to me."
To: [email protected]
From: (name)(lastname)@gojo.pa.co.id
Subject: Update!
Dear, Miss Yujing
Apologies Miss Yujing, it seemed that your application is indeed accepted. We apologize for the message. We look forward to meeting you next month!
"You must be wondering to why I still accepted her despite my anger."
You look up at him, that was partly true, but you were in no position to ask him about it at all. With a sheepish smile, you asked, "Is it . . . that obvious?" He shrugged.
"Her father owns one of the biggest furniture manufacturing factories in China— I've met her before. Once, during a family meeting. I didn't spoke to her, but from where I sat, she was unbearable," Satoru drummed his fingers on the desk, "she's not terrible, I'm saying it's her parents fault for saying 'yes' to her every request. Hence, why she's so spoiled. She doesn't work for anything, but gets everything. What's that term . . ."
"Nepo baby?" You asked.
He snapped his finger, pointing at you, "Yes. That, exactly. I've had countless of employees tell me that they've been stripped off their old position just because of these nepo babies," Satoru told you, looking up at the ceiling, "I don't want the company I built this far to go down the drain just because a girl refused to believe that she has to work hard to get in here. I'll have her here for . . . as long as she want to be, I assure you, people like her don't fit here. She'll be gone as soon as the job gets too tiring for her."
"Really?"
"It's typical. She wants everything quick, and we don't do quick here— it'll take her a month full of nine to five to gain her own salary. Why would she do that when she can just ask for money?" Satoru rumbled out in annoyance, "I shouldn't be telling you all this. It's unprofessional of me."
"I'm good at keeping secrets."
"Are you now?"
"I haven't spilled any of the Zenin's secrets to you. As much as I hate them, I can't find myself to actually spread it— this is their hard work, whatever downfall they may have, I hope it comes from the prayers of people they've done wrong," he stared at you, your eyes were stuck to the floor with a solemn smile. A breath escaped his lips, awestruck from your words, he's met his portion of people whom lived with vengeance in their veins and live life like they were born for revenge.
But you? You were like a breath of fresh air as well. The statement has been spoken so many times by you that he had failed to realize that you were his breath of fresh air too. He's met so many different women in the past that his father had chosen. One too focused on the pleasure, one too focused on the money, one too focused on wasting money, one too focused on everything wrong. He's so sick of it.
Satoru looks away, shutting his eyes. No, this was inappropriate. He told everyone that they can't date each other in the office— here he was thinking of his PA like she was some kind of angel graced just for him. In a world of women, you just had to be his PA.
Satoru cleared his throat, "Alright, enough chat. How many dreaded meetings so we have today?"
"Four."
"Seriously . . ? Do we have any days where I have no meetings at all?"
You tapped on the screen of your phone, "I can arrange it, if you'd like."
Satoru chuckles, "Would love that, but, my work would pile up. And I'd rather not have that," he walks towards his seat, "let's get back to work then."
Usually, you'd spend your lunch time alone in the employee cafeteria— or the office, somewhere in between, sometimes the rooftop garden. However, you wondered why the mop of white hair sat across from you today as you ate, "Mr. Gojo, is there a reason to why you're sitting with me for lunch? You don't usually spend your lunch in the employee cafeteria."
"Can't I now?"
" . . . I don't mind at all, I was just curious. That's all," you watch him eat his own lunch, which by the way looked so much better than the employee's everyday food. Usually, you'd have a lunch box ready with leftovers from last night filled. It was just last night's leftovers had gone bad because you had forgotten to put them inside the fridge, here you were munching on the employee cafeteria's food. It was at least better (and humane), compared to the Zenin's cafeteria.
Satoru noticed the way you eyed his lunch, and swallowed heavily. He didn't know what got into him that made him say out loud, "Ah, you know . . . I'm craving for some junk food today, haven't ate oil fried food much recently. You think you can share these with me?" Just the sight of his expensive looking lunch box made your mouth water. He has always had a distinctive diet— not too much fried food, not too much desserts (even if you notice how much he tries to sneak them in at the end of the day). The bean infested rice looked exceptionally delicious though, and the grilled chicken smeared with teriyaki sauce.
"You can't eat too much fried—"
"Just today."
"It would be inappropriate for me to receive your lunch."
"Who said?"
"Everyone who sees here," your eyes roamed around the filled cafeteria, even if nobody was looking, or you thought they aren't, you were still scared at the thought someone cooking up a rumor over shared bento with your boss, "it's only my second month. I can't have rumors with my boss right now."
"Oh?"
You pucker your lips, a bit crestfallen at the thought of not eating the luxurious lunch made by his private chef, "Mhm."
"Then come to the office."
He packed his lunch up and walked away from the cafeteria. You eyed him, inching a few bites into your mouth before collecting the trays into the self-service area and followed his steps— you didn't know if it was his long legs that made him walk much faster than you, but Satoru was already seated right on his seat. Legs crossed neatly, the paper bag you had already considered his 'default' lunch bag sitting on your desk.
Even the sight of brown paper bag made you feel giddy. The rumbling in your stomach made you skip towards your seat, "May I really have this?" You questioned him in a way your voice rose like never before.
"Mm. Be my guest."
To put it short, your bucket list has added one more thing. Have your very own private chef. Satoru had a fond smile on his face— between you and I, this was the first time he had given away his lunch to anyone. The look on your face made him broke into a soft string of laughter. That succeeded in attracting your attention, the corner of your lips smeared with the thick brown teriyaki sauce. Clicking the pieces together wasn't a problem, the problem was that you were this messy in front of your boss of two months . . . almost three.
"I'm so sorry, it's been a long time since I've had anything this good to eat," you rubbed your nape in embarrassment, watching him cover his eyes as he laughed, "please, don't laugh at me."
"Sorry, you look cute."
You stopped your movements, eyeing him like he just said something out of the box. Which he did, why would the word 'cute' come out of his mouth? You raised a brow, watching the realization dawn onto him about what he just said. Satoru pursed his lips, "I . . . apologize, (Name)."
In all honesty, you weren't exactly bothered by the compliment. Your tongue pressed onto the inner of your cheek lightly, "No, no worries at all, sir. I didn't . . . mind it at all," you murmured softly, finding his eyes. The faint flush on his cheeks were searing at the apple of his cheeks, "thank you, um, for sharing your food with me."
"Call me Satoru."
What? You blinked, "Oh, um . . . I don't think that's appropriate."
"Nobody has to know. You just gotta control not calling me that in front of the others," he slyly said, cheek pressed onto his palm lightly, "I consider us friends now, practically. So?"
"Oh, okay, I can do that."
"Try it then."
You shut your eyes, shutting the lid of his lunch box, "Sa—" his name was right on the tip of your tongue, but it wouldn't come out, "Sa—" you try again. It felt odd to call your boss by his first name, "Mr. Gojo, it feels weird. I can't find myself calling my boss by his first name at all, I'm sorry."
Satoru hummed softly, "Practice makes perfect."
The next month was filled with him actually trying to convince you to call him by his first name. So far, you have only succeeded twice doing so. However, the bond between the two of you would change just because of his name— Satoru often finds himself asking his private chef to make extra lunch boxes for you. You never knew, all you conversed to his private chef was his diet. Nothing else.
Nor did his chef told you anything about an extra lunch reserved for you.
You never question Satoru whenever he whined about the extra lunch box, or at least you don't know he was pretending to. You ate the lunch with ease, like this was a gift sent from the Gods themselves, "Sir, did you change your private chef? This one seemed to mess up the portions a lot unlike the last one."
Satoru shrugged, "Fun fact, he's been my private chef since I was in third grade."
"He must be old."
"Grey hair."
"So, he is old."
"Never said that, you did. I'll tell him that."
"Satoru—"
"You called my name," Satoru grinned widely, "which reminds me. The new intern is coming today— you did tell the marketing team about what I said last month, right?"
Ah, yes. Satoru specified that the marketing team should welcome the new intern, Ling Yujing today. Make her feel welcomed like everybody else, and try to just go along with whatever she wants. With the exception of work, Ling Yujing must do her own work with help and understanding from her team, "Yes, you want Ling Yujing to grow outside her spoiled habit, I understand. I explained everything from A to Z, you don't have to worry about it."
"Thank you."
Ling Yujing was someone you never expected. Her whole demeanor screamed elegance— her thick, black colored hair looked like water, and you just wanted to reach out to pet her hair. Luxurious and branded items from head to toe, the smell of her expensive perfume wafted into your nostrils when the receptionist brought her to Satoru's office instead of Satoru coming for her. You sat in your seat, pretending to be occupied by work. The discreet glances you threw towards Ling Yujing was one of awe. She looked like a barbie doll.
She has a smile that showcased her perfect pearly whites, the white branded bag hooked by her fingers. And she wore a branded shades, covering her eyes. Satoru stared at her unimpressed, "Wearing shades on the first day? Surely, you understand manners, Miss Ling."
Yujing slipped her shades off, showing her honey kissed eyes. She held her hand out, expecting Satoru to take it. But, he cleared his throat, "Have a seat," he gestured to the chair across from him.
Yujing took a seat, crossing one leg on top of the other one, "Yes, it's such an honor to be personally invited to work here—"
Satoru cuts her off, "Don't get me wrong. My father did that, if anything, you should be thanking him and not me," he glanced at me, "I'm sure you know me. That is my personal assistant, (Name)(Last Name)," Yujing glanced towards you briefly, her eyes traveled from the top of your head to the bottom— her head lowering slightly to take a closer look at your shoes.
"Those shoes are so last season," she points out.
You look down at your heels. To be frank, you got them for a cheap price off online, "Ah, yes. I—"
"You don't have to answer that, I was stating it," Yujing cuts you off, flicking her hair. How fucking nice of her, you plastered a sweet smile on your face despite the need to sock her face in, "how do I do this corporate thing? I do good social media contents, I edit them nicely, and I need the best assistants to help me film my videos."
Satoru clicked his tongue, "You're an employee, not the boss. You work as a team with my marketing employees. One, you are not their boss. Two, you work with them. Three, there is a senior marketing employee whose commands you must follow," he raised three fingers, "and lastly, if you have any complaints regarding my employees, please inform me. I aspire to build the company along with my employees."
Yujing was bemused at his four commands, she said nothing, "Alright, I can play that. Where do I sit? There?" Her thumb was directed at my desk.
"No, that's my PA's. You sit outside of my office," Yujing's smile visibly faltered at the mention of having to sit outside with the rest of the employees, "yes, you sit outside. That's where employees sit."
"She doesn't."
"That's my PA, she's to be by my side at all time. There's a difference," he sighs out loudly, already feeling the heat of the new intern. Satoru looks at you, "(Name), please guide her to her seat. And if she wants, you may show her around."
You stood up and opened the door for the young woman. She struts out confidently, and you walked her towards the marketing team's segment, "Miss Yujing, this is the marketing team. We've prepared a seat for you right here—"
Yujing's face contorted into one of displease. She looks around the employee room, "I don't like sitting in cramped spaces, can I just sit . . ." her eyes roamed around, landing on an empty table on the corner, "there, I want that one."
The marketing team looked into each other's eyes, a quiet signal amongst themselves. You part your lips to stop her, but she's already setting her bag onto the table, "Miss Yujing, I'm afraid that's the HR segment—"
"HR, marketing. Same thing, I like this table better."
By now, the employees around have already given up and just gave you a timid smile. You swallowed the lump in your throat, wondering how to explain this to Satoru. At the end, you told her to feel free to sit there. Yujing pulls out a table mirror, setting it right on the corner of her own table, taking a quick look at her face, "Oh, miss PA. I have a couple of boxes for my needs, mind helping me carry them up? I can't do it myself."
Couple of boxes? You stared at the three luggage and six boxes stacked into two rows. And she asked you to carry these by yourself?
Your phone vibrated inside your jean pocket. And you fished it out, Satoru Gojo is calling. Your thumb swept against the accept button, "Yes, sir?"
"Are you showing her around?"
"No. She asked me to fetch her things in the lobby," you said, annoyed, "she said a couple of boxes. This is more than just a couple."
"Stay."
Satoru walked down in annoyance, his fingers drumming against his bicep as the elevator descended slowly. Should've known about it, he kept telling himself. The eerie feeling in his back crept up the second Ling Yujing stepped her heels inside the office— and now, she was acting like you were her maid too? He scoffed right as the elevator doors parted. Walking out, he found you dragging two of the luggage towards the elevator, "Leave them."
You look at him in surprise, " . . . Leave them?"
"That's what I said. Get inside," he held his hand out, pressing it against the seal of the door to hold them back, "leave her things and get inside the elevator. That's a command."
Immediately, you retract your hands from the pink different sized luggage, stepping inside the elevator, "Is it really okay to leave her things there?"
"You know what's not okay?"
"Leaving her things there?" You asked carefully.
"Her treating you like a maid."
"Ah . . ." You bit your lip, looking at the ground as the elevator began to rise, "I was afraid she might rat me out to her father."
"You got Satoru."
"I got Satoru?" You parrot.
"I got your back, don't worry."
Upon reaching the office floor, you walked out of the elevator. Yujing was sitting on her desk, phone laying on the phone stand she brought, you assumed she was on social media from the loud noise coming from her phone. Occasionally, she'd let out a loud giggle and laugh. Patting the cushion onto her cheek as she reapplies her make up. She looks up at the sight of you and lit up, "Oh, Miss PA, where are my things?"
Satoru answered for you, "Your things or her things? Don't ever consider my PA your maid," he reminds her, "I told her to leave your things downstairs. If you want them, go get them yourself. You have hands, no?"
Yujing scoffed, "Being a PA technically means she's a maid to you."
"Being an employee means you work under me. Technically speaking, if I were inhumane, I'd consider you my maid. But, I grow up taught well unlike . . ." He stopped himself, "besides the point. You get your own things or I'll have security keep it downstairs for you."
Yujing stomped her foot and walked by you, her shoulder bumping into yours, making you stagger back slightly. Satoru's hand pressed against the small of your back, helping you regain your balance, "You alright?"
You nodded mutely.
The rest of the day went by longer than usual. By the end of the day, the senior of the marketing team had came into Satoru's office three times, "How is Miss Ling holding up in the team?"
"She . . . is definitely not a team player. She refuses to listen to our opinions and would get angry when we don't do what she tells us to do. She completely refuses to join in meetings and would threaten us if we don't do her ideas . . ." Satoru pinched the bridge of his nose in anger, this was what he knew would happen, "I am clueless of what to do with her, sir."
You grimaced at the hopeless tone of the senior marketing. It doesn't help when you realize that probably none of the marketing team was brave enough because Ling Yujing had the money to practically bury them off the face of earth, "Tell her to come inside."
Yujing struts inside the office, fanning her face, "You said you needed to speak?"
Satoru glared at her, "You've been here one day and I've received more complaints than the total of days you have worked here," he muttered in annoyance, "listen, working with a team might not be your cup of tea. But, this is how we do things here— and if you aren't willing to cooperate, maybe this company isn't for you."
Yujing rolled her eyes, "I got half a million of followers on Instagram, why would I be working with these . . . low lives," she muttered, especially glancing at you, "come on, our fathers are friends. Why would I have to sit outside? Can't Miss PA just sit outside? You can just call her around anytime and she'll come scurrying in, right?"
She stared at you with her wide eyes, as if communicating. You scampered at the sight of her eyes slightly narrowing, grabbing your laptop and files, "Yes, yes, absolutely. I can just— sit outside for today," Yujing smiled at you.
"I meant forever, silly."
Your jaw hung slightly and you mumbled, " . . . Yes, forever, I mean," no, bye very nice office and Satoru Gojo, you internally cry out.
Satoru stood up, walked around his desk and stood right in front of you, "I'm your boss, how could you listen to an employee?" He smirked down at you, and it was borderline mocking. You feared for your life here! You shake your head, "Sit down."
When you don't cease to lower yourself back, he huffed, "My PA sits with me so I don't have to recall her every single time like a fucking dog," Satoru seethes out through gritted teeth, "all I'm saying is that if you don't like how I do things here, I need you to leave my company."
You sank back down on your seat, refusing your eyes to meet Yujing. But, the aura she emits was intimidating— she stomped her foot, walking out of the office after a loud grunt.
Satoru rapped his knuckles against the top of your desk a couple of times gently, "I got your back, why are you scared of her, (Name)?" He asks with a small smile, "Oh, wait. You're scared of her father."
"If I do anything brash, your company will—"
"You don't have to worry about my company. I can manage it just fine," he pats your shoulder a couple of times, "all I need you to do is say 'no' once in a while, especially to her."
"I can't . . ."
"If you can't. I'll do it for you, yeah?"
"You don't have to worry about her and I, please. I can manage just fine," Satoru lets a loud laugh, shaking his head, "why are you laughing?"
"Nothing. I just find you adorable."
Ling Yujing is unbearable. Complaints regarding her have piled up in the past month, the marketing team was suffering— most of their works have gone down the drain because one single person couldn't find herself working in a team. Most of them had completely given up on Yujing, she clocks in at nine, leaves at four thirty, acts like she does the most work, complains when people don't follow her.
Satoru was out of options, "I need help, seriously, (Name). I don't think I've received this much complaints in a while," he whines out softly, banging his head on the desk, "I can't do this anymore. Take over, I need you to take over the company for a bit."
You were standing right next to his desk, watching his distress. His eyes were shut, the circles under his eyes were deeper than before, surely it must be the stress from Ling Yujing. Satoru breathes softly, "(Name), touch my head."
"Pardon?"
"Touch my head, right now."
"Like . . . touch touch it?"
He nods slightly, your hand hovered over his head. Hesitation written all over your face— one thing you don't fail to realize was how clingy he could get when he's tired. You hated this, like he was just leading you on. In the first place, you shouldn't even have gotten swayed by his professionalism at all. The one rule he puts out for everyone of no dating was absolute, surely he wouldn't flip it around just because you tell him you like him. And it's not like he . . . reciprocates.
You felt the softness of his hair touch your fingertips. Snapping back to reality, you look down— Satoru stared up at you with tired eyes. When he felt the warmth of your hand, his eyes flutter back shut, "You were daydreaming," he murmured out, "what's it about?"
Was this even a normal boss-employee conversation? For the past couple of months, he'd strike up conversations outside of work. He invited you for lunch, only you. When he goes home late, he gives you a ride. Was this your boss being nice or he just simply thinks that this was basic human decency? You never understood how his brain works, it does work wonders around the company.
" . . . I don't think this is appropriate."
"This? Petting? Is it illegal?"
You mutter, "No, but I don't think the other employees would appreciate if they saw us do this," Satoru hummed softly, "and I don't think normal boss and employee would do these—"
"These?"
"One on one lunch. Dropping me off. Head petting."
Satoru's eyelids raised up slowly, "You dense?"
" . . . No?"
"I'm Satoru Gojo, I'm trying to flirt. Nobody has to know—"
You choked and coughed out loudly, covering your mouth. Satoru stretched his limbs upwards, "Have some water. Why are you suddenly choking?"
"You can't say that suddenly!"
Satoru grinned, pursing his fingers together into a praying motion. His eyes narrowed into thin slits the more his smile pulled back, "What? Say what? That I'm flirting with my own PA?" You nodded at him, "Nobody has to know I'm flirting with my own PA."
"You made the no dating rule."
"I'll flip it around."
"That's unfair," you replied back, rubbing your arms, "you can't just do that and expect everyone to be okay with the sudden change . . ."
Satoru shrugged, yawning, "Believe it or not— I pretend not to notice, but I know some of the employees are dating each other. Don't tell them, this is between you and I," he muttered, "so, the rule's basically just trash at this point, I just want to see how my employees react to it."
" . . . You're odd."
"In a good way, I hope."
"In an odd way."
"Touché," Satoru snapped his fingers at you, "though I'd prefer you saying that it's a fun way to pinpoint who's dating who. For example, I think Amino from marketing is dating Hinoto from finance. Don't tell me you don't notice the same thing."
Your brows raised up. So, you weren't the only one who noticed it, "I . . . thought so too since they frequently share looks during meetings. Oh, and Hinoto smiles a lot at her, I was speculating that they might be dating behind the scene," your eyes panned up to the ceiling before to Satoru, "and, I also think that—"
"Yua from HR and Haruto our receptionist are dating?" Satoru finishes.
Your head vigorously nodded, "You noticed that too?"
"From a year ago, actually."
"Seriously?"
"You're perceptive. That's good."
A knock made its way to the office's door and you pulled your hand away from his hair, straightening yourself up, seemingly in a professional way. Without Satoru muttering a 'come in' or any sort of acknowledgement, in the person come— Ling Yujing, an angry expression on her face.
"These low lives can't do anything, I request a team change!"
"You're requesting a change on the people who have been working for me for years, if anything, I should change the one who had only been working for a month, Miss Ling," Satoru sat up straight, holding a pen, "what's the matter now?"
Yujing screamed her lungs out, her acrylics tapping against the table, "This bitch—"
"Language."
"This low life was telling me that my idea wasn't appropriate enough for the company account," she fixed her sentence in annoyance. You stood there, watching her take a breather.
"Which is . . ?"
"Revealing clothing, engagement baits, people like them," Yujing angrily smacked the table, "I need a team who could compromise with me. Not these buffoons!"
"Approximately sixty-five percent, let's say seventy percent of our clients are people who have high maintenance, the rest are company investments. We don't do revealing attires or engagement baits— we rely on true elegance and honesty for our marketing," Satoru humbly told her, keeping his tone patient, but the strain made you think that another stupid answer from the woman across from him will be the breaking point, "thirty percent of our company are investments. Approximately, from different other companies. You do understand that one wrong marketing move, these thirty percent might disappear just like that, no? Maybe Miss Ling, you should consider the opinions of our professionals instead of . . . half a million followers on Instagram that likes revealing attires and that. None of our clients came because of skin, nor face; they come because our company matches well. And if you solely think that your face fixes everything, you are mistaken."
Yujing grunted loudly, "Well, Satoru—"
"Sir," he corrects.
"Satoru, sir. This," she gestured to her body, "can attract you more than just thirty percent of investors and seventy percent of clients."
"Then, you have come to the wrong place. You should try the Zenin's, perhaps."
Yujing cocked her head, "You're not putting trust in your future wife."
Satoru scoffed, "Future wife? You?" He glanced towards you, "Did you hear what she said?"
You didn't move an inch. Just rooted to your place, not a nod forced into your motor. Satoru sighed, "Please exit my office and refrain from complaining about light matters— I am demanding that you should try to become a team player and listen to your seniors. Your position here is an intern, and interns are here to learn. We are willing to educate you if you'd let yourself."
Yujing crossed her arms, "My father's going to know about this."
"Please."
You licked your lips anxiously at the increasing tension, Yujing stared into his eyes and vice versa. None of the two were backing down at all, you watch her part her lips and said, "You're such a dickhead. Your father said we're going to get married, can't you be nicer to me? I'm literally your future wife . . ." Her voice grew solemn and softer.
Satoru shook his head, "I don't know what that old man told you, I never agreed on marriage."
Yujing leaned closer to the desk, "Why? Am I not your type?"
"No. Far from it."
A soft click of her tongue was enough to express her blown ego, Yujing stuttered out, "Then what's your type? I'm everyone's type. You're pretty odd, Satoru."
Satoru looks at his desk, then at her, "My type? Someone who works hard, doesn't rely on daddy's money, is a good listener, doesn't think that looks solves everything, understanding, professional, and comes to work even when she's sick," he finished with a mocking smile, "and you? You don't work hard, any type of work and you try to relay it to your team with extra threats to report them to my father. You rely on daddy's money and daddy to get anything you want. You never listen, you think you know everything. You think your look solves everything just because five hundred thousand people think you're pretty. You don't consider people's feelings. Never professional with anyone, not even your own boss, and then . . . you try to play sick and pay hospitals to give you a sick leave just so you can enjoy your day off when my employees come by even when they're sic. Need I say more?"
Yujing bit her lip and nodded, "Oh, so that's how we're going to do it?" She whispers, "I'll prove you wrong, Satoru."
"Please, do."
As she walks to the door, Satoru spoke to you, "(Name), don't forget the client meeting for the day after tomorrow. It's an important client, I need the documents ready by tomorrow so you'll have time to revise and get ready for it. Send the documents to my number."
You nod, "Oh, yes. No worries, sir. The documents are in my laptop, I'll send a soft file to you."
"Satoru?"
"Mm?"
"I got the documents for the meeting after lunch, I've sent it to your number this morning," you tell him confidently, of course, you stayed up all night all week to build that document itself since this client was super important to him, "you can tell me if anything needs to be revised, I'll do it immediately."
Satoru skimmed through the twenty pages document with ease through his laptop, nodding his head in approval, "I think it's well made, thank you. I just need you to add more of their data on the second part of the document, please add more data on our shareholders as well so it's clear to them. Then, you can send the revised file to the printer after lunch so we can just grab the documents it as we go to the meeting room."
"Okay," you walked back to your laptop.
Two hours later, he cracked his fingers loudly, "I'm beat, wanna grab lunch before the meeting?" he asks you, "my chef made bacon wrapped enoki," he slurps loudly— he took out a lunch box, "and I asked him to add more for you. You were watching that one mukbang videos of it so I thought why not make it for you."
You perked up, "Really?"
"Yeah, c'mon. Take a break. Meet me in the roof garden."
You moved with trained professionalism, saving the document so you could just send it to the printer when you came back after lunch. Satoru left the office first so it wouldn't initiate any suspicions from the other employees— that's how it had been for you and him now. He goes first and you go meet him halfway or in a designated area.
It felt a bit weird to do this with your boss, because never in a million years did you imagine that you'd be in this position of actually getting courted by him. You peeked into the rooftop garden, where it's mostly empty besides a few employees taking a smoke break. But, there was a certain secluded area where you and Satoru would just spend lunch together, "Have a seat. I brought a lot of things today just for you."
"Oh, yeah?"
You took a seat next to him as he pulls out two lunch boxes for both you and him, "I also might have saw you watching a fruit sandwich mukbang so I requested desserts, my chef made a couple with different fruits. So, you choose whichever one you'd like," he raised the saran wrapped sandwiches, "and, juice. I know you like (favorite fruit), so I also requested for it to be made. Great vitamins."
It was a feast before a stressful meeting.
Satoru lets you walk to the office first to send the file to the printer— and so the office you went. Skipping your steps slightly in happiness. You found yourself sitting on your seat, clicking the mouse to open your file. However, much to your confusion, the files you worked on earlier had somehow disappear. Had you misplaced them in a different file? No, you remembered putting them in the right file. And you remembered you saved it as well before leaving for lunch.
You tried to think positively as you typed on the name on the search bar, but the files wouldn't appear. Not even the unrevised ones. Every file on that document both revised and original ones had disappear, you clicked on the trash bin of your laptop, but everything was gone. You never remember emptying it for the past few weeks . . . even the invoice from a vendor you saved and deleted in mere minutes today had disappeared from the trash.
Okay, you took a deep breath and searched for your sent messages towards Satoru's number but it had disappeared from your media folder. Now, you began to panic, was this some kind of virus? Malware? Sure your laptop's an old generation, but you've been using it with no problem at all.
Satoru entered the office, noticing your distress, "(Name)?"
Your no answer reply made him take a few steps closer towards you, "Satoru, I need to take a look at your messages with me, please."
He gestured towards his laptop.
Oddly enough, your sent message was gone from his received messages as well. Was it just a hallucination that you had sent it to him? The distressing moment made your stomach churn in fear, "What's wrong?"
"The message I sent you. The file, it's gone," you muttered, pointing to his email, "the whole message I sent to you is gone. Did I seriously sent it? You gave me feedback earlier but the message is gone— the whole unrevised and revised document for the meeting is gone from my laptop."
Satoru's brows furrowed, "What?" His directed his laptop to face him, "It's saying that you deleted the message. You deleted them, (Name)."
"What?" You swallowed, "It can't be. I spent my lunch with you. Why would I delete that? And the whole thing is gone from my laptop, the whole document. Everything I worked on is gone."
Satoru blinked, he froze for a bit, "Everything?"
"Yes!"
"Did you save it?"
"Of course I did, I sent it to you! And I revised earlier, I promise you I saved that finalized document so I could just send it to the printer once we finished lunch," you defended yourself, the anxiety bubbling up when you noticed the veins popping in his neck, "I didn't know how this happened. This is the first time it's happened before . . ."
"Check one more time."
You checked and checked again. Closing your file, opening it and hoping the documents would be there. You restarted your laptop, knees bouncing as you prayed and prayed the documents would magically reappear right then— but it didn't. The documents disappeared, your shoulders sagged. Satoru paced around the office, his hands were moving wildly to reassure himself, "Is it there?"
You shook your head, blinking back the tears. No, don't cry, you shouldn't cry over this, you restarted the laptop again and again, "Stop. Stop, it won't magically fucking appear after you do that ten times," his voice was harsh— and you felt your heart sank. Did he think you do this on purpose? His eyes were filled with as much anxiety as yours are, "Just, make whatever you could in the next fifteen minutes."
Fifteen minutes wasn't enough for anything. All you could pile up was their company data, which wasn't even everything of it along with some things you remembered from the document earlier. Like you expected, the meeting went downfall, Satoru lost the client in the first hour when the presentation doesn't go as planned even if he had improvised it as best as he could. The client politely took back the collaboration and left the building.
Satoru sat there in the empty meeting room. You don't dare move even an inch from where you stood, his aura was clearly saying "don't talk to me or I'll kill you", and you took it seriously. With down casted eyes, you swallowed the lump in your throat, feeling like most of this was mainly your fault. He then spoke, "I don't know what happened, but if you intended to sabotage the company—"
Baffled was an understatement. You were highly offended at his accusation, "Sabotage? You think I lost that file on purpose? You thought I had the time to unsend my message to you to sabotage you? I was awake for most of the night for one week to work on that documents. You're blaming me."
His head turned towards you in a way you'd only see in horror movies, and your confidence subsided, "So, tell me what happened then."
"I . . . don't know. I didn't know what happened, I was with you!"
"You screwed me up!"
The words land like a slap to the face, you were speechless. You couldn't defend yourself, because you had no solid proof that you didn't do it— but, why would he even think that in the first place? Satoru pulled on his hair in anger, "That client was willing to invest sooo much, (Name). You didn't just screw me, you screwed all of us!"
Oh, salt to wound. Lemon to wound. Cold water to the face. Ice and salt on skin. It just keeps coming, like he was pinning this all on you, "I didn't do it," you whisper out hopelessly, fists clenching and unclenching.
Satoru stood up roughly, the chair jumping a bit more than you expect it. Loud and thundering footsteps echoed in the halls of the building, everyone don't dare to ask questions about it his sour mood. You felt bile piling up at the thought of possibly fucking up a big chance for his company to grow and walked quickly to the restroom, hunching over the toilet bowl inside on of the stalls. Your body trembled as wrecked sobs finally broke the dam, the tears streaming down your face made it hard to even see anything. Your chest heaved heavily, the constant spasm from your sobs made you choke loudly.
You screwed all of us!
Satoru's words echoed in your mind like a plague, the constant reminder of your failure made your sobs grew louder. You tugged on your hair harshly, stupid, stupid, stupid girl, you chanted to yourself. You should have made an extra copy. Or sent it to an email in case, or even locked it at all. You were sure you've done it well and everything will go as planned.
So, where did it all go wrong?
Satoru stared at the termination of contract he had just signed. He reads your name over and over again, the question intended to make sure about his decision from the HR answered with a blunt "yes" from Satoru's side of the bubble message. His head was pounding, everything was going well today, was this a brash choice? It was one mistake . . . a big one. But, did it mean that you had to go? You were exceptionally well for the past months you worked in here.
You entered the office, bloodshot eyes, puffed up skin. Satoru doesn't even spare you a look, he's just so angry right now. He couldn't decipher this at all, he was sure you didn't mean it but that client. Oh my God, that was a once in a blue moon client— and that client would have been so much help for the company's future. But, now? His client left, and the company gets nothing.
"(Name)?"
You look at him, hoping he'd say an apology or any type of reassurance for what he just said in the meeting room. The seconds passed by, and you felt your breath hitch when his words were spoken.
"You're fired."
Everything happened all at once that you even forgot you had gotten fired. You stood there right in front of the building, dressed up, eyes blank and tired— only then did you realize your access card wasn't working; he had gotten rid of your access one day after you got fired like everything unrolled yesterday was your fault.
It took you three taps to the machine before realizing what you were doing. You shook your head gently and walked away, shamefully. One, this was going to look bad in your CV. Two, it actually hurt to think that he easily put the blame on you. It was understandable that he was angry because the client pulled back from the deal, but you didn't think the file would disappear out of your laptop just like that.
You thought you meant more to him than just that.
Meanwhile, Satoru sat there on his desk. Miserable. One, he regretted what he had said. Two, he missed you. Three, he wasn't sure if you'd like to converse with him anymore because of this. And lastly, Ling Yujing had taken your place— not because he wanted to, because apparently she had told Satoru's father about wanting the "empty" seat in his office. By the time he came today, her items were already neatly put up on the desk that once belonged to you.
"What . . . are you doing in here?" Satoru questioned, the sight of her items sitting on the desk that once were filled with files and actual work related items and not, mirrors and make up.
"Of course working, silly. What does it look like?" Yujing asked, sitting on your chair, "Heard about what happened the other day. Knew that girl was a rat, hope you're holding up well. She was an odd one, that girl."
Yujing badmouthing you made his blood boil, "Shut your mouth."
"What? I'm just saying my instincts have been saying that she's a liar— because why would she delete the files off your messages and laptop?" Satoru felt the impending headache already slowly coming in, "and then how could she ruin the meeting when you clearly told her the other day that it was important? Like, seriously? Weird move coming from her. You know who wouldn't have done that? Me."
Satoru blinked. The meeting. The files. Satoru disclosed your leave as personal issues to the other employees, and they didn't ask him anymore. How does this one know about the deleted files? His breathing grew ragged, "Miss Ling, I have a question and I need you to answer honestly or we're going to have problems."
Yujing bat her lashes innocently, "Yes?"
"How did you know of the deleted files? The meeting was strictly for board members, I, and Miss (Last Name)," Satoru started out slowly, "where did the information of deleted files and unsent messages come from?"
Yujing shrugged, "Oh, I heard it from the senior marketing—"
"The senior marketing doesn't belong in the board members," Satoru points out bluntly, his heartbeat quickening at the pieces clicking together, "so, I'll ask you one more time, how did you know of the unsent messages and deleted files?"
Yujing's smile faltered, "Fine," she groaned, "caught me. Guilty. Oops, I deleted the files and unsent the messages so she'd get fired. It's not like she's any significance to our company," she said "our" like the Gojo company belonged to her, and it bothered Satoru, "and she was a hindrance to our relationship—"
"Let me make this fucking clear, Yujing," Satoru dropped all sorts of formalities he had left holding himself from earlier, "you and I don't fit. I don't marry crazy girls with building criminal minds like you— this is the first time you've done this, I assume? And next time? What? You'll frame someone for murder? This is crazy."
"She doesn't belong."
"You don't belong. I've told my father that countless of times, and fuck, I should have tried harder," Satoru slammed his hand on the table, "get your things, and I want you out of here."
"Out?" She asks, appalled.
"Out, I said!"
"You jest," Yujing nervously laughed, the louder her laugh became, the more nervous she became, "you can't be serious. I flew from China for this."
"You're rich. Buy another ticket and fly home to daddy, give daddy my best regards and I'll talk to him personally about this," Satoru pinched the bridge of his nose as Yujing began crying right in his office. Her presence a stark reminder that he should put cameras inside his office and right outside the door of his office to prevent these from happening again in the future, "get out."
"Satoru, please—"
"Out, I said. Or I'll call the security," his voice staggered slightly at the thought of blindly accusing you, "don't ever show your face in my company ever. You make me sick."
When Yujing left the company crying, he opened his phone. The sight of '(Name) unsent a message' on both of your room chat made his stomach churn. Oh my God, (Name). He typed out a message for you.
Satoru Gojo:
I shouldn't have blamed you. I'm sorry. It was Yujing.
The message wasn't delivered, the red exclamation mark and a statement of not delivered made his breath hitch. He stood up, sending a quick message to the HR manager.
Satoru Gojo:
Help me cancel the meetings in my schedule since you have the access to my email, I have an urgent meeting outside the office. Thank you.
He thanked the fact that he managed to always be the one to drop you off at home after a good work day. Stopping his car right in front of your house in a small neighborhood, he sees your heels laid out on the porch messily— with a nervous gesture, he inhaled deeply, maintaining a professional look before knocking the door.
You opened the door. Blinking at the sight of your boss —former boss— standing there. What? Was he here to tell you more about the client you supposedly lost because the files magically poofed away, "Can I help you with anything?"
Satoru took a good look at you. You wore a blazer, a long skirt, and the company's ID still hung around your neck. Were you getting ready to come by? You understood that look, and defended, "I forgot you fired me, I was about to get changed—"
"Don't. You're not fired."
"Yes, I am. The termination of my contract—"
"I'll get that settled."
"And why is that?" You mutter.
Satoru looks around, his lips parted but nothing came out. He tried again, and only mustered out a, "It's my fault," his eyes were solemn, filled with guilt from his blind rage the other day, he should have known. You were there with him the entire lunch, there weren't any reason for you to do that— with clenched fists, he murmured out to you, "I shouldn't have pointed my fingers at you like that. I was angry, and I was wrong to accuse you like that. It wasn't you."
" . . . Who?"
"Yujing."
Frankly, you weren't surprised she did that. But, still. The ache in your heart from what he said and did made you stumble back and forth in your dilemma, "I'm still not coming back to the company," you tell him in a low voice, "I know it's professional and I know I shouldn't take it personally. But, you know me better than anyone in that office, I took it personally, I thought I meant much more than that to you."
Satoru's hand hovered before falling right to his side, "You mean everything, (Name)."
You raised a brow, "You didn't even ask me about it, I come back and all of a sudden I'm fired. Where's the 'you mean the world'?" the question made Satoru flinch slightly, "You know what? The past is in the past, I want no more to do with this. Talk about it to Yujing, what's happened already happened and you can't undo it. I accept your apology, doesn't mean it fixes anything between us."
"Tell me what you need, name anything, I'll do it."
"You think that'll solve everything, huh?" You asked him, a bit shocked at how short his mindset is, "For someone who speaks lowly of materialistic women like Yujing, you're just like her. You just don't see it because your personality isn't as trash."
"I—"
"You," you cut him off with a look that said you wanted nothing else to do, "are going to walk out of my property, get back in your car, be a good son, and work for the company."
"(Name)."
"Miss (Last Name), let's make one thing clear. You and I are just boss— sorry, former boss and employee. There's nothing ever made in between us," you raised a finger up, "so then, if you'll excuse me, I'll shut this door then open it again and I want you gone."
Satoru shake his head, "We can surely walk something out, you mean a lot to me. I admit I was wrong, and I understand that you're angry at me for saying those words— please, I just need to prove that I am worthy for you—"
You pulled your head back in disgust, a scoff slipped past your lips and you pushed your door, sealing the conversation right there. Satoru knocked the door again, "I fired Yujing, nothing will get between us, I'll prove you that I really do love you. I can make this work—"
The door opened again, your face unimpressed, "You're stupid if you think that'll make me change my mind."
"I'm not asking you to instantly accept me back, (Name)."
"Well, I'll do you one better," you smiled, "I'll not accept you until . . . ever!"
His face fell, shoulders sagged, "I'll do anything . . . Just please, come back, I'll raise your salary, I'll build you your own office, I'll have a desk reserved just for you inside the cafeteria—"
"Am I actually worth that all to you? A salary? An office? A desk in the employee's cafeteria? I find that insulting," Satoru realized the things he compared you to were things most people could afford, he was indirectly calling you cheap. He slipped his hand between the door and you, "trespassing."
"No, no, no. That came out wrong, I'm not calling you cheap."
"I never said that you're calling me cheap."
"I know, I know," he mumbled again, his choices of words were not up to par today. He shook his head, "I . . . need you to come back and work for me, I'll leave you alone. I will pretend nothing ever happened in between us, I won't look at you, I won't touch you, I won't do anything we used to do together."
That was influencing. You weren't afraid to admit that he pays well. On the other hand, all Satoru hoped was that you'd agree and . . . the least was that you guys stayed in one company where you'll be under his watch, he'll start from there, "I have a favor then."
Satoru's eyes lit up, "I want a desk outside your office. Anything you want to ask me to work on, you message me via email or number. And, our conversations will be professional and related to work."
Okay, that's an improvement. Satoru nodded immediately, "Okay. Okay . . . I can work on that. You can come back tomorrow, I'll have a desk for you outside my office."
Satoru was true to his words, the next week you came, your requests were done— you deadpanned at the sight of the different desk, positioned nearest to his office. Oh, and . . . where has his door gone? From where he sat, you were the only person in his line of sight. Sure, this was what you asked for, but you don't expect him to actually get rid of the office's door, considering he loves his private time where nobody actually bothers him.
"Miss (Last Name) is back to work under my watch, there has been a resolve to her personal issues. You lots be nice on her," Satoru announced, walking to his office. He sat on his place, eyes like a hawk every time you look away— but, the second you look back, he pretended his desk was the most interesting thing in the world.
You weren't dense. You could feel his burning eyes boring holes onto the side of your face, the hell does he want? Standing up, you approached his office. Satoru straightened himself up, looking over the files on his desk even if they were never relevant anymore, "Sir, you have a meeting with—"
"Yes, absolutely. I understand, let's go," he was jumpy, walking out of the office. You slowed your steps to maintain the distance, but he slowed his steps to match yours, "your first meeting again. Feels good to be back, right?"
You don't answer him, Satoru coughs awkwardly, opening the meeting room's door for you. With a small nod of appreciation, you sat to his right, scooting your chair a few times away from him. It doesn't go unnoticed, but he lets you be.
The meeting started well. The presentation was better than any he's seen before— Satoru was in an exceptionally good mood. He watched as the slides change before coming to an end. His feedback was lighthearted, compliments slipped into the sentences he spoke out. However, what took his attention was you, speaking to a young male from the finance team. A small smile plastered to your face.
Satoru lets out a soft scoff, "Miss (Last Name), I suggest you pay attention to the meeting and note down what's important," you held your pen, staring at him in annoyance. A light smirk popped on his lips when he realized that he had succeeded in stopping the conversation between you and that boy.
It doesn't stop there.
Much to his despise, now that your table was located outside of his office, Satoru could see the finance employee strutting up to where you sit and make light conversations during both work hour and outside work hours. Satoru cleared his throat loud enough for the male to scamper away, when you look at him in disbelief, Satoru looks away nonchalantly.
As time passed by, we're counting weeks, then months. Satoru began noticing the pattern, and the closeness of you with that finance employee. His (Name). And he couldn't do anything to stop that, "Okay, Satoru. Walk up to her, ask her if she'd like to go home together, bring her home, confess your love, marry her, yup."
Satoru unbuttoned his suit, walking towards your desk but turned right when he sees the same finance employee jogging to your desk. Satoru's fingers picked at the shelves of files, putting all ears up, "Hey, (Name), wanna go grab dinner before I drop you off?"
Say no, you have me, Satoru muttered in his mind. Hoping you'd actually decline.
"Sure."
Sure? SURE? Satoru panned his head slightly to look at you and the male, now helping you pack up your bags. You don't even let him do that in the past! He felt like a schoolgirl watching her crush go with another student, "I hope the two of you aren't getting too chummy, you do realize dating inside the office means immediate termination, yes?"
You huffed, "Yes, we are merely conversing as friends."
You walked away, your shoulders brushing against Satoru's briefly. The greeting from his other employee made his heart burn in anger. Once you were out of sight, Satoru began punching the air in annoyance, "Sure? Sure? You even let him pack your bag for you? What am I? Chopped liver?"
For the next couple of weeks. Satoru had always been overtaken by the same boy. Satoru packed an extra lunch for you, that boy had already stood by your table five minutes before lunch. Satoru was ready to bring you home, that boy was helping you pack up. Satoru was ready to give you a present, that fucking boy was by your side. That boy was supposed to be Satoru!
Satoru narrowed his eyes, crumpling a paper under his fingertips at the sight of you laughing because of a joke that same boy just said. In his defense, the joke wasn't even funny.
His notification reminder regarding the meeting with the finance team popped up fifteen minutes before the actual meeting, right on his watch. Usually, you'd be hovering by his door asking him to get ready— but this time around, you waited until five minutes before fetching him. If you weren't going to do your job, he'd do it for you. He contorted his face into one of annoyance, "Miss (Last Name), meeting room."
When you didn't move, Satoru looks back, "Now."
The meeting was filled with tension. Satoru's sour mood was making everyone nervous. You sat to his right, maintaining a good distant from Satoru, monitoring everything. The finance team progress for this month was presented, "Why is there a margin right there?" Satoru pointed at the screen.
"Ah, yes, sir. I can explain—" The senior finance manager said.
Satoru cuts him off, "I've seen one of your member getting too chummy with my PA, is that the reason why our finances are messed up?" Your head whipped to look at him in disbelief, why would he bring personal matters into this anyway? Satoru glared at the nervous boy, fidgeting with his pants, looking anywhere but at Satoru, "Maintain your distance. There's a reason why I put out that rule."
The meeting ended. When everyone had left and the second that door shuts, you muttered out, "What the fuck was that?"
Satoru maintained his nonchalance, "What was what? I was pointing out the deteriorating work. And mind your tongue, you set him up to this yourself."
"You're accusing me again."
"I'm not accusing you, I'm pointing out my problem. Am I wrong?" Satoru asked you.
You slammed your hands onto the table, "Yes. You're mixing up personal life with his work, that seems a bit childish for someone like you," Satoru looks at you, offended, "why are you acting like this, huh?"
Satoru replied, "Acting like what?"
"Like a childish brat."
His hand darts out, latching under your chair and he dragged you closer towards him. The slight yelp from your lips escaped when your chair jolted towards him, "Say that to my face again?" You pushed his hand away, "No, no. Don't walk away just because I told you to repeat what you said, you could say it sitting that far. Surely, you wouldn't mind saying that to my face."
Your brows furrowed, "I'd like you to know how unprofessional this is."
"Bite me."
For the rest of the day, Satoru was snappy. He hadn't meant to argue with you about this. When he was about to leave the building, he was stopped, "Mr. Gojo!"
Satoru glanced back, his eyes meeting the worried ones belonging to the boy from finance, "Yes?"
The boy sputtered out, "There's nothing going on between Miss (Name) and I. I . . . was asking her for help since she seemed to be close to Miss Tsumugi from the marketing team. I apologize if my work have depleted because of this, but I assure you that Miss (Name) isn't the problem at all! I realize I have been too distracted by my feelings towards Miss Tsumu—"
"I understand. Make sure you do well."
" . . . I'm not fired?"
"You aren't dating, no? It's not a sin to love someone," Satoru waved his hand, turning away with a stupid smile on his face. He felt stupid that he'd once again jump into conclusions, "I was just curious how long you people would take it to date behind my back," his voice was now lively and full of happiness.
Satoru unfortunately left his employee standing there in surprise.
Upon reaching his car, Satoru immediately sent a message to you.
Satoru Gojo:
You could have just said you were helping him with his stupid crush.
You:
Does it matter?
Satoru Gojo:
Yes. I was jealous.
You:
No reason to be?
Satoru Gojo:
Yes there is? I told you I like you?
You:
Yeah, well, I don't like you anymore
Satoru Gojo:
Okay, I need you to say that to my face and I'll stop bothering you
You:
What?
Satoru Gojo:
I'm on my way.
You read his message in awe. Okay, in all honesty— you did love him. You were just hurt at the fact he decided to accuse you with ease. And, in not any way were you trying to rile him up with that finance boy, you were just genuinely lending him a hand to profess his love. Which wasn't your fault at all. Plus, Satoru didn't have to know anything about you, right?
There was no way he's coming. He was saying that to scare you, you were sure of it.
The knock on your door fifteen minutes later seemed to say otherwise. You narrowed your eyes and slot the deadbolt chain into the lock, opening your door slowly, the gap wide enough to showcase his smug face. He eyed the lock and stepped back, reinforcing himself to give you the space you needed, "I need you to confirm that to me. Say you hate me and I'll leave you alone."
You scrunched your face up, "I never said I hated you, don't put words in my mouth, please. I said I don't like you anymore, romantically."
"Same thing," he shrugs lightly, "I need you to come and say it to me, right now. Right in this second. Then I'll leave," his finger dragged against his heart, making a cross motion, "I promise."
Your lips trembled, "Why does it matter?"
"So, you can't?" A smile appeared on his face.
"I can, I just don't want to."
"Because you love me."
"I don't love you, I can't find myself loving anyone who'd easily point his finger at me the second he finds nobody to blame," you spat out, although the first part was clearly a lie, "and I need you to understand that all I want us to be is professional."
Satoru pulled his smile away, "I can't defend myself on that. And I realized what I did was wrong," he softly said, "and I can understand why you're angry— but, please don't say you don't like me. I'll work hard to make you forgive me."
You rolled your eyes, "It's late."
" . . . I'm a night owl."
"What do you want me to say?" You replied in confusion.
"Invite me in."
"My house?"
"Yes."
"I think not," you gestured to the lock holding onto your door, "isn't this enough to tell you?"
Satoru hummed, "I like you."
"I don't."
"Don't what?"
"I don't like—" you stopped and looked at him. You knew if the words escaped your mouth, he would actually leave you alone. Maybe you didn't want that, you do like him romantically. You were just hurt, "go home."
He broke into a big smile, "Huh, so you do love me!"
You shut the door loudly. Heartbeat adding up by the passing second, you could make out his laugh from the inside the house, what the hell is he laughing at now? Curiosity got the better of you and the door opened once more, he was laughing loudly, walking back to his car.
Satoru came to work in a giddy mood. Different from the past couple of weeks he had been under the shit radar. He slid into your desk area, "Morning," you slowly looked up, then around, "I'm talking to you."
You nod, "Good morning."
He looks around, looking at every single one of his employees, "I have an announcement to make," he cleared his throat. He took a deep breath, "I have decided to get rid of the no dating rule. It was a stupid rule and I just wanted to see how far you guys would go to date behind my back," his employees looked at each other before breaking their composure. You didn't break an inch, although a bit surprised, "oh, I know who's dating who, so no worries. I don't bite."
It's true that he doesn't mind, he's completely flipped. At first, he thought the rule might have helped in a way, but his employees' performance never faltered— even from the meeting the other day, he just . . . (unprofessionally) wanted to find a fault in their presentation. And he privately apologized to the said employee last night.
Maybe, what you said was true. He was a bit unfair to get rid of the rule the second he falls in love with an employee. Satoru promises that this will be the last time he's going to do such thing in his company. As all his employees bustle around in cheers, he could only see you. You were still as focused as ever in your work— too indulged in your laptop, or pretending not to hear.
His finger tapped on your desk.
Your eyes flutter up towards him, and he shot you a smile. Satoru gestured towards the elevator, you knew that look that tells you to go meet him there. The same look he'd give you when he tells you to go meet him on the rooftop for lunch, a quiet signal you both agreed on eventually after the first three times he did that.
Maybe a part of you were curious to see what he'd say, the other part was telling you to just sit there and leave him be.
But, you stood up anyways. You walked towards the elevator, following his steps. His hand held onto the door, waiting for you to board the small confined space, and when you did, he pressed on the close button, "So?"
A soft breath escaped your lips, "So, what? You've flipped."
"It's unfair, and I agree," he pressed on the number '1' button, and the elevator descends, "I'm not ashamed to tell them that the reason I do that is for you. I'm not ashamed if I have to make an apology to every single employee here. I'm not ashamed if I have to personally arrange a meeting to apologize—"
"You made your point, sir."
"Satoru," he corrects, lightheartedly.
The elevator doors opened, and you were about to step out, "Where are you going?" You point out since he was the one to maneuver the disclosed space, he chuckled and quickly shut the door back before anyone can step on, "We're getting off when I'm done talking to you."
"Can we not do this?"
Satoru huffs, "I can't do it outside when you try to evade me all the time, this might be the only chance I got to profess my feelings for you," he states out clearly, pressing on the rooftop button, "and I need you to listen to me, don't cut me off, because we only have a little time."
You pulled your hand away from his grip, "Okay."
The door closed and he leans back on the wall, right next to you. His hands held onto the railing tightly, "I let the anger get the best of me, I apologize for that. You're important to me, I was angry because I worked hard on that client . . . and it's my fault that I couldn't suppress back my emotion. I should have thanked you for staying up all week, yet all I focused on was the fact that the document disappeared," he mumbled, watching the red number climb up as the elevator ascends, "and I truly am sorry of what came out of my mouth, you didn't screw us up, or me. I should have checked before jumping into conclusions. I won't do that again. It was unethical, and unprofessional to terminate you like that."
His words were sincere and his voice was laced with something you couldn't decipher at all . . . apologetic? Sadness? Guilt? Maybe all three at once. You stayed mute and he continued, "I should have known you'd never done that, (Name). I'm sorry."
The soft ding! to signify you've reached the top floor— the garden rooftop cleared your fogging mind, you got ready to leave him be for the second time, "Are you going to run away again?" He asked you, his fingers latched onto your wrist, pressing the number '1' once more time, "Please, hear me out."
You made one thing clear, "When this elevator reaches the first floor, I'm moving to the next elevator."
As the elevator began to descend, your words alarmed him slightly. There were so many things he wanted to say right now, "Okay," he nods, pointing his finger to the bright yellow emergency stop button. Your eyes widened, even before you could stop him, his index finger had already pushed in the button, "oops."
The elevator jolted and you instinctively held onto his hand, "Are you out of your mind?"
"Maybe," he replied, squeezing your hand.
The static noise from the microphone earned your attention, "Hello? Is anyone in there?" the person spoke, you let Satoru's hand go and stepped forward.
"Yes, please help, there are two of us."
All you got was reassurance. You didn't know how long this was going to take, Satoru sweetly pursed his lips shut, "I have so many things to say right now, you keep running, and I had no choice," his shoulders rose up into a shrug, "listen, they're going to take at least . . . ten minutes top to get this thing running again. And that's all the time I need, if you still think that you need to jump off this thing by the time we reached the first floor, I'll let you be."
You stepped to the furthest corner, "I seriously hate you."
"You didn't say that last time," he teases, stepping closer to you. He's practically crossing your line of comfort, "in case I haven't made it that obvious, I love you."
"You love me, but you accused me?"
"(Name)."
"Mr. Gojo," you parrot, looking at him.
"You're going to hold that against me all the time now?" He questioned, staring deeply into your eyes, "And honestly, I can't blame you at all. You're so stubbornly annoying that it makes me fall even more, don't you think it's unfair? Try acting cute and maybe it'll drive me off."
"What is wrong with you!?" You yelled, "Stop fucking with me!"
Satoru stepped away once he noticed how uncomfortable you seemed with him standing this close, "I'm sorry, I said that to tease you."
"You're so infuriating! It's annoying, just because you're my boss, you think you can do anything to me? What is this? Of course, I'm going to hold a grudge against you for saying that I screwed you and everyone up like that," you yelled at him angrily, "I know I fucked up, you pointed fingers at me like I do that on purpose. Did you know how hopeless I felt that time? You didn't even ask me if I was okay, you told me I'm fired the second I stepped my fucking foot inside your fucking office and now you want me to forget it like I owe you debt!"
Satoru was surprised at your outburst, your chest heaving, and the sight of angry tears brimming inside your eyes made him freeze on the spot, "Go on," he whispered.
"And the fact that I actually do fucking like you made me even more miserable, you act like you can turn this around just because you flipped things here and there. You think that fixes everything? You're so annoying, my God, rich people are so fucking obnoxious," you went on, pouring your feelings out loudly, hoping nobody was around to hear what you had to say to your boss, "screw you . . ."
Satoru swallowed the lump in his throat, the hurt in your voice made him stop and think. When the first tear dropped from your eye, his hand reached out to wipe it off— but you beat him to it, quickly brushing the droplet away, hiding your face by looking at the wall. His stomach sank when the tears doesn't stop, "I'm sorry, (Name)."
You sniffled. Annoyingly, now that you decide to pour things out, the dam wouldn't stop and came all the waterworks, "This is all your fault, I fucking hate you."
He pulled you into his embrace, his hand cupping the back of your head gently, "I'm sorry," he repeats, pressing his cheek to the top of your head, "I'm so sorry, (Name)," you bury your face into the crook of his neck begrudgingly.
"Shut up."
"Yes, ma'am," he jokes.
When the motor of the elevator began running, he pulls himself back slightly, taking a good look at your face, His thumbs swept against your cheeks, getting rid of your tears and any evidence of it. A small smile tugged the corner of his lips, "You're a pretty crier."
"You say that because you love me."
"Maybe . . ."
A pinch to his hip elicits a yelp from him and you smiled slyly. Satoru pressed his fingers onto your cheeks, and your lips puckered slightly, "So, what do you say?"
"What?" You muffled.
"You and me."
You shake your head, "No."
He blinked a few times, letting go of your cheeks. As the doors parted, you escaped the elevator— you stood outside, back facing him. Satoru looked bewildered at you, but he doesn't chase, because that's what you decided to do and he'll respect that.
What he doesn't expect was you slowly turning around, as the doors close slowly. His eyes widened at your moving lips, "You owe me a date tonight, then ask me again. Maybe I'll tell you a different answer."
you’ve been in love with your best friend gojo satoru ever since you were eighteen. spending your years watching him bloom in various relationships was not the way you imagined your life would go.
one day, you meet geto suguru, who makes you want to forget about your feelings for satoru. will you be able to do that? let go of your feelings and live your life?
contents. gojo x fem reader x geto! • my favourite trope — unrequited requited love • friends to lovers • gojo dating other people like a girl named yuki who is not canon yuki • a lot of angst and feelings like A LOT • eventual smut • change of povs • gojo and geto being down bad for reader • BUT GOJO IS ENDGAME • so more angst • hurt/comfort • fluff • ~20k words um yeah
YOU met satoru gojo at the university entrance exams, which feels, in retrospect, like the kind of meet-cute you’d roll your eyes at if it happened to anyone else. but it happened to you, so instead of rolling your eyes, you’ve spent the last four years cataloguing it like a sacred text.
you were both seventeen, freshly out of high school, standing in a crowded hallway that smelled of anxiety and floor wax. you’d found a spot against the wall, trying to make yourself small, because that was your strategy for most things back then— take up less space, don’t draw attention, survive. you were not a social butterfly. you were the opposite of that! you were, if anything, a socially anxious caterpillar who had resigned itself to a lifetime of hiding in the metaphorical dirt.
and then there was satoru.
you noticed him before he noticed you, because everyone noticed him. he was tall even then, all limbs and restless energy, with white hair that caught the fluorescent light. he was laughing at something a friend had said, head thrown back, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, and he looked so utterly at ease that you felt a small, familiar pang of something that might have been envy or might have been longing or might have just been the general ache of being a person who had never once felt that comfortable in their own skin.
you looked away since staring was rude, and also because looking at him felt a bit like looking at the sun.
you didn’t expect him to talk to you! you certainly didn’t expect him to weave through the crowd and come to a stop directly in front of you, tilting his head like you were a puzzle he was trying to solve.
“hey,” he said. “you look like you’re about to bolt.”
you blinked at him. “i’m not going to bolt.”
“good,” he said, and then he grinned, and it was the kind of grin that made you understand, instantly and completely, why people in myths were always getting into trouble because some beautiful god smiled at them. “because i don’t know anyone here and you look like you don’t either, so i’ve decided we’re friends now.”
you opened your mouth to say something— probably something articulate and witty, something that would prove you were worth befriending— but what came out was, “that’s not really how friendships work.”
“sure it is,” he said, and then he leaned against the wall next to you like he’d always been there, like you’d saved him a spot. “i’m satoru. tell me something interesting about yourself.”
“i’m not interesting,” you said, because you believed it.
he looked at you for a long moment, those ridiculous blue eyes— you’d seen them properly when he’d pushed his sunglasses up, and they were the kind of blue that made you think of shallow tropical water, bright and startling and almost too much— and then he said, very seriously, “that’s the most interesting thing anyone’s said to me all day.”
you didn’t know what to do with that. you still don’t, honestly.
but you told him your name, and he repeated it back like he was testing the weight of it on his tongue, and he nodded once, decisively, and said, “see? we’re friends.”
and that was it. that was the beginning.
the exams themselves were a blur of anxiety and cramped hands and the quiet terror of your entire future hinging on a few hours of multiple-choice questions. but between sections, satoru found you. every time. you’d emerge from the exam hall, dazed and already convinced you’d failed, and there he’d be, leaning against a railing or sitting on a bench, long legs stretched out, waving like you were old friends reuniting after years apart instead of two people who’d met that morning.
“how’d it go?” he’d ask, and when you’d mumble something noncommittal, he’d launch into a dramatic retelling of his own experience, complete with exaggerated hand gestures and sound effects, and by the end of it you’d be laughing so hard you’d forget, for a moment, that you were supposed to be terrified.
you both got in, of course you both got in. you’d worked yourself to the bone for it, spent countless nights hunched over textbooks with cold coffee growing stale at your elbow. satoru, you later learned, had barely studied. he was just like that. things came easy to him— the exam, the university, the effortless way he moved through the world like it had been designed with him in mind.
you should have resented him for it. sometimes you did, a little, in the quiet moments when you were up late finishing an assignment and you knew he’d finished his in half the time and was probably out with friends, laughing at something, existing in that bright, uncomplicated way of his.
but the resentment never lasted, because the thing about satoru was that he never made you feel lesser. he never acted like his ease was a mark of superiority. if anything, he seemed genuinely baffled when you struggled with things that came naturally to him, like it had never occurred to him that the world might be harder for other people.
and when you did struggle— when you stayed up too late and drank too much coffee and ended up crying in the library bathroom at 2 a.m. because you couldn’t make the words on the page make sense— he always showed up. you never had to ask. he’d text you at midnight with a picture of some ridiculous snack from the convenience store and a message that said “study break, meet me outside, don’t argue,” and you’d go, and you’d sit on the steps of the library eating stale onigiri while he talked about nothing and everything, and by the time you went back inside, the words would still be hard but the weight of them would feel lighter.
that was satoru. he made things lighter. that was his gift, the one he gave freely to everyone around him, and you were just lucky enough to be the one he gave it to most often.
the friendship solidified in those first few months, fast and fierce and seemingly unshakable. you shared a dorm building your first year, then an apartment your second, because it just made sense— you were already together all the time anyway, and satoru had looked at you with those too-blue eyes and said “we should live together” like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and you’d said yes before you could talk yourself out of it.
and living with satoru was… an education.
you learned that he was messy in a chaotic, endearing way— clothes draped over chairs, empty snack wrappers that he swore he’d throw away “in a minute,” a general refusal to do dishes until the pile in the sink reached a height that could reasonably be called architectural. you learned that he sang in the shower, intentionally badly and loudly, usually whatever pop song was currently stuck in his head, and that he would inevitably emerge with his hair dripping water everywhere and demand that you tell him if he sounded good (he didn’t, but you always said he did).
you learned that he had nightmares sometimes, that he would wake up in the dark and knock on your door with a sheepish expression, and you’d let him in without a word and he’d curl up on the end of your bed like an overgrown cat and fall back asleep to the sound of your breathing.
you learned that he was softer than he let on. that the arrogance, the brash confidence, the way he flirted with everyone and everything— it was all a layer, a performance, a suit of armor he’d put on so long ago he’d forgotten how to take it off. but with you, sometimes, the armor slipped. with you, he was just satoru, the boy who couldn’t cook to save his life and cried at sad movies and had a laugh that made your chest ache in a way you refused to examine too closely.
and you learned, too, that you were falling in love with him.
there was no lightning strike, no moment of cinematic clarity. it was slow, insidious, the way water wears down stone. it was the way he’d throw an arm around your shoulders when you walked to class, his hand warm and heavy and casual. it was the way he’d save you the last piece of whatever he was eating, even when you’d said you didn’t want any. it was the way he said your name, the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention and you’d catch him and he’d call you a dumbass.
it was the night you turned eighteen, two months into your first semester, when he’d bought a cheap cake from the grocery store and you’d eaten it on the roof of your dorm building, and he’d looked at you with frosting on his lip and said “i’m glad it’s you” like it was the simplest truth in the world, and your heart had made a decision without consulting you.
oh, you thought. oh, no.
and then you’d laughed and shoved him and said “glad it’s me what?” and he’d grinned and said “glad it’s you i’m eating cake with on a roof, obviously, what else would i mean,” and the moment passed, and you let it pass, because what else were you supposed to do?
however, another the thing about falling in love with satoru gojo was that it was also, inevitably, watching him fall in and out of love with other people.
he bloomed in relationships the way he bloomed in everything— effortlessly, brilliantly, with a kind of careless abundance that made you wonder if he even realized how much light he was giving off.
his first serious girlfriend came at the end of freshman year, a girl from the art department with dark hair and a laugh like wind chimes, and you watched him transform from your chaotic, messy best friend into someone who remembered to do the dishes and set alarms and text back within a reasonable timeframe.
you watched him hold her hand in the quad, watched him buy her coffee and carry her books and look at her like she’d hung the moon, and you told yourself that the ache in your chest was just jealousy of the relationship itself, not of her specifically. you told yourself that anyone would be jealous, watching someone they cared about pour all their attention into someone else. you told yourself it was normal to feel this way.
you believed it, mostly.
the breakup came three months later, sudden and inexplicable, at least from the outside. satoru showed up at your apartment at midnight with red-rimmed eyes and a bottle of something cheap and strong, and you let him in and sat on the bathroom floor with him while he cried and you held his hand and didn’t ask what happened.
“i don’t know why i do it,” he said, eventually, voice hoarse. “i don’t know why i can’t just— stay.”
you didn’t have an answer for him. you weren’t sure he wanted one. so you just sat there, the cold tile seeping through your jeans, and let him lean his weight against your shoulder, and thought about how unfair it was that he could break someone’s heart and still be the one you wanted to hold.
the pattern repeated. sophomore year, there was a boy from the literature department, sharp-witted and sarcastic, who made satoru laugh in a way you’d never heard before. junior year, a girl from the business school, ambitious and polished, who matched him stride for stride. there were others, shorter ones, ones that barely lasted a month before satoru got restless, got distracted, got that faraway look in his eyes that you’d learned to recognize as the beginning of the end.
through all of it, you were there, you were always there. you were the constant, the steady ground beneath the pendulum of his affections, and you’d trained yourself to be grateful for that. you were his best friend. you were the one he came home to, the one he called at 2 a.m., the one who knew about the nightmares and the bad days and the moments when the armor felt too heavy to wear. it was enough. you made it enough.
by the time senior year rolled around, you’d gotten very good at being enough. you’d gotten very good at swallowing down the parts of yourself that wanted more, at folding your feelings into neat, manageable shapes and tucking them away where they couldn’t cause trouble. you’d gotten very good at watching satoru fall into something that looked like love and climb back out of it, dusting himself off, leaving behind a trail of bewildered, heartbroken people who had all made the same mistake: thinking they could be the one who finally made him stay.
you envied them as much as you pitied them. you envied them because they’d had something you couldn’t even let yourself want, something real and tangible and reciprocated, even if only for a little while. you pitied them because you knew what it felt like to love satoru and not be loved back in the way you needed, and you wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
you were twenty-one now, in the last year of university, and you’d been in love with your best friend for three years, two months, and fourteen days. you knew the exact number because you’d stopped counting somewhere around the two-year mark and then, in a moment of weakness, counted backwards from there. you were a little pathetic about it. you’d made peace with that.
so when you walked into your advanced sociology seminar on a gray tuesday afternoon and saw a boy you’d never seen before sitting in the seat you usually took, you didn’t think much of it. you just said “oh, sorry, that’s my usual spot,” and he looked up, and you stopped.
he was pretty. that was your first thought, immediate and involuntary. not pretty in the way satoru was pretty— all sharp angles and blinding light and the kind of beauty that demanded attention. this was a different kind of pretty, more gentle. dark hair pulled back from his face, dark eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled, a calm, steady presence that felt, somehow, like being in the shade after a long time in the sun.
“my apologies,” he said. his voice was low and warm. “i didn’t realize the seats were claimed.”
“you’re not in trouble,” you said, because you realized you’d been staring and that was probably weird. “i can sit somewhere else.”
“don’t,” he said, and then he moved, sliding his bag off the chair next to him. “sit here. keep me company. i don’t know anyone in this class.”
you hesitated for half a second— just long enough for the memory of another boy in another hallway to flicker through your mind— and then you sat.
“i’m suguru,” he said, extending a hand. “geto suguru.”
you gave him your name, and his smile widened just slightly, like he was pleased with it. “nice to meet you,” he said. “tell me something interesting about yourself.”
you laughed, because it was almost word-for-word what satoru had said to you four years ago, and because it was such a ridiculous coincidence that it felt like the universe was playing a joke on you.
“what’s funny?” suguru asked, and there was no offense in his voice, just curiosity.
“nothing,” you said. “just— someone else asked me that once. the first time we met.”
“ah,” he said, with something in his expression that you couldn’t quite read. “and what did you tell them?”
“that i wasn’t interesting,” you said, and then, because you’d been doing a lot of work on being less self-deprecating in your final year, you added, “which isn’t true. i just didn’t know it yet.”
suguru looked at you for a moment, those dark eyes steady and thoughtful, and said, “i suspect you’re more interesting than you give yourself credit for.”
you didn’t know what to do with that. it was such a simple thing to say, such a small kindness, but it landed somewhere soft and unprotected in your chest, and you felt something shift.
you weren’t sure what it was, you weren’t sure you wanted to know, so you just smiled, and pulled out your notebook, and tried very hard to ignore the glances he kept throwing you, thinking he was discreet.
that night, you came home to find satoru sprawled across the couch, scrolling through his phone, one foot hanging off the edge. he looked up when you walked in, and his face did that thing it always did when he saw you— brightened, softened.
“you’re late,” he said. “i was getting lonely. i almost had to entertain myself.”
“the horror,” you said, dropping your bag by the door. “how did you survive?”
he grinned that easy grin of his, and sat up to make room for you. “barely. tell me about your day. anything interesting happen?”
you thought about suguru. the warmth of his voice, the way he’d said your name, the small, unexpected sweetness of him telling you that you were interesting. about his gorgeous hair and his gorgeous eyes and his open smile. about whispered answers to his curious questions about the class ans quiet snickers.
“no,” you said, because it was easier than explaining something you didn’t fully understand yourself. “same old.”
satoru hummed, accepting this without question, and you sat down next to him and let him pull you into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world, and you tried to ignore the way your heart was beating against your ribs, the way it always did when he was this close.
you were his best friend. you were the one he came home to.
it was enough. it had to be enough.
but something had shifted today, something small and maybe insignificant, and you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that you were standing at the edge of something. something that might change everything.
you didn’t know it yet, but satoru was about to feel the shift too. he just didn’t know it yet, either.
.
.
.
the thing about advanced sociology was that you’d signed up for it because you needed the credit, not because you had any particular passion for sociological theory. you’d expected to spend your tuesdays and thursdays sitting in the back of the lecture hall, taking notes you’d never look at again, counting down the minutes until you could leave. just like always. that was the plan.
and then suguru sat down next to you, and the plan went quietly out the window.
a murmured observation about the professor’s lecture style, a shared eyeroll when someone in the front row asked a question that had already been answered twice. little things, the kind of things you’d do with any classmate you happened to sit next to. but then he started saving you a seat, and you started arriving a few minutes early so you could talk before the lecture started, and somewhere along the way, without you quite noticing it, advanced sociology became the class you looked forward to all week.
suguru was easy to talk to. that was the first thing you noticed, the thing that kept surprising you every time it happened. conversation with him wasn’t work. you didn’t have to perform, didn’t have to be clever or super interesting or anything other than yourself. he asked questions and actually listened to the answers. he remembered things you’d told him— small things, things you’d even forgotten you’d said— and brought them up later, casually, like it was normal to pay that much attention to another person.
“how did your presentation go?” he asked one thursday, sliding into the seat next to you. “the one you were stressed about.”
you blinked at him. you’d mentioned that presentation exactly once, in passing, a week and a half ago. “it went fine. how did you remember that?”
he shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “you seemed nervous about it. i was curious.” and that was it, just a quiet, consistent attention that made you feel, for the first time in a long time, like someone was actually seeing you.
you found yourself telling him things; not the things you’d tucked away in the deepest parts of yourself, but the small, everyday things that made up the shape of your life. your favorite coffee order. the way you organized your notes by color. the fact that you’d once cried over a commercial about a dog and hadn’t lived it down since. he listened to all of it with the same patient, attentive expression, like each detail was something precious you’d chosen to share with him.
“you’re very easy to talk to,” you told him one afternoon, the words slipping out before you could stop them. you’d been walking out of class together, the late autumn sunlight slanting through the windows, and something about the way it caught in his hair had made you lose your filter.
he looked at you, and his expression did something soft and complicated. “so are you,” he said. “easier than most people.”
you were not, historically, easy to talk to. you were the person who stood at the edge of parties, who let satoru do all the social heavy lifting, who had spent most of her teenage years convinced that conversation was a skill she’d simply never been taught. but with suguru, it was different. with suguru, the words came easily, naturally, like they’d been there all along, waiting for someone to draw them out.
he was a mystery to you, that was the other thing. for all his openness, for all the way he seemed to lay himself bare in conversation, there was something about suguru that you couldn’t quite pin down. he talked about his childhood in vague terms, his family a blur of affectionate distance. he mentioned friends from high school but never named them. he was present, fully and completely, in every conversation you had, but there was a stillness to him, a sense that there were depths you hadn’t yet touched.
you wanted to touch them. that was the realization that crept up on you slowly, over weeks of shared lectures and coffee afterwards and once, memorably, a two-hour conversation in the library that had started with a question about marxist theory and somehow ended with both of you laughing so hard a librarian had shushed you.
you wanted to know him, all of him. the parts he kept tucked away, the parts he didn’t show to people he’d only known for a few weeks. you wanted to be someone he showed those parts to.
and the way he looked at you— god, the way he looked at you, like you were something fascinating and like he was cataloguing you, memorizing you, storing away every detail for later. it was the kind of attention that should have been overwhelming, that would have been overwhelming from anyone else, but from suguru it just felt… warm and steady, like being wrapped in a blanket on a cold day.
you found yourself preening under it. you couldn’t help it; you’d catch yourself sitting up a little straighter when he walked into the room, speaking a little more carefully, trying to be the version of yourself that seemed to make him smile. and then you’d notice what you were doing and feel a flush of embarrassment, because you were not the kind of person who needed validation, who bloomed under attention, who—
who was currently trying very hard not to admit that she was developing a crush on a boy she’d known for less than a month.
it felt pathetic, honestly. you were twenty-one years old. you’d spent the last three years quietly, steadfastly in love with your best friend, and now here you were, getting butterflies over a guy who’d said you were easy to talk to. it wasn’t even anything big, it was the bare minimum. it was nothing. it was… well.
it wasn’t nothing. you knew it wasn’t nothing. because suguru wasn’t just a guy. he was thoughtful in a way that felt intentional, present in a way that felt rare. he didn’t look at you like you were something to be conquered or figured out or fit neatly into a box. he looked at you like he was genuinely, simply, glad to be in your presence.
so when you caught yourself thinking, on the walk home from class one evening, that you might actually like suguru— like like him, the way you’d liked satoru in the beginning, before it had calcified into something deeper and more painful— you didn’t immediately shut it down. you let it sit there, in the quiet space of your mind, and you examined it.
you liked suguru. you liked the way he laughed, low and warm, like he was letting you in on a secret. you liked the way he tilted his head when he was thinking, the way his hair fell across his face. you liked the way he remembered things you’d told him, the way he asked questions that made you feel like your answers mattered. you liked the way he looked at you, like you were interesting, like you were worth paying attention to.
you liked him. it was a small, tentative thing, still fragile, still new. nothing like the consuming, years-long ache you carried for satoru. but it was there, and it was real, and for the first time in a very long time, you let yourself have it.
you told satoru about him on a friday night, the two of you sprawled across your apartment’s worn couch with takeout containers balanced on your knees. it was your usual routine— friday nights were yours, had been since freshman year, a sacred block of time that neither of you scheduled over with other plans. you watched bad movies and ate food that was bad for you and talked about nothing until the early hours of the morning.
it was the perfect time to mention suguru. casual, offhand, nothing that would make it into a bigger deal than it was.
“there’s this guy in my sociology class,” you said, poking at your noodles with your chopsticks. “geto suguru. he’s… nice.”
satoru’s attention sharpened. you saw it happen in real time— the way his posture shifted, the way his gaze flicked to your face and stayed there.
“nice,” he repeated, like he was testing the word. “what kind of nice?”
“just nice,” you said, shrugging. “he’s easy to talk to. we’ve been sitting together in class.”
“sitting together,” satoru said. he’d put his food down. his phone was face-down on the couch cushion next to him. his entire focus was on you in that particular way he had, the one that made you feel like you were the only person in the room. “like, as friends? or…”
“as friends,” you said, and then, because you weren’t sure if that was entirely true anymore, you added, “i don’t know. i’m not sure yet.”
there was a beat of silence. it was a strange silence, not the comfortable kind you were used to, but something taut and humming underneath.
“huh,” satoru said. his voice was light, but there was something in his expression you couldn’t quite read. “suguru. that’s a weird name.”
“it’s not weird,” you said, a little defensive. “it’s just not common.”
“sure,” he said, and then he grinned, and the strange tension in the room seemed to break. “so you’re telling me you’ve got a secret boyfriend you’ve been hiding from me? i’m wounded. truly. i thought we told each other everything.”
“he’s not my boyfriend,” you said, laughing despite yourself. “i just met him. we’ve only talked in class.”
“uh huh,” satoru said. he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, chin in his hands, like you were about to tell him the most interesting story he’d ever heard. “tell me everything. what does he look like? is he tall? is he funny? is he smarter than me? he’s not smarter than me, right? that’s not allowed.”
you rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. “he’s… tall. about your height, i guess? dark hair, purplish eyes. he’s very— calm.”
“calm,” satoru repeated. “so he’s boring.”
“he’s not boring,” you said. and you must have said it with more force than you intended, because satoru’s eyebrows rose. “he’s just… different.”
“different how?”
“i don’t know,” you said, frustrated now. “he listens. he remembers things. he makes me feel like—” you stopped, because you’d been about to say like i matter, and that felt too honest, too raw, too much to say out loud to the person you’d been quietly in love with for years.
satoru was looking at you. his expression was strange— something flickering behind his eyes that you’d never seen before. if you didn’t know better, you’d almost call it jealousy.
“makes you feel like what?” he asked, his voice quieter, less teasing.
“like i’m interesting,” you finished. it was the truth, just not the whole truth. “like what i say matters.”
satoru was quiet for a long moment. he leaned back against the couch, a movement that seemed deliberate, careful, like he was putting distance between you without actually moving.
“well,” he said, his voice was back to its usual brightness, but there was something forced about it now. “good for you. about time someone else recognized how great you are.”
you laughed. that was what you did when things felt strange— you laughed, you deflected, you let the moment pass. “someone else? you barely recognize how great i am.”
“i recognize it constantly!” he said. he was grinning again, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “i’m your biggest fan. i’ve got the t-shirt and everything.”
“you do not have a t-shirt.”
“i’ll make one,” he said. “‘world’s best best friend’s biggest fan.’ it’ll be a hit.”
you threw a napkin at him and he caught it out of the air with that stupid reflexes he had, and the moment broke. you talked about other things after that— a movie satoru wanted to see, a professor who’d been giving him a hard time, the usual rhythm of your lives— but there was something underneath it all that lingered in the spaces between your words.
you told yourself you were imagining it. you told yourself that satoru was just surprised, that he’d get used to the idea, that it didn’t mean anything. but you couldn’t quite shake the way he’d looked at you. the way his voice had gone quiet. the way, for just a moment, he’d seemed almost… unsettled.
the double date suggestion came a week later, and it caught you so completely off guard that you nearly dropped your coffee.
you’d been telling satoru about your day when he’d interrupted you with the casual air of someone suggesting they order pizza.
“oh, by the way,” he said, scrolling through his phone, “you should bring your sociology guy to that new ramen place with me and yuki this weekend.”
you stared at him. “what?”
“a double date,” he said, like it was obvious. “you and suguru, me and yuki. it’ll be fun.”
yuki. right. you’d almost forgotten about yuki. she was the latest in a line of girls satoru had been seeing— you’d met her briefly, once, at a party. tall, confident, the kind of girl who looked like she’d never been unsure of herself in her entire life. she’d been with satoru for about three weeks now, which meant they were probably in the sweet spot where everything was still easy and fun, before the restlessness started to creep in.
“i don’t—” you started, but you didn’t know what you wanted to say. you didn’t know why satoru was suggesting this, why he was being so cheerful about it, why he’d gone from asking pointed questions about suguru to enthusiastically planning group outings.
“come on,” satoru said, he was grinning now, that big, blinding grin that usually meant he was about to get his way. “you’ve been talking about this guy for weeks. i want to meet him. see if he’s good enough for my best friend.”
“i haven’t been talking about him for weeks,” you said, because you hadn’t. you’d mentioned him exactly once. satoru had been the one to bring him up since then, dropping his name into conversations with a kind of forced casualness that you’d been trying not to analyze.
“details,” satoru said, waving a hand. “so? saturday? i’ll text you the time.”
you opened your mouth to say no. you had a hundred reasons to say no— you weren’t even sure if he was interested in you like that, the whole thing felt like it was moving too fast. but then you thought about suguru’s smile, the way he looked at you and the word that came out of your mouth was not no.
“okay,” you said. “i’ll ask him.”
satoru’s grin didn’t waver, but in his eyes was a flicker of something that made your stomach tighten. and then it was gone, and he was talking about the ramen place, about the best thing on the menu, about how yuki had been wanting to try it for weeks, and you let the conversation wash over you, your mind already turning to how you were going to ask suguru without making it weird.
you sent him a text that night, after you’d spent an embarrassingly long time typing and deleting and retyping the message.
you: hey, this is random, but my friend and his girlfriend are going to this ramen place on saturday and he suggested we make it a double date? no pressure if you’re not interested, just thought i’d ask
his reply came less than a minute later.
i’d love to. what time?
you stared at your phone for a long moment, a smile spreading across your face before you could stop it.
you told yourself it was just a casual outing, two friends bringing their respective people, no different from any other social engagement.
but your heart was beating a little faster, and your hands were a little warmer, and when you texted satoru back to confirm, you couldn’t quite ignore the small, hopeful part of you that wondered what it might feel like to have someone look at you the way satoru looked at the girls he dated.
and if you’d been paying closer attention, you might have noticed that satoru took a little too long to reply. you might have noticed that his “great! see you saturday :)” came after a delay that wasn’t like him, that he usually texted back instantly, that he was almost always on his phone.
but you didn’t notice. you were too busy thinking about suguru, about saturday, about the strange, unfamiliar feeling of being looked at and liking it.
so you missed it. you missed the way satoru sat in the dark of your shared apartment for a long time after you’d gone to bed, phone in his hand, face unreadable.
.
.
.
the days leading up to saturday passed in a strange, suspended kind of anticipation. you found yourself thinking about the double date more than you wanted to admit, turning it over in your mind like a smooth stone, examining it from different angles. and somewhere in the process of that examination, you made a quiet, almost subconscious realization: suguru had become a distraction. a welcome one, a needed one, but a distraction nonetheless.
it wasn’t that you’d stopped loving satoru. you didn’t think that was something you could turn off, not after three years of letting it settle into your bones like marrow. but for the first time in a very long time, you weren’t thinking about him constantly. the ache was still there, a low, familiar thrum beneath your ribs, but it had been joined by something else— something lighter, something that didn’t hurt when you held it.
when you were with suguru, you weren’t waiting. that was the thing. with satoru, you were always waiting— waiting for him to notice, waiting for him to want you the way you wanted him, waiting for the moment when the restlessness that drove him from relationship to relationship would finally land on you and stay. you’d been waiting for three years, and you’d gotten very good at it, but you hadn’t realized how exhausting it was until you stopped.
with suguru, there was no waiting. he was just… there. he was present and attentive and when you talked, he listened. when you laughed, he smiled like he’d been waiting to hear it. there was no performance, no guessing games, no wondering if the thing you felt was being reciprocated or if you were just reading too much into casual kindness.
it was so simple and you hadn’t realized how much you needed simple.
so by the time saturday rolled around, you found yourself almost wishing it was just a date with suguru. just the two of you, no audience, no performance. you wanted to see what that would be like— to sit across from him in a quiet restaurant, to talk without the pressure of other people watching, to let yourself lean into the warmth that bloomed in your chest every time he looked at you.
but then you rounded the corner and saw satoru waiting outside the ramen place, and your thoughts scattered like startled birds.
he looked good. he always looked good, but tonight there was something deliberate about it—the way his hair fell, the cut of his jacket, the casual confidence in the way he leaned against the wall. yuki was tucked under his arm, her hand in his, and they made a striking picture, the two of them. tall and beautiful and effortless, the kind of couple that made strangers glance twice as they walked by.
you felt it before you could stop it— the familiar twist of jealousy, sharp and unwelcome, settling in your stomach. it wasn’t the deep, aching kind you’d gotten used to over the years. it was smaller, meaner, a flash of something that felt almost like resentment. because there he was, with another girl, looking at her like she was something special, and you were standing here with your own maybe-something, trying not to let him see that it still stung.
you hated that it still stung. you hated that you’d spent all week thinking about suguru, that you’d almost convinced yourself you were moving on, and one look at satoru with his hand wrapped around someone else’s was enough to undo it.
and then suguru’s hand was at the small of your back, warm and steady, and the jealousy flickered and died.
“you okay?” he asked quietly, close enough that only you could hear.
you nodded, forcing a smile. “yeah. just a bit nervous.”
his hand lingered for a moment longer than necessary, a quiet reassurance. when he let it drop, the warmth of it stayed.
“hey!” satoru called out, spotting you. his face split into that familiar grin, bright and disarming, and he disentangled himself from yuki to walk toward you. “there you are. we were starting to think you’d stood us up.”
“we’re five minutes early,” you said, grateful that your voice came out steady.
“still,” satoru said, and then his gaze slid to suguru, and something shifted in his expression. it was subtle— a tightening around his eyes, a slight curve to his smile that wasn’t quite as warm as it had been a moment before. “so this is the famous geto suguru.”
“gojo satoru,” suguru said, his voice calm, pleasant, with a slight edge. a note of assessment that just appeared. “i’ve heard a lot about you.”
“all good things, i hope,” satoru said, not hiding the challenge in the way he said it, a testing of waters.
“all interesting things,” suguru replied. his smile didn’t waver.
the air between them crackled. you felt it, a sudden tension that hadn’t been there before, and you realized with a small jolt that you were watching two people size each other up. it was subtle, almost imperceptible if you didn’t know what to look for, but you knew satoru. you knew the way he stood when he was establishing dominance, the way his shoulders squared, the way his gaze went just a fraction sharper. and suguru— suguru was meeting him beat for beat, not backing down, not rising to the bait, just standing there with that quiet, unshakeable calm that made you feel like you were in the presence of something immovable.
yuki cleared her throat. “should we go in? i’m starving.”
the tension broke. satoru laughed, easy and bright, and threw an arm around yuki’s shoulders. “right, right. food first. let’s go.”
he led the way inside, yuki at his side, and you fell into step beside suguru. his hand found your back again, just briefly, a quick touch that said i’m here, and you felt something unclench in your chest.
the ramen place was small and warm, the kind of hole-in-the-wall that served the best food and didn’t care about aesthetics. you were seated at a table by the window, a booth that forced you and suguru to sit on one side and satoru and yuki on the other. the proximity was good, you told yourself. it meant you could focus on suguru, on the menu, on anything other than the way satoru’s knee was pressed against yuki’s under the table.
the first few minutes were easy. everyone ordered, made small talk about the menu, debated the merits of tonkotsu versus shoyu. yuki asked suguru about his major— he was studying literature, which, when you found out, surprised you and also didn’t. he had the vibes of someone who spent a lot of time with books, the kind of person who read slowly and remembered everything.
“literature,” satoru said, and there was something in his voice that made you look up. “so you’re one of those people who thinks they can see into the human condition by reading about it.”
suguru’s eyebrows rose slightly. “i think literature is one way of understanding people, yes. do you disagree?”
“i think understanding people is about being with them,” satoru said. “not reading about them. you can’t learn how to be in a relationship from a book.”
“that’s not really what literature is for,” suguru said, his voice still calm, but you could hear the undercurrent now. “it’s not a manual. it’s a mirror.”
“a mirror,” satoru repeated. he smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “that’s very poetic.”
“is that a bad thing?”
you glanced at yuki. she was watching the exchange with an expression that looked a lot like the one you were trying to hide— a kind of bemused discomfort, the look of someone who’d stumbled into a conversation they hadn’t signed up for.
“so,” you said, too brightly, “yuki, how did you and satoru meet?”
it was a clumsy deflection, but it worked. you actually knew the story yuki launched into— a party, a mutual friend, the usual— but at least the tension at the table eased. satoru played along, adding details, making her laugh, being the charming, easy version of himself that everyone loved. but you caught him glancing at suguru when he thought no one was looking, and you caught suguru doing the same, and the tension was just there, simmering.
the ramen came, and for a while, conversation was suspended in favor of food. yours was good— rich, savory, exactly what you needed— but you found yourself eating without tasting it, too aware of the dynamics at the table. satoru was being more attentive to yuki than you’d ever seen him be with anyone, draping his arm over the back of her seat, leaning in to murmur things in her ear, touching her wrist, her hand, her shoulder. it was performative, you realized. not the affection itself, maybe, but the display of it. like he was putting on a show.
and suguru, for his part, was doing something similar. not as overtly, not with the same flashy charm, but you could feel it in the way he angled his body toward you, the way he made sure your water glass was full, the way he asked you questions and listened to your answers with a focus that felt pointed, like he was demonstrating something, as if he was saying, without words, this is how you treat someone.
you didn’t know how to feel about it. flattered, maybe. or confused. or like you were caught in the middle of something you didn’t fully understand.
“so, suguru,” satoru said, setting down his chopsticks. “what do you do for fun? besides reading, i mean.”
suguru considered the question. “i cook. i hike. i spend time with people i care about.”
“cooking,” satoru said. “impressive. i can barely make toast without setting off the fire alarm.”
“you set off the fire alarm making toast?” yuki asked, chuckling.
“it was a very aggressive toaster,” satoru said, and everyone laughed, including you, because you’d been there for that incident and it was funny. but satoru’s gaze flicked to you when you laughed, his expression turning more pleased. then it moved to suguru, watching to see how he reacted.
suguru was smiling, however it was a little dismissive. “aggressive toasters are the worst,” he said mildly.
the conversation continued like that, a strange dance of words and silences. every time satoru made a joke, suguru responded with quiet, understated humor. every time suguru said something thoughtful or humorous, satoru found a way to make it sound pretentious. they were circling each other, testing weaknesses, looking for openings. and you and yuki were caught in the middle, exchanging glances across the table that said, more clearly than words, what is happening right now?
you almost laughed. you didn’t, because that would have been weird, but you almost did.
by the time the meal was over, you were exhausted. the food had been good, but the undercurrent of competition had drained you in a way you hadn’t expected. you found yourself craving quiet, craving the simple ease of being alone with suguru, without the strange, charged presence of satoru watching every interaction.
outside the restaurant, the evening air was cool and sharp. satoru had his arm around yuki again, pulling her close against the chill. “that was fun,” he said. he sounded like he meant it. “we should do it again.”
“maybe,” you said, noncommittal. you weren’t doing it again.
satoru’s gaze moved between you and suguru, and something flickered in his expression— a quick, unreadable thing that was gone before you could identify it. “you two heading home?”
“we might walk around a bit,” suguru said, and his hand found yours. you felt your face heat up, eyes immediately jumping up to see satoru’s reaction. “it’s a nice night.”
satoru looked at your joined hands just for a second, long enough for you to see something tighten in his jaw before he smiled. “sure. have fun. don’t stay out too late.”
“we won’t,” you said sheepishly. then, because you didn’t know what else to do, you said goodbye to yuki, who gave you a small, knowing smile that made you feel seen in a way you weren’t sure you liked.
soon they were gone, walking down the street together, satoru’s arm still around her, his head bent toward hers like they were sharing secrets. you watched them for a moment. the jealousy was there again, but it was distant now. muted, like hearing music from another room.
suguru’s thumb brushed across your knuckles. “you okay?”
you turned to look at him. in the soft glow of the streetlights, he looked softer somehow, the sharp edges of the dinner conversation smoothed away. he was looking at you with that expression you’d come to recognize— patient, attentive.
“yeah,” you meant it. “let’s walk.”
you found a quiet street a few blocks away, lined with old trees and closed shops, the kind of place that felt removed from the rest of the city. you walked in silence for a while, your hand still in suguru’s, and it was nice. easy. the tension of the evening slowly draining away with each step.
“so,” suguru said eventually. the careful quality to his voice made you tense a little, like he was choosing his words with precision. “satoru.”
you braced yourself. “what about him?”
“he’s…” suguru paused. you could see him searching for the right word. “intense.”
you laughed. that was one way to put it. “yeah. he can be.”
“you’ve been friends for a while?”
“since the entrance exams,” you said. “we’ve lived together for most of it.”
suguru nodded slowly. “he’s very… protective of you.”
you frowned. “what do you mean?”
“the way he looked at me tonight,” suguru said. “like he was evaluating me. deciding if i was good enough.” he glanced at you, a small smile playing at his lips. “it was a little intimidating, honestly.”
“you didn’t seem intimidated.”
“i’m good at hiding it.”
you didn’t believe that for a second, but you appreciated the attempt at humility. “satoru’s just like that. he’s always been protective. it doesn’t mean anything.”
suguru was quiet for a moment, before he nudged you, voicing gently, “doesn’t it?”
you stopped walking. “uh. what’s that supposed to mean?”
he stopped too, turning to face you. in the dim light, his expression was hard to read, but his voice was soft when he spoke. “i’m not trying to pry. i just… i notice things. the way you looked at him tonight. the way he looked at you.”
your heart was beating faster now, a nervous flutter in your chest. “i don’t know what you mean.”
suguru’s gaze was steady, kind, but the perceptiveness of it made you feel like you couldn’t hide.
“you don’t have to tell me anything,” he said. “i just want you to know that i see you. all of you. and i’m not going anywhere.”
you stood there, in the middle of a quiet street, with his hand warm in yours, and you felt something crack open in your chest. something you’d been holding closed for a very long time.
“it’s complicated,” you said finally. your voice came out smaller than you intended.
“it usually is,” suguru said, not pushing. he just waited, patient as always, giving you the space to decide what you wanted to share.
you took a breath. “i’ve known him for four years. he’s my best friend. and for three of those years, i’ve been…” you stopped, the words sticking in your throat. you’d never said it out loud. not to anyone. not even to yourself, really, not in a way that felt real.
suguru’s hand tightened around yours. “you’ve been in love with him.”
“yeah,” you said. “yeah, i have.”
suguru was looking at you with something that might have been understanding, or maybe sadness, or maybe something else entirely.
“and now?” he asked.
you thought about it. about the years of waiting, of watching, of wanting. about the way satoru’s hand had looked wrapped around yuki’s. about the strange, competitive energy that had filled the restaurant tonight. about the way suguru had been there, steady and warm, through all of it.
“i don’t know,” you said honestly. “i’m trying to figure it out.”
suguru nodded slowly. then he lifted your joined hands, pressed a kiss to your knuckles and let them fall back to your side.
“that’s okay,” he said. “take your time. i’m not going anywhere.”
you looked at him, at the quiet sincerity in his face, and you saw a door that had been cracked open, letting in a little light.
“thank you,” you meant it more than you’d meant anything in a long time.
he smiled.
“come on,” he said, tugging you gently back into motion. “let’s finish our walk. there’s a good spot for watching the city lights a few blocks up. i’ll show you.”
you let him pull you forward, your hand in his, the night air cool on your face. briefly, you let yourself imagine a future that didn’t revolve around waiting for satoru gojo to love you back.
.
.
.
the thing about dating suguru was that it was good. it was so, so good, and that was what made it hard.
you kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. for the moment when the easy warmth of his attention would cool, when the quiet steadiness of his presence would reveal itself as something else— boredom, maybe, or impatience, or the same restless hunger for novelty that you’d grown used to from the other people in your life.
but the shoe never dropped. suguru was exactly who he seemed to be: attentive, thoughtful, present. when he said he wanted to spend time with you, he meant it. when he looked at you like you were the only person in the room, he kept looking, even when you weren’t saying anything interesting, even when you were just sitting together in comfortable silence, even when you were so deep in your own head that you’d forgotten he was there.
it was good. it was so, so good. and yet.
the thought lingered in the back of your mind, a low hum you couldn’t quite tune out. suguru knows. suguru knows you’re in love with your best friend. you’d told him that night, standing on a quiet street with his hand wrapped around yours, and he’d taken it with that same unshakeable calm he brought to everything. no judgment, no jealousy— at least, none that he showed. just a quiet understanding that had made you feel seen in a way that was both a relief and a terror.
because if suguru had noticed, if he’d looked at you for a few weeks and seen the shape of the thing you’d been carrying for three years, then who else had noticed? had it been that obvious all along? had you been walking around with your heart written on your sleeve, broadcasting your feelings to anyone who cared to look?
and the worst thought, the one that crept in at night when you were trying to fall asleep, the one that made your stomach clench and your breath catch: does satoru know?
you didn’t think so. you couldn’t think so. because if satoru knew, surely he would have said something. surely he would have looked at you differently, treated you differently, put distance between you or, worse, pulled you closer in that careless, thoughtless way he had, the way that made everything harder. he would have done something. the fact that he hadn’t— that he still threw his arm around your shoulders, still sprawled across the couch with his feet in your lap, still looked at you with that easy, uncomplicated affection that had been the same since you were seventeen— meant he didn’t know. he couldn’t know.
you held onto that. you had to.
however, another thing about dating suguru was that it changed the shape of your life in ways you hadn’t anticipated. the change that happened in the margins, in the spaces between things, so gradual that you almost didn’t notice it happening until one day you looked up and realized the landscape had shifted.
you spent less time at the apartment, that was the biggest thing. not because you were avoiding satoru— you told yourself you weren’t avoiding him, that you were just busy, that it was natural to spend more time with the person you were dating— but the math was simple.
there were only so many hours in a day and more and more of them were filling up with suguru. coffee in the mornings, walks between classes, long evenings that started with dinner and somehow stretched into midnight without either of you noticing.
he’d introduced you to his favorite used bookstore and you’d lost an entire saturday there, sitting on the floor between the stacks, reading passages aloud to each other until your voices went hoarse. you’d cooked together— or rather, he’d cooked and you’d sat on the counter and watched, stealing vegetables from the cutting board while he pretended to be annoyed. you’d hiked the trails behind the university, the ones you’d always meant to explore but never had, and he’d pointed out birds and plants and told you their names like he was introducing you to old friends.
it was good. it was so, so good.
and when you came home, satoru was usually there. on the couch, in the kitchen, sprawled across his bed with his laptop open, always with some excuse for why he hadn’t gone out. nothing good on, he’d say, or yuki was busy, or too tired, or just felt like staying in. and you’d drop your bag by the door and kick off your shoes and fall into the familiar rhythm of your shared space— the easy banter, the way he’d complain about his day and you’d pretend not to listen and he’d know you were really listening so he’d keep talking anyway because that was just what you did.
but the rhythm was different now. the way satoru would glance at the clock when you came in, like he was calculating how long you’d been gone. the way he’d ask about suguru with a smile that was maybe a little too bright, a little too quick. the way the silences between you had shifted, grown heavier, filled with things neither of you was saying.
the movie nights were the first to go. you didn’t plan it that way— it just happened. friday would roll around and suguru would text you about a new place he wanted to try, or a book he’d found that he thought you’d like, or just what are you doing? and you’d say nothing and then you were with him, and the night was over before you remembered that fridays were supposed to be yours.
it happened once, and then twice, and then enough times that you stopped thinking of fridays as sacred. and satoru never said anything. he never called you out, never made you feel guilty, never even mentioned it. when you’d come home on saturday morning, he’d be there, making coffee or scrolling through his phone, and he’d look up and say “hey” like it was any other day and nothing had changed.
but things have changed. you felt it in the way you’d catch yourself checking your phone during class, wondering if satoru had texted. in the way you’d pause outside the apartment door sometimes, taking a breath before going in, trying to remember who you were supposed to be on the other side. in the way you’d lie in bed at night, in the room that was yours alone now because satoru had stopped knocking on your door when the nightmares came, and you didn’t know if that was because the nightmares had stopped or because he’d learned not to bother you.
you missed him. that was the truth of it, the thing you didn’t want to admit to yourself because it felt like a betrayal. you missed suguru when you weren’t with him, too— that was the confusing part, the part that made everything feel tangled and messy. you liked suguru. you liked him so much it scared you sometimes, the way your heart would lift when his name lit up your phone, the way you’d catch yourself smiling for no reason, the way his hand in yours felt like coming home to somewhere you’d never been before.
but you missed satoru. you missed the way he’d sprawl across the couch with his head in your lap, complaining about nothing, while you pretended to watch the movie. you missed the late-night conversations that started about nothing and somehow ended with you both laughing so hard you couldn’t breathe. you missed the way he’d look at you sometimes, like you were the only person in the world who really saw him, and you’d feel, for a moment, like maybe that was true.
you missed what you had and you didn’t know if what you had was gone, or just... smaller. the shape of it had changed, and you couldn’t tell if that was natural— the way friendships shifted when new people came into your life— or if it was something else. something you’d done, some choice you’d made without realizing it, some line you’d crossed that you couldn’t uncross.
because it was only appropriate, wasn’t it? to give more of your time and attention to the person you were dating. to prioritize him, to let him in, to build something new. that was what you were supposed to do. that was how it worked.
you couldn’t keep spending every friday night on the couch with satoru, couldn’t keep treating him like the center of your universe when you were trying to build a life that included someone else. it wasn’t fair to suguru. it wasn’t fair to you, either, not really— not when every moment with satoru was a reminder of what you couldn’t have, a thread pulling you back toward something you were trying to let go of.
this was good. this was what you needed. distance, space, the chance to let the feelings you’d been carrying for three years finally, finally fade.
right?
.
.
.
you were lying in bed one night, staring at the ceiling, when you heard it. satoru’s door opening, soft footsteps in the hallway. the sound of the refrigerator opening, closing. the creak of the couch as he sat down.
you waited for the knock on your door. the familiar pattern— three soft raps, a pause, two more. the sheepish expression when you opened it, the way he’d rub the back of his neck and say something like sorry, couldn’t sleep or bad dream or just can i…? and you’d move over and he’d crawl into your bed and curl up at the end like an overgrown cat, and the weight of him there, the sound of his breathing, would be enough to quiet the world.
but the knock didn’t come.
you lay there, listening to the silence from the living room, and you didn’t know if you were relieved or devastated.
maybe both. maybe that was the problem— that you were always both, always caught between two things, always wanting what you couldn’t have and not knowing what to do with what you did.
you thought about suguru. the way he’d kissed you goodnight earlier, a slow, sweet thing that had left you warm and wanting. the way he’d said text me when you get home because it mattered to him that you were safe. the way he looked at you, always, like you were something precious, something worth protecting.
you liked him. you really, really liked him.
but you also, in the quiet dark of your room, with satoru sitting alone in the living room and not knocking on your door, you let yourself admit that you missed him very much. that you missed the way things were before. that some part of you, some stubborn, stupid part that you couldn’t seem to kill no matter how hard you tried, was still waiting.
you closed your eyes and told yourself it would fade. that eventually, you’ll wake up one morning and not feel the ache of him in your chest like a bruise you kept pressing on.
this was good. this was what you needed.
it was good.
in the living room, satoru sat on the couch in the dark, his phone dark in his hand, your closed door at the end of the hallway. he’d been sitting there for an hour, maybe longer. long enough that the takeout he’d ordered— your usual, the one from the place you both liked, the one he’d bought without thinking— had gone cold on the coffee table.
he’d meant to knock. he’d walked to your door twice, hand raised, ready. but each time, he’d stopped himself. because what was he supposed to say? i miss you? why aren’t you here anymore? who is this guy and why does he get to have you when i—
he didn’t finish the thought. he never finished the thought. it was easier, safer, to let it trail off into nothing, to push it down into the place where all the things he didn’t want to look at lived.
he picked up his phone again. scrolled through his messages. yuki had texted him earlier— something about a party next weekend, something about we should go, it’ll be fun— and he’d read it and put the phone down and not responded. he didn’t know why. yuki was nice. yuki was easy. yuki didn’t make him feel like he was standing on the edge of something he couldn’t name.
he looked at your door again, thought about the way you’d smiled lately, when he’d asked how your day was. the way you’d said good in that voice that meant you were somewhere else, thinking about someone else.
he thought about suguru. the quiet confidence, the steady gaze, the way he’d looked at you like you were the only person in the room. the way you’d looked back.
satoru set his phone down. picked up the cold takeout container. stared at it for a long moment, then put it back down. he sat on the couch, in the dark, and waited for morning.
satoru gojo is not a person who spends a lot of time thinking about his own feelings. this is not an accident. it is a deliberate, carefully cultivated skill, honed over years of practice, and he is very good at it. feelings are messy. feelings are complicated. feelings are the kind of thing that make you do stupid things, like stay up too late and say things you can’t take back and wake up in the middle of the night with your chest caved in and no idea why.
so he doesn’t think about them. he doesn’t think about the way his stomach tightens when you laugh or the way his day feels incomplete if he hasn’t heard your voice or the way he’s been measuring every person he’s ever dated against a standard he didn’t realize he was setting until it was too late to lower it.
he doesn’t think about it. he’s very good at not thinking about it.
but lately, not thinking about it has become harder and he knows exactly when it started, even if he won’t say it out loud. it started with a name. suguru. it started with the way you said it and the way something in his chest went tight and cold at the sound of it. it started with the way you started coming home later, and the way you’d smile at your phone when you thought he wasn’t looking, and the way you’d say suguru and i like it was the most natural thing in the world, like your world had always included someone else’s name next to yours.
he doesn’t think about it. he doesn’t.
he met you at the entrance exams. he remembers it clearly— remembers the way you were standing against the wall, trying to take up as little space as possible, like you were apologizing for existing. he remembers thinking, why is that person trying to disappear? and then, immediately after, i should talk to them. he was seventeen and he was already the kind of person who talked to everyone, who collected friends the way other people collected coins, easily and without much thought.
he just knew that you looked like you needed someone to tell you that you were allowed to take up space, and he was very good at telling people things. so he walked over, and he said something— he doesn’t remember what, something stupid probably, something designed to make you laugh— and you looked at him with those eyes, and he felt something shift in his chest. something he didn’t have a name for.
he still doesn’t have a name for it. he’s been calling it friendship for four years, and that’s worked well enough.
you were his first best friend. that’s something he doesn’t talk about, not to anyone. he’d had friends before— lots of them, always, because he was the kind of person people gravitated toward, the kind of person who made everything brighter just by being there, but he’d never had a best friend. he’d never had someone he wanted to come home to, someone he wanted to tell everything, someone whose presence made the noise in his head quiet down.
you were the first person who made him want to be better. not for any reason or because you asked or expected or even seemed to notice, but because when he was around you, he wanted to be the kind of person who deserved to be around you. he wanted to remember things. he wanted to show up on time. he wanted to be someone you could count on, someone you could trust, someone who wouldn’t leave you standing against a wall trying to disappear.
you raised the standard. that’s a thing he doesn’t let himself think about, not really. you raised the standard so quietly, so gently, that he didn’t even notice it happening until one day he looked at the girl he was dating— some girl, any girl, they all blurred together after a while— and realized she didn’t make him want to be better. she didn’t make him want anything, really. she was just… there and he was just… going through the motions.
he’s been going through the motions for a long time, he knows that. he knows there’s something wrong with him, something that makes him get bored, get restless, get that itch under his skin that tells him to move on, move forward, don’t look back. he’s broken up with more people than he can count, and every time, he tells himself it’s because they weren’t right, because there’s someone out there who will make it stick, who will make him want to stay.
but he knows, somewhere deep down, that he’s been looking for you in every person he’s ever dated. and no one has ever come close.
he doesn’t think about it. he doesn’t.
but then you said suguru, and suddenly he couldn’t stop thinking about it.
he hates suguru. he tells himself it’s not jealousy— he’s not jealous, why would he be jealous, you’re his best friend, he wants you to be happy, of course he wants you to be happy— but he hates suguru with a clarity that scares him. he hates the way suguru looks at you, like he’s reading you, like he’s seeing something that’s supposed to be private. he hates the way suguru is calm, always calm, like nothing can touch him, like he’s above all the messy, complicated feelings that keep satoru up at night.
he hates that suguru is perceptive. he hates that suguru seems to see through him, past the jokes and the grins and the easy charm, to something he’s been hiding for so long he’s almost forgotten it’s there. he hates the way suguru’s hand found yours that night, casual and confident, like he had a right to it. like he’d earned it.
and the worst part is that he can’t even hate suguru for how he treats you, because suguru treats you right. satoru has been watching, has been cataloguing every interaction, every small gesture, every glance, looking for something he can use, something he can point to and say see? he’s not good enough. but there’s nothing.
and that’s the thing that keeps satoru up at night, because suguru treats you right and suguru looks at you the way satoru has been looking at you for four years without letting himself name it and suguru is doing what satoru has been too scared to do, and he’s doing it right.
satoru doesn’t know what to do with that. he doesn’t know what to do with the fact that someone else has figured out what took him years to even admit to himself. he doesn’t know what to do with the fact that you’re happy— you are happy, he can see it, he can see the way you smile now, the way you carry yourself, the way you’ve stopped trying to disappear— and that happiness is coming from someone who isn’t him anymore
he should be happy for you. he is happy for you. he wants you to be happy, he’s always wanted that, and if suguru is the one who can give you that, then…
then what? then he just… steps aside? then he watches you fall in love with someone else, watches someone else get to hold your hand and make you laugh and be the person you come home to, and he just… accepts it?
he thinks about telling you. sometimes, in the dark, when he’s lying in bed and the walls feel too close and the silence is too loud, he thinks about walking to your door and knocking and saying i’ve been in love with you since we were seventeen and letting whatever happens happen. but then he thinks about your face— the way you’d look at him, the confusion, the pity, the careful way you’d let him down because you’re too kind to hurt him even when he’s hurting you— and he can’t. he can’t do it. because if he tells you and you don’t feel the same way, he loses you. and losing you is the only thing he’s ever been truly afraid of.
so he doesn’t tell you. he doesn’t think about it. he buries it down deep, where it’s always been, and he keeps being your best friend. he keeps being the person you come home to, the person who saves you the last piece of whatever he’s eating, the person who makes you laugh when you’re stressed. he keeps being enough.
except now there’s suguru. and suddenly enough doesn’t feel like enough anymore.
yuki is nice. yuki is pretty. yuki is everything he should want— smart, confident, the kind of girl who doesn’t need him to be anything other than what he is. when he’s with her, he doesn’t have to try. he doesn’t have to think. he can just be satoru, the easy one, the charming one, the one who makes everything fun.
but he’s getting bored. he’s always getting bored, that’s the problem, that’s the thing he hates about himself. three weeks in and already the conversations feel rote, the touches feel automatic, the whole thing feels like a script he’s read before. he catches himself thinking about you when he’s with her. your laugh, your voice, the way you’d react to something he said. he catches himself comparing— not out loud, never out loud, but in his head, where he can’t help it. yuki wouldn’t get that joke. yuki wouldn’t have stayed up with me when i couldn’t sleep. yuki doesn’t look at me the way you look at me.
he should break up with her. he knows he should break up with her. it’s not fair to keep her around when he’s already checked out, when his mind is always somewhere else, with someone else. but every time he thinks about ending it, he thinks about suguru. about the double date, about the way suguru’s hand was on your back, about the way you looked at him. and he thinks about what it would mean to show up alone, to be the one without a date, to have to watch you and suguru together while he has nothing.
it’s stupid, it’s so stupid. he’s never had trouble finding someone to date, has never been without options, has never been the kind of person who needs to cling to a relationship that’s already over. but this isn’t about yuki. it never was about yuki.
it’s about proving something, he’s not even sure what. maybe that he can be stable or can be in a relationship or he can be the kind of person who doesn’t get bored and move on. maybe that he doesn’t need you, that he’s fine, that his life is full and happy and doesn’t revolve around waiting for you to see him. maybe that he’s not jealous, that he doesn’t care about suguru, that he can have his own thing and be perfectly content while you build something with someone else.
maybe it’s just that letting go of yuki would mean admitting that none of it matters. that she was never going to make him feel the way you do, no one is, and he’s been chasing something for four years and he’s never going to catch it.
so he stays with yuki. he texts her back, makes plans, shows up. he lets her wrap her arms around him and talk about her day and laugh at his jokes. and he thinks about you the whole time.
why does he even care? the question circles in his head at 3 a.m., when he’s staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out why his chest feels like it’s caving in. why does it matter if you’re dating someone? why does it matter if that someone is perceptive and calm and looks at you like you’re the only person in the world? why does it matter that you’re happy, that you’re smiling more, for other reasons than him?
you deserve everything suguru seems to be giving you, and more.
so why does it feel like he’s losing something? why does it feel like every day you spend with suguru is a day you’re slipping further away from him, and he’s just standing here, watching it happen, too scared to reach out and grab you?
because he’s in love with you. he’s been in love with you since you told him you weren’t interesting and he knew, instantly, that you were the most interesting person he’d ever met. he’s been in love with you through every relationship, every breakup, every late night and early morning and moment in between. he’s been in love with you so long that he doesn’t remember what it felt like before.
and he’s never said a word because saying it would change everything, and he’s not brave enough to find out what that change would look like.
he is a coward.
so he sits on the couch in the dark. he lets the takeout go cold. he doesn’t knock on your door. and he tells himself that this is what it means to love someone— to let them go, to let them be happy, to stand in the background and watch them bloom under someone else’s attention.
he tells himself that and he almost believes it.
when he closes his eyes, he sees your face. he sees the way you looked at him that first day, he sees the way you laugh, the way you say his name, the way you exist in his life like you were always meant to be there. and he thinks about suguru’s hand on you, and he thinks about your smile when you say his name, and he thinks about how he’s never going to be the one to make you look like that.
he’s satoru gojo. he’s the one who has everything. he’s the one people envy, the one who moves through life like it was designed for him, the one who never has to try.
but right now, sitting in the dark, listening to the silence of your apartment, he’s never felt more like he’s lost something he never had the courage to reach for. he doesn’t know what to do with any of it.
so he doesn’t think about it. he doesn’t think about you, or suguru, or the way his chest feels like it’s splitting open. he doesn’t think about the words he’ll never say, the confession he’ll never make, the life he could have had if he’d been just a little bit braver.
he doesn’t think about any of it.
he sits on the couch. he waits for morning. and he tells himself that this is enough.
.
.
.
it started, as most of satoru’s better ideas did, with him staring at his phone in the middle of a lecture he wasn’t listening to.
he’d been doing that a lot lately. staring at his phone. scrolling through your messages— the ones from before, the ones when you still texted him throughout the day, stupid things and funny things and things that didn’t matter except that they were from you. the messages had become less frequent lately. not gone, but different; shorter, more gaps between them. he’d catch himself typing something, then deleting it, because he didn’t want to bother you or interrupt whatever you were doing with suguru, didn’t want to be the needy best friend who couldn’t let go.
but today, sitting in the back of a lecture hall while some professor droned on about something he was supposed to care about, he had a thought, one that felt, suddenly, like the most obvious thing in the world.
you were still his best friend, weren’t you?
that couldn’t change. four years of inside jokes and late-night conversations and knowing each other in ways no one else did— that wasn’t something that disappeared just because someone new had entered the picture. he was allowed to want to spend time with you. he was allowed to miss you. he was allowed to want to do things with you, just the two of you, without it meaning anything more than what it was: two best friends hanging out, the way they always had.
there was nothing weird about that. nothing that anyone could point to and say look, he’s in love with her, look how pathetic he is.
it was just… friendship. the same friendship you’d had since you were seventeen. the same friendship that had been the most important thing in his life for four years.
so why shouldn’t he act on it?
he was out of his seat before he’d fully formed the thought, shoving his laptop into his bag, ignoring the confused look from the person next to him. he slipped out the side door of the lecture hall, his heart beating faster than it had any right to, and pulled out his phone.
his fingers moved before he could talk himself out of it.
hey. cancel your plans for saturday. i’m taking you somewhere.
he stared at the message for a moment, the cursor blinking, and then he added:
don’t argue. just be ready at 12.
he hit send before he could second-guess himself. he stood in the hallway, phone clutched in his hand, waiting.
the reply came a minute later, maybe less, yet it felt like forever.
silly goose🪿: what?? where are we going
he grinned. he couldn’t help it.
it’s a surprise. wear comfortable shoes. and no, i’m not telling you anything else.
he could picture you reading the message, could picture the way you’d tilt your head, the way you’d chew on your bottom lip while you decided whether to push for more information.
silly goose🪿: you’re being very mysterious
that’s the point
silly goose🪿: fine but if it’s one of your surprise where we end up in the police station again and your father has to bail us out i’m not going
he laughed out loud, the sound echoing in the empty hallway.
it’s not that. i promise. just trust me.
silly goose🪿: okay. i trust you.
he stared at those three words for longer than was probably normal.
he pocketed his phone and walked out of the building into the afternoon sun, and for the first time in weeks, he felt like he could breathe.
.
.
.
saturday noon arrived the way satoru had been willing it to arrive— slow enough to build anticipation, fast enough that he didn’t lose his nerve. he’d been up since six, which was ridiculous. he just couldn’t sleep. he kept running through the plan in his head, checking and rechecking details that didn’t need checking, making sure everything was perfect.
it wasn’t a date. he told himself that again, firmly, as he stood in front of his closet for the third time, trying to decide what to wear. it wasn’t a date. it was two friends spending the day together. that was all. so why did it matter what he wore? why did he care if his hair was doing the thing it did sometimes, the thing that made it fall just right? why had he gone to the convenience store yesterday and bought your favorite snacks without even thinking about it, like it was instinct, like his body knew what you wanted before his brain caught up?
it wasn’t a date. it was just… him being your friend, being the person who knew you, who remembered the things you liked, who wanted to make you smile.
that was allowed. that was normal. that was fine.
he settled on something simple— jeans, a soft sweater, his favorite sunglasses— and tried not to look at himself in the mirror too long. when he heard your door open at 11:58, he was already in the living room, pretending to be absorbed in his phone, trying to look like he hadn’t been waiting for this moment all week.
you came out of your room and he looked up and there it was, that thing that happened every time he saw you, the thing he’d never been able to explain or control or make go away. the way his heart did a small, stupid flip in his chest. the way the rest of the world seemed to blur at the edges, like someone had turned down the focus on everything that wasn’t you.
you were wearing something simple— jeans, a top, a jacket— and your hair looked like you hadn’t put too much effort in, and you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. you always were, that’s how he distinguished you in a room full of people.
“okay,” you said, pulling your keys out of your pocket. “i’m ready. are you going to tell me where we’re going yet, or are you committed to the mystery?”
he grinned, pushing off from the couch, sliding his sunglasses into place. “committed to the mystery. get in the car.”
you rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. “if this is another one of your schemes—”
“it’s not a scheme! it’s a surprise. there’s a difference.”
“is there?”
“a huge difference. schemes are nefarious. surprises are delightful. like me.”
the drive took about forty minutes. you spent most of it trying to guess where he was taking you— guessing every amusement park, every tourist attraction, every vaguely interesting thing within a two-hour radius— and he spent most of it deflecting, making up ridiculous answers, watching you laugh out of the corner of his eye. the radio was playing something forgettable, the windows were down just enough to let the autumn air in, and for a while, it was easy. it was the way things used to be, before everything got complicated, before suguru, before he started measuring every moment in terms of what he was losing.
“okay, final guess,” you said, as he turned onto the access road. “if it’s not the boardwalk and it’s not the botanical gardens and it’s not that weird museum with the taxidermy—”
“that was one time.”
“—then it has to be—” you stopped as the entrance came into view, and your mouth dropped open. “wait. is this—”
“the new amusement park,” he said, trying to sound casual, like he hadn’t been waiting for the perfect moment to bring you here. “i heard they opened last month. thought we should check it out.”
you turned to look at him, your face— he wanted to bottle that expression and keep it somewhere safe. the surprise, the delight, the way your eyes went wide and bright. “satoru—”
“you said you wanted to come when it opened. remember? you saw the article about it, back when they first broke ground, and you said—”
“i said we should come when it’s finished,” you finished, your voice turning softer. “you remembered that?”
he shrugged, keeping his eyes on the road, pretending he didn’t notice the way you were looking at him. “i remember things. i’m a good friend.”
you didn’t say anything for a moment. when he glanced over, you were still looking at him with an unreadable expression that made his heart beat a little faster.
“yeah,” you said finally, quietly. “you are.”
he parked the car and you both got out. the sun was warm on his face. you were standing next to him, close enough that his arm brushed yours, and he let himself have this. he let himself pretend that nothing had changed, that you were still his in the way you’d always been his, that the world hadn’t shifted underneath his feet.
the park was crowded, but not unbearably so. everything felt alive without being overwhelming. satoru had done his research, had looked at all the ride maps and food stalls and show times, had planned out a route that would hit everything you might want to see without spending the whole day in lines. he didn’t tell you that, of course. he played it cool, like he was just making it up as he went along and he hadn’t spent hours thinking about this exact day.
“okay,” you said, looking around at the chaos of colors and sounds. “where do we start?”
he considered the options. “food first. i’m starving.”
“already?”
“and? you don’t get hungry at 13?”
“i had breakfast.”
“that was hours ago.”
“it was literally an hour ago.”
“an hour is a long time. metabolically speaking.”
you laughed, and he grabbed your hand before he could think about it— to pull you toward the food stalls, he told himself, because it was crowded and he didn’t want to lose you— and your fingers were warm in his. you didn’t pull away.
the first food stall they hit was one selling taiyaki, the fish-shaped pastries filled with red bean paste, and he bought four without asking if you wanted any, just handed you two and watched you take the first bite.
“good?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
you nodded, mouth full. he felt a ridiculous surge of satisfaction.
from there, it became a kind of mission. the park had all the classic amusement food, but elevated somehow— fancier, more elaborate, the kind of stuff that was made to be photographed and posted.
“okay, try this,” he said, shoving a piece of honeycomb-topped ice cream toward you. “it’s supposed to be their signature thing.”
you leaned in and took a bite. he watched your expression shift from curiosity to surprise to delight. “oh my god. that’s actually incredible.”
“right? i knew you’d like it.”
“how did you know?”
he shrugged, taking a bite himself, the honey sweet and sticky on his tongue. “you like honey. you put it in your tea, even when i tell you it’s too much. and you like cold things, even in winter. remember that time you made me get ice cream with you when it was snowing?”
you stared at him. “that was three years ago.”
“so?”
“so you remember that? what i ordered?”
“mint chocolate chip,” he said, without missing a beat. “you said it was basic but you didn’t care. and then you dropped half of it on the sidewalk and looked so sad i went back and bought you another one.”
you went quiet. he realized, belatedly, that maybe he was saying too much and showing his hand. but then you smiled, small and soft, and said, “you’re ridiculous.”
“i’m dedicated,” he corrected. “you know that”
“do i?”
“a huge difference. dedication is admirable. ridiculousness is—”
“also admirable?”
he laughed. “i was going to say ‘charming,’ but sure. we’ll go with admirable.”
you rolled your eyes, but you were still smiling. when you reached out to steal another piece of his ice cream, he let you.
he took you on rides after that. the park had a good mix— some classic, some new, some that made you scream and some that made you laugh. satoru had always been a fan of the big ones, the ones that went high and fast and made your stomach drop out from under you.
today, he found himself gravitating toward the smaller things. the spinning teacups, where you both got dizzy and stumbled out laughing, holding onto each other to stay upright. the bumper cars, where you spent an embarrassingly long time chasing each other around the rink, both of you laughing so hard you could barely steer. the old-fashioned carousel, where you picked a horse with chipped paint and a golden mane and he stood next to you, one hand on the pole, watching the way the afternoon light caught in your hair.
“you’re not going to ride?” you asked, as the carousel started its slow, stately rotation.
“i’m riding. i’m right here.”
“standing doesn’t count.”
“sure it does. i’m experiencing the carousel. i’m very engaged.”
you gave him a look. “you’re standing next to a stationary horse while i do all the work.”
“it’s a very nice stationary horse.” he nodded assuredly and then squinted at you, “also, what work are you talking about, you are sitting on a horse that moves by itself.”
you laughed, and the sound of it was better than any music, better than any ride, better than anything else in the park. he wanted to bottle it. he wanted to carry it with him everywhere. he wanted to hear it every day for the rest of his life.
“you’re so weird,” you said.
“that’s why we work. you like me.”
“i didn’t say that.”
“you didn’t have to.”
the carousel turned, the world spun slowly around you, and he caught himself thinking, if i could freeze this moment, if i could stay here forever, i would. i would in a heartbeat.
.
.
.
it was always natural for him and you to talk about everything and nothing. that was the thing about the two of you— conversation had always been easy, had always flowed like water, finding its way into every corner and crevice. you talked about classes, about professors who were terrible and professors who were surprisingly good. you talked about movies you’d seen, books you’d read, music you’d been listening to. you talked about the park itself—the way the light hit the rides, the best place to watch the crowd, the ridiculous prices of everything.
“five dollars for a bottle of water,” you said, holding up your latest purchase. “that’s criminal.”
“capitalism,” he said sagely. “the real villain of our time.”
“you say that while wearing designer sunglasses.”
“these are vintage.”
“they’re from last season.”
“vintage is a state of mind.”
you laughed quietly, shoving him in the shoulder. he watched you take a sip of your overpriced water and he thought about how easy this was. why did it feel like an ending?
you talked about memories, too. old ones, the kind that came up when you spent enough time together, the shared history that no one else could touch. the time you’d both gotten locked out of the apartment and had to climb through the window. the time he’d tried to cook dinner and set off the fire alarm and you’d both eaten burnt pasta on the floor of the kitchen, laughing hysterically. the time you’d stayed up all night studying for an exam you both ended up failing because the professor was an asshole, and the way you’d looked at each other the next morning, bleary-eyed and defeated, and somehow started laughing.
“we were such disasters,” you said, leaning against a railing, looking out at the park.
“we are disasters,” he corrected. “we just have better lighting now.”
you smiled. he smiles back.
“do you ever think about that?” you asked, your voice was softer now, more thoughtful. “how we met?”
“all the time,” he said.
you glanced at him, surprised. “really?”
“really.” he leaned against the railing next to you, close enough that your shoulders almost touched. “you were standing against the wall, trying to disappear. and i thought—” he stopped, remembering. “i need to save her from dying of anxiety.”
you were quiet for a moment. “is that why you talked to me?”
“maybe. or maybe i just thought you were interesting.” he bumped your shoulder with his. “still do, by the way. just so you know.”
you looked at him, your eyes full of emotion that made his chest tight. “satoru—”
“don’t get emotional, sweetheart,” he said quickly, because he couldn’t handle whatever was coming next, “i have a reputation to maintain.”
you laughed wetly. the moment passed. he told himself that was for the best.
the afternoon bled into evening, the light shifting from gold to amber to the soft, hazy blue of late afternoon. satoru and you been at the park for hours, had ridden most of the rides, eaten more than was reasonable, accumulated a small collection of prizes from games you’d played— a stuffed bear that was slightly lopsided, a keychain that glowed in the dark, a cheap plastic ring that you’d put on your finger and hadn’t taken off.
satoru had been watching the sky for the last hour, tracking the sun’s descent, waiting for the moment. he’d planned this part carefully, had checked the sunset time, had figured out the best place in the park to watch it. the ferris wheel. it was obvious, maybe, but that was the point. it was the kind of thing that felt like a movie, that would be romantic if it were anyone else, but it had to be just two friends watching the sunset. nothing more than that.
“come on,” he said, tugging on your hand. “one more ride.”
you were looking at the ferris wheel, your expression shifting as you registered what he was suggesting. “the ferris wheel?”
“the ferris wheel.” he was already pulling you toward the line, not giving you time to argue. “it’s the best view in the park. you can see the whole city from the top.”
“it’s going to be a long line—”
“it’s fine. we have time.”
you looked at him exasperatedly, he could see you trying to figure out what he was doing, why he was so insistent, but you didn’t argue. you let him pull you into line, and you stood close together as the queue slowly moved forward, and he tried not to think about the way your arm pressed against his.
the line moved faster than he expected. before he was ready, they were at the front, and the attendant was gesturing them into a car, and he was climbing in after you, the door closing behind them with a soft click.
the car swayed slightly as it began to move, and you let out a small gasp, grabbing onto the rail. he laughed. “scared of heights? you never told me you were scared of heights.”
“i’m not scared,” you said, but your grip on the rail said otherwise. “i just don’t like the swaying.”
“it’s supposed to sway. it’s part of the experience.”
“a terrible part of the experience.”
he grinned, settling back against the seat, watching you. the inside of the cabin was small, it forced closeness. your knees were almost touching. if he reached out, he could touch your face, your hair, your hand. he kept his hands firmly in his lap and he looked out at the park shrinking beneath them. satoru told himself to breathe.
the car rose slowly, steadily, each rotation bringing them higher. the park spread out below them like a map, the lights beginning to flicker on, the crowd reduced to tiny figures moving between the attractions. and beyond the park, the city, sprawling toward the horizon, buildings catching the last of the sun’s light.
“oh,” you said softly, causing him to he look at you. you were watching the view, your face soft, your lips slightly parted. “it’s so pretty.”
he looked out at the sunset. it was, objectively, beautiful. the sky was a gradient of colors— pink and orange and purple, bleeding into each other, the sun a perfect disc of gold balanced on the edge of the world. the sunset that made people stop and stare, the kind that felt like it was put there just for you.
but now he wasn’t looking at the sunset. he was looking at you.
the light caught your face, painted you in gold and rose, turned you into something that made his breath catch. your eyes were bright, reflecting the colors of the sky, and there was a small smile on your lips, and you were so beautiful that it hurt. it physically hurt, a tightness in his chest, a pressure behind his ribs, something that felt like joy and terror and longing all tangled together.
you were the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.
not just now, in this light, on this ferris wheel. always. every day, in every moment, in every version of you that existed.
you were the prettiest thing he’d ever seen and he couldn’t tell you. he couldn’t say it, couldn’t let the words out, couldn’t let you see what was written all over his face. so he didn’t. he sat there, in the swaying car, and he watched the sunset paint you gold, and he held the words in his chest like a secret.
“it’s beautiful,” you said again as you turned to look at him. he was caught, and he knew you could see it, could see everything he’d been trying to hide.
“yeah,” he said. his voice came out rough, scraped raw. “beautiful.”
you were looking at him too. for a moment he let himself believe that the expression on your face was something more than friendship, something more than the easy affection you’d always had.
but then the car reached the top, paused, and started its slow descent, and you looked away, back at the sunset, and the moment was gone.
he let it go again. he had to.
the ride down was quiet. not uncomfortable, but charged, the air between them heavy with something neither of them was saying. he watched you out of the corner of his eye, watched the way you traced patterns on the railing, the way your fingers touched the cheap plastic ring you’d won, the way your breath fogged the glass when you leaned close.
when the car reached the bottom, the attendant opened the door, you climbed out first, and he followed. the spell was broken.
you stood for a moment at the base of the ferris wheel, the lights of the park bright around you, the last traces of sunset fading to deep blue. you were looking up at the wheel, your expression unreadable.
“thank you,” you said, your voice soft. “for today. i… i needed this.”
he wanted to say something. he wanted to say me too. he wanted to say i need you, i’ve always needed you, i don’t know how to be without you. he wanted to say please don’t go back to him, please stay here with me, please see me the way i see you.
but he didn’t. he smiled, which was easier than it should have been, this mask he’d been wearing for years. “anytime. you know that.”
you looked at him for a long moment and then you smiled. it was the same smile you’d always had, that made him feel like maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be okay.
“come on,” he said, bumping your shoulder with his. “let’s get out of here. i’m freezing.”
you laughed, the sound of it wrapping around him, warm and familiar. “you’re always freezing.”
“i run cold. it’s a medical condition.”
“it’s not a medical condition, you just don’t wear enough layers.”
“tomato, tomato.”
you shook your head, but you were still smiling, when he fell into step beside you, you didn’t move away. you walked close enough that your shoulders brushed, close enough that he could feel the warmth of you through his jacket.
he didn’t look back at the ferris wheel. the image was already burned into his memory— you, painted in gold, the sunset behind you, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
he’d carry that with him, he’d carry it for as long as he could, and when the ache in his chest got too heavy, when the weight of everything he couldn’t say pressed down on him, he’d pull it out and look at it and remind himself that for one moment, at the top of a ferris wheel, you were his. even if you didn’t know it. even if you never would.
it was enough. it had to be.
things were, against all odds, going well. that was the thought that kept circling in your head as you walked home from class one afternoon, the autumn air crisp and clean, your scarf wrapped tight around your neck. things were going well. you were spending time with suguru, hopefully building something solid between him and you. and you were spending time with satoru again, too, in a way that felt almost like before, like the strange distance that had crept in between you had been bridged.
you weren’t sure exactly when that had happened. maybe it was the amusement park, the way he’d planned the whole day, the way he’d taken care of you. maybe it was the way he’d started texting you again, the stupid memes and the late-night check-ins and the you up? messages that made you smile even when you were trying to sleep. maybe it was just time, the slow reclamation of something that had always been yours, the way you found yourself gravitating back toward each other like planets in orbit.
whatever it was, it was good. it was so, so good.
there was, however, the matter of yuki.
the breakup had been… abrupt. that was the word you’d settled on, after turning it over in your mind for the better part of a week. abrupt. you’d come home from a study session at the library to find the apartment door slightly ajar, which was unusual because satoru was a little paranoid about locking doors. you’d pushed the door open slowly, already reaching for your phone in case something was wrong, and then you’d heard voices.
satoru’s voice, low and tight; you recognised it as the tone he used when he was trying to keep his temper in check. and yuki’s voice, higher, sharper, the words spilling out too fast to catch at first.
you’d frozen in the doorway, caught between the instinct to leave and the realization that they’d probably already heard you. and then yuki had come storming out of the living room, her face blotched red, her eyes wet, and she’d stopped when she saw you.
for a moment, neither of you said anything. you’d only met her a handful of times— the double date, a party, a brief encounter on campus— and you didn’t know her, not really. but in that moment, looking at her face, you saw something that made your stomach clench. it looked like she’d figured something out that you’d been trying to hide for years.
“you,” she’d said, her voice thick with tears but the hatred underneath it made you take a step back. “you’re the reason.”
you’d opened your mouth to say something—what, you didn’t know, maybe i don’t know what you’re talking about or i’m sorry or what happened?— but she was already moving, pushing past you, gone. the door slammed behind her, and you were left standing in the hallway, your heart beating too fast, your hands cold.
you’d found satoru in the living room, sitting on the couch with his head in his hands. he’d looked up when you walked in, and for a moment, his face was completely open, completely raw, and you’d seen grief, maybe, or exhaustion, or relief there that made your chest ache.
“hey,” he’d said, his voice rough. “you’re home early.”
“are you okay?” you’d asked.
he’d smiled a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “yeah. i’m fine. we just—it wasn’t working. you know how it is.”
you didn’t, actually. you didn’t know how it was to break up with someone because you couldn’t make yourself feel something that wasn’t there. you didn’t know how it was to go through person after person, searching for something you couldn’t name. but you nodded anyway, because that was what he needed.
you sat down next to him on the couch and let him lean his weight against your shoulder, and you didn’t ask any of the questions that were crowding your throat.
you didn’t ask why yuki had looked at you like that. you didn’t ask what she meant by you’re the reason. you didn’t ask if there was something he wasn’t telling you.
you just sat there, in the quiet of your apartment, and let him be.
[ an. do tell what you think of this and reblog pls!! the second part will be posted tomorrow or the day after tomorrow depending on how much of it i edit ]
── sʏɴᴏᴘsɪs :: you try getting off to porn one day, but are cut short by two nuisances interrupting you. Under their watchful eyes, you quit masturbation — but what happens when you become too pent up to handle? (5.4k words)
The thing about having an overactive imagination was the fact you needed virtually no visual stimulation to get yourself off. All you had to do was lie there, conjure up the image of hands running down your body, and you were good to go.
But curiosity took a hold of you one day.
What if you were to … watch porn for once?
The thought was a dangerous one. You knew once you went into that rabbit hole, there was no coming back. But even though you were aware of the possible issues, you still plugged in your earphone one night and opened Twitter.
You didn't have the faintest idea on where to begin, blindly searching up 'porn' in the search bar.
There was no doubt about it — you got plenty of results back, enough to make you gasp aloud and fling your phone across the bed. Your earphones popped out of place and a fierce heat blooming across your cheeks. The four second clip of a man sloppily jerking off looped on repeat.
With a hand to your mouth, you shuffled forwards and grabbed your phone again. A different video played, and you settled against the pillows propping you up against the headboard.
This time — you checked the tags of the videos that came after. Clicked on a few. Cocked your head in confusion.
"PAWG…? Goonette," you mumbled to yourself, entranced by the new world you had exposed yourself to. The terminology was foreign, but by the time you were ready to get yourself off, having worked up quite the appetite for an orgasm — you knew them like the back of your hand.
And so you leaned back at last, thighs parting as the sensation of your hand slipping between eased you into relaxation. Your thumb hovered a thumbnail, pressed down.
Lo and behold — tentacle porn.
"Are you really getting of to that?"
"Hush, Ryomen. I want to see if she touches herself."
"Pah! Of course she will, can't you smell—"
You let out a piercing shriek. The sound of two distinct voices, one on either shoulder filled your ears. "Nonono, get off of me, get off of me—"
"Woah, now," the one adorned in white yelped, clutching onto your earlobe. His white wings ruffled against your skin as he hung on for dear life. "That's no way to treat an angel, is it?"
The apparently named 'Ryomen' scoffed, barely moving an inch as you swiped your hands over your shoulders in a poor attempt to rid yourself of the intruders. "No one gives a shit about your kind, Satoru. Now stop panicking, woman. We aren't going anywhere."
"Please go somewhere else. This is majorly freaking me out right now."
You were hyperventilating, eliciting a groan from 'Ryomen'. Satoru had fluttered his way onto your right shoulder again, peering at your face as you tried making sense of all of this. "What, don't tell me you're new to the whole concept of having an angel and a devil on your shoulder."
That earned the white-haired man a sidelong glare from you. His body was adorned in a silky robe, the right side of his body exposed. There was a certain mischievous look in Satoru's eyes, however — which led you to believe that there was more to the being than what lingered on the surface.
"No. N-no, I'm not," you murmured, rubbing at your temples. "But you're not— I'm not supposed to see you."
"Who said?" 'Ryomen' retorted, scowling up at you. The devil was also wearing a robe, but it only covered his lower half, whereas Satoru's looped around his shoulders. Strands of pink, dishevelled hair stuck up from his head in messy angles, and for some peculiar reason — he had four arms and four eyes.
You exhaled slowly and slumped back, trying to reason with the debacle. "You have a point but… this is not normal. Can't you go back to, I don't know, being invisible?"
"No can do, pretty lady," Satoru grinned. "We want to watch."
"Watch what?"
"Watch you masturbate, of course! That devil Sukuna over there has been waiting for a moment like this," Satoru cackled, rubbing his two hands together. Sukuna nodded in agreement, and it was at that moment you wondered who really was the devil between the two.
"No can do, this is my private time. Go back to where you were before."
"We have always been here," Sukuna chimed in, his pointed black tail swirling behind him. "You were simply unaware this entire time."
You froze in your place. Then, your face paled.
This… entire time?
As in, through your failed first dates? Through that one time your ex Naoya rubbed at the crease of your upper thigh instead of your clit? Through the numerous times you've gotten off to the thought of seemingly nothing?
You shrieked again, Satoru joining you as you flopped onto your stomach. Your pillow heaved under your weight as you almost sobbed into it out of sheer embarrassment. Sukuna, sick of both of your antics, tugged at a stray piece of hair. "Get up. Where is your dignity?"
"Gone," you wailed, nails digging into the cotton. "Gone like my will to live."
Satoru cooed, stroking the side of your neck and ignoring the way you shrank under his tiny touch. "Theeere, there. I don't know why you're so upset. There's nothing we haven't seen before."
"That's the problem! Oh, I wish you hadn't revealed yourself to me."
"Quit your sulking and get used to it," Sukuna grunted, now peering inside of your ear — just because he could.
You huffed, defeated. Why now, out of all possible times did they choose to appear — when you were at your most vulnerable? Did everyone have their own set of angels and demons? There were simply too many questions, and some you didn't want to know the answer to.
Satoru was still stroking your neck, pleased to see that you had calmed down somewhat. "Now, are you going to, y'know… get back to what you're doing?"
"Reeaal subtle." Sukuna shook his head.
"No. Not until you've both disappeared. Until then, I'm not touching myself."
"Bit dramatic, no?" Satoru sighed, clearly in disappointment. No pussy today, it seemed. "If we go away after you're done, will you touch yourself?"
Sukuna grinned inwardly at the lie.
…
"You promise?"
"I promise. I'm an angel, aren't I?" Satoru murmured deceptively soft into your right ear, lulling you into a false state of comfort. You nodded, chewing on your lower lip as you grabbed your phone and leaned back yet again. Sukuna was elated, leaning forward to look over your left shoulder. Then, his face soured.
"Tentacles," he spat. "My natural enemy."
"What, don't tell me an octopus kicked you out of heaven," you snorted, unplugging your earphones out of the port. Satoru tightened his lips, stifling a laugh.
"Do not bring that up around me, insolent girl."
"She struck a nerve, did she?" Satoru taunted, leering at the devil.
The two went back and forth for a while as you willed your heart to slow down. The initial shock of the two beings had worn off somewhat, but there was still a part of you that was so terribly conflicted — refusing to accept anything beyond the explainable boundaries of science.
Click, click!
"You think too much, seriously." Satoru snapped his fingers in front of you in an attempt to grab your attention. You glanced down, then at Sukuna. "This world came from plants and berries, and somehow we have Bluetooth — yet you want to question the existence of two beings who have existed in religious scriptures for millennia?"
There was no arguing when he put it that way. Even the gruff Sukuna seemed to agree, nodding thoughtfully. "Well put, pest."
"Thanks, sweetie."
"Okay, okay. Fine, you can watch but you gotta disappear after," you bargained, reminding them of Satoru's promise.
"Deal," they both said in unison.
With a swallow, you played the video. Hentai, it seemed to be — with a female lead already gagging around a slimy tentacle as another wiggled its way into her drooling cunt. She was stuffed full a beat later, eyes rolled back until the whites showed for dramatic effect.
Schlick-schlick-schlick!
As if having forgotten about the three pairs of eyes on you, your fingers were already circling around your clit, toes clenching as you stared at your phone — hypnotised.
"Look at her go," Satoru whispered, loud enough for Sukuna to hear. The latter's face screwed up a tad, in pleasure rather than annoyance. As if the mere sight of you making yourself feel good was getting him off.
Which it was.
There was a movement, two under Sukuna's pale robes. His lower cock twitched, followed by the upper one — until both stood tall, hot and leaking.
Satoru was warm in the face, refusing to let go of skin-on-skin contact with you. He leaned against the side of your throat, pretending as if he wasn't peppering the flesh with soft kisses that were too small for you to notice.
"Hah— shit," you mumbled sluggishly, letting your head fall back with a dull thud against your headboard.
One of your fingers slipped in, turning into two and causing your shoulders to tense in response. With a frantic rhythm, you thrust your fingers in 'n out of you — a chorus of garbled mewls leaving you
Safe to say, the hentai was long forgotten. The real show was you, and both the angel and devil were entranced.
"Atta girl," Sukuna grunted, eyes growing lidded when your hips jerked into your hand. "Keep fucking yourself like that for me."
"For us," Satoru croaked, but not before throwing the other man a glare.
You nodded, thumbing at your clit again before renewing your efforts inside of yourself. They watched as your eyes screwed shut, fingers desperately searching for that one spot inside of you that'd make you—
"Gah—"
"Crook your fingers now. Keep pressing."
Sukuna guided you through the fierce orgasm, Satoru having chosen to nip at your neck. Your cunt spasmed uncontrollably, body wracked with unbearable pleasure that sparked behind your eyelids.
After the endorphin rush had finished its round through your body, you lay there utterly spent. The two on your shoulders had enough of a mind to not jerk off in fears that you'd scream again — but they were undoubtedly pent up, ready to stick their cocks into either you or each other.
"Yeaaah, that was something. Phew," Satoru laughed, like he hadn't been on the verge of rutting his boner against the dip of your collarbone. "We should do that again sometime."
You grumbled, brows furrowed as you pulled your fingers from out of your panties and cleaned your hand on some wipes you kept on your bedside table. Satoru gasped in awe, eyeing the wetness that coated your pruning fingers.
"Fat chance. You promised you'd leave, so leave."
"If you thought he was serious, you are greatly mistaken," Sukuna said bluntly. You turned to look at him, one corner of your lips lifting in what resembled a grimace.
"You're kidding."
"No, I'm not," Satoru beamed, as if the halo on top of his head was nothing but a farce.
"You're a pain in my ass, both of you," you snapped, hirling the balled-up wad of tissue into your waste basket across the room. Satoru merely hummed, quite pleased at the fact he managed to draw an orgasm out of you under his tactical manipulation.
Sukuna adjusted the robe over his crotch, not even bothering to hide his twin erections. "Not yet," he promised, for real this time. "Now go wash your hands, they smell like the tentacles you got off to."
"Shut the fuck up."
════════════════
It had been days, weeks, centuries, since you had gotten off since that day. That bastard of an angel was no worse than Sukuna, slithering around his words like the snake that got the demon kicked out of Paradise itself.
"Touch yourself," he'd coo in your ear. "You know you want to."
You would vehemently deny his allegations, turning to Sukuna for help. But he proved to be useless as well — dragging the tip of his forked tail down against your collarbone until you were twitching in mild discomfort.
"So what if he wants a show? You have given us one already, may as well give another. Slutty girl."
You wanted to tear your hair out.
That promise Satoru lingered in the back of your mind, broken as the two became a permanent fixture in your life despite your protests. At work, they'd run their tiny mouths, egging you on to get off. Stick a pen inside, Satoru would snicker. Sukuna would tell him to shut up, before offering to dive between your legs himself.
There had been one too many occasions where your coworkers would walk in you cursing at yourself, to which you'd have to laugh off the odd behaviour with a shitty excuse. "Flies. Headache, right?"
Disregarding the social aspects of your new dilemma, you also had no privacy. Using the restroom or even taking a shower proved to be a task more difficult than it should've been, with flirtatious comments thrown your way without a second thought.
"What big breasts you have," Satoru gasped, ogling over the front of your shoulder. "Are they for me?"
"No, me. Half-wit," Sukuna scowled, looking at you to see if you'd agree.
"They're for no one, actually. Now silence yourselves before I attempt to drown the two of you." You couldn't, you found out — after almost taking yourself out in the process.
A shame, indeed.
Somehow, your biggest worry had to be the fact that you hadn't masturbated in a while. Prior to the appearance of Satoru and Sukuna, you were able to get off a few times a week. Now, you were face to face with a dry spell that seemed like it wouldn't go any time soon — unless you gave in and touched yourself regardless if they were watching or not.
You were prone to snapping more at them both, and Satoru spoke out one day, confirming both of their suspicions about you.
"Jeez, someone's antsy that they haven't had time to stroke their pretty clit in a while."
"It would be a lot easier if you just went at it," Sukuna retorted. "You bought a cucumber, no? Just use that."
"My lack of apparatus isn't the problem," you bit back, flopping onto your bed. "I'm able to orgasm well enough with just my fingers."
"Yeah, we know," Satoru sang, reminding you yet again of how they had always been here at your side — even when you were masturbating alone.
Sukuna pondered for a second, seating himself atop your shoulder, legs dangling down. "Are you getting performance anxiety? We can look away."
His words were followed by a noise of protest from the white-haired angel, who was adamant on seeing your face screw up in pleasure. You shook your head, thighs pressing together. The desperation was becoming unbearable at this rate.
"I can't get off when you're both here, watching like two little voyeurs who have positively ruined my life," you vented, half sitting up now. "Every little thing I do is turned into something sexual and I can't have a moment's peace."
"…okay, but you literally moaned sliding in a sausage between a hot dog bun yesterday—"
"That is irrelevant."
"Is not."
"Is too."
Sukuna groaned, rubbing at his temples with two of his four hands. He saw a simple solution, yet neither of you two were able to shut up for a single moment. So he cleared his throat and spoke, voice bellowing louder than you had ever heard it before, commanding both of your attention. Satoru swooned. You gulped.
"Now if both of you are done, I would like to propose a way to amend your ... sexual frustrations."
He paused for dramatic effect, causing your face to fall into a deadpan state. "On with it."
"We both fuck you."
…
"And how do you propose you both do that, exactly?" You snapped at the devil. "Because that second get down there, my pussy is swallowing you both whole and you're getting lost in there."
Satoru sighed, eyes fluttering shut at the prospect. "Wouldn't mind that, pretty lady."
"Quiet."
Sukuna went on. "I mean, we could both show you. As long as you are up for it."
"Never. Not in a million years."
Satoru shrugged, leaning back on his hands. He knew all he had to do was do a little sweet talking, and you'd be putty right under his angelic little hands. "Suit yourself, baby. But… is it so wrong of us to want to make you feel good? To give you that orgasm that you've been craving for so, so long?"
You didn't answer, slumping against the warm sheets.
"I know you want it. Just let us take over, get rid of that silly ache between your thighs."
"You are far too easy on her," Sukuna rumbled, joining in on the fun. His breath was warm against the shell of your ear, causing your own breathing to deepen. "I am sure she would rather listen to how much I want to ravage her, stuff her full with my twin cocks and leave her screaming—"
"Tch. No thanks," Satoru butted in. "You have to be gentle with a fine thing like her. Make her sing out instead of scream, you brute."
Meanwhile, you were too busy getting hot in the face. You tugged at the collar of your tee, denying the fact that your pussy was probably clenching their names in morse code.
B r e e d m e … she seemed to say.
The devil and the angel noticed your silence, casting each other a knowing look.
"So what's the verdict? Ready to see what we have in store for you?"
With that, you nodded — albeit somewhat reluctantly. Curiosity seemed to win after all.
The slight weight on your left and right shoulders seemed to disappear. It was odd how any sense of relief you should've felt meagre, and you could only blink in the emptiness of your bedroom.
Before they returned again, of course. Bigger, better. The mattress creaked, and the sound of feathers ruffling grew louder.
The pair loomed in front of you, rather predatory grins on either of their faces. Sukuna's muscles seemed to bulge out, a whoosh of air leaving his flared nostrils as he seemed to flex the taut skin. Satoru was slimmer in comparison, but by no means small. His feathers spread out before him in full, ample pecs rippling with the movement.
"Wasn't expecting this, were you?"
Your jaw sagged. Not only were the men at full size, but their voices had changed from that incessant, tinny buzz in your ear to something much deeper, taunting.
Now, you weren't easy by any means — but the speed at which your legs spread was obscenely quick.
"Eager little thing," Sukuna crooned first, situating himself between your parted thighs. He was still standing, and his sheer height forced you to lay down on your back. Two of his four arms braced the sides of your head, and no porn could amount to the sheer lust present on the devil's face at that moment. He had been waiting a long while, and he wasn't about to shrink until he finally had a taste of the sweetness between your thighs.
Of course, so did Satoru. The angel's face turned, and he attempted to barge Sukuna out of the way to no avail. "Fuck— move, you oaf. Are we not sharing?"
"She has two holes, I have two cocks. You are deluded if you think you are getting a taste of her cunt any time soon."
"Sure," Satoru mumbled, moving around the bed and clambering onto it. He sat gracefully on his knees, manoeuvring your head onto his lap as he smiled down at you. "Hey there, sweet thing."
"…Hi."
"You want both of us, right? Tell me it's not just him."
You opened your mouth. closed it, felt something long twitch underneath your head. Suddenly, everything felt right, as if you were where you were meant to be with your angel behind you and your devil in front of you. It was only inevitable that you felt this way sooner or later — after all, they had been with you for your entire life.
A shaky sigh left you. "Yeah," you uttered. But that wasn't enough for the duo.
"Say it with conviction, little one," Sukuna hissed. "Say it as if you mean it. As if you would die without our cocks bulging you out from the inside."
"Please, 'kuna. Want your cocks in me," you began to whine, tone taking on a higher pitch you didn't mean to adopt. Satoru thumbed at your face, stroking your cheeks and raking his fingers through your hair — like he wasn't leaking under you.
He shook his head, speaking up. "And not mine? You wound me, precious."
"N-no, please. Need both of you in me. Please."
"Greedy thing."
And then everything shifted. Your head was flat against the bed, Satoru having straddled your face after shifting his robes to the side. Easy access, he claimed, giving you the full view of his smooth balls and veined cock — long and stiff to the touch. His tip was flushed, dripping steadily over your parted lips. "Say 'ah', pretty."
You opened your mouth, willing your throat to relax as Satoru slipped in. He let out a breathy groan, head tipping back and halo tilting on its axis once you hollowed your cheeks around his aching cock. Sukuna watched with greedy, red eyes — wanting the same treatment.
Satoru looked down fondly, hips moving on their own accord as you swallowed around his cock like it was almost nothing. You gagged here and there, throat constricting when he pushed in too deep. "Ah, sorry. You can h-handle it, can't you, pretty?"
A wet gurgle left you, your body rocking as Satoru used your mouth to get himself off. Sukuna was busy shucking off your undergarments, muttering to himself about how wet your panties were in his grip.
There your pussy was, bared out in the open and glistening with the result of the pair's dirty talk. Sukuna unconsciously licked his lips, lowering himself to a puny human's level just so that he could have a taste.
A fat, wet stripe of his tongue lathered your pussy in his saliva, causing you to jerk at the sudden sensation. The movement lodged Satoru's cock further down your throat, the bulge visible for anyone to see. He keened, whimpering as you slurped down what you could manage — breathing heavily through your nose. "Gonna cum if she keeps this up, ngh…"
"Already, Satoru?" Sukuna chuckled throatily between gulps. He was eating you out with vigour, spitting onto your pussy before diving back in. His tongue plunged in and out of you, lapping up each and every ounce of wetness you had to offer. "I did not take you for a premature ejaculator."
"Sh-shut up," the angel keened in response, covering his face with a large hand. His wings ruffled, as if imitating the twitches of his cock. Sukuna found the sight begrudgingly endearing, peering up through thick lashes at his partner in crime. Then he dipped his head down, letting out a huff of laughter at the shrill squeal that left you.
Sukuna had plans, which was why he was kissing your puckered hole. It was so utterly debauched, the way he circled around your rim before pushing inside with even the slightest warning. Two fingers scissored your pussy open with a squelch, digging around like you had done the first time Satoru and Sukuna had manifested in their physical form. Meanwhile, another two hands kept your thighs open, and a third joined in on prepping your ass.
"M-mmph!" You spluttered around Satoru's thrusting cock. Your holes tightened and loosened sporadically at the foreign intrusion, which you couldn't decide if you enjoyed or not. Ultimately, the sensation of the dual penetration had your cries of protest dulling down to something more husky, more receptive. "Tho pfthfull—"
"Can't understand a word you are saying, woman," Sukuna tutted, slapping meanly at your thigh. You winced at the pain-turned-pleasure blooming across your flesh. Satoru had your back though, kind of.
"Easy on the poor girl," he somewhat purred through his ragged pants. His hand was loosely on top of the bulge in your throat, hips still rocking feverishly. "How is she meant to speak when you're ravishing her cunt with your tongue?"
Sukuna pulled off of you with a resounding pop, tongue darting out to clean whatever wetness he could reach that had accumulated on the lower half of his face. "You sound jealous, foolish angel. Would you rather have my tongue in your tight little pucker instead?"
"You are vile," Satoru spat, stuttering through an orgasm. Sukuna watched, entranced as your throat worked to swallow each drop of the angel's seed. The dirty talk proved to be too much for him to handle, causing him to bow above you as he rode out the aftershocks of his sudden orgasm.
He pulled out of your mouth eventually, mumbling out a weak apology for the abuse he had laid on your poor throat.
"Compensate me for that, by the way. I think I hurt the pretty thing," Satoru sighed, stroking your forehead dramatically. You coughed, dizzy as the men stripped you of all clothing. An onslaught of stimulation made you shudder, breasts moulding to the shape of their greedy hands. Your back was against Satoru's firm chest, and Sukuna had taken it upon himself to sandwich you in between them both.
"Had you not cum at the thought of me eating you out, she wouldn't be hurt," Sukuna simpered, leaning over your shoulder. You gripped his biceps, eyes wide as the men 'bantered'. They were nose to nose, breaths mingling with each other until—
mwah!
You gawked at the sound, the sight of Satoru initiating a cheeky kiss first with the devil. Sukuna withdrew, shocked, before diving back in with double the enthusiasm. Lips collided. Teeth gnashed against each other, a sudden power play initiating where there was no clear victor.
There would've been complaints at the lack of attention you were seeing if not for how arousing this all was, seeing two contrasting beings make out sloppily, until webs of spit connected them both when they separated. Satoru pressed forward, chasing the strings until he was kissing Sukuna once more. "M-mmh…"
You leaned forward yourself, ass pushing back into Satoru's crotch as you nipped at Sukuna's throat — leaving a plethora of hickies he'd have fun showing off the next day. A guttural grunt left him when they finally broke apart, dazed as he focused his lidded eyes back on you.
"Won't you give me it now? I've been so patient," you pleaded, interrupted when Satoru turned your face to meet his.
He pecked you teasingly, squishing your cheeks with his set of long fingers. "Be specific now. Tell your dear Satoru what you needed from me properly." Sukuna nodded, disrobing. You tried to look, but Satoru's hand kept you in place. "Say it."
"Give me your cocks. Fill me up, any… anything. Please, I've been waiting," you continued, almost tearing up at how painfully empty you felt all of a sudden.
And then, a sudden pressure, smooched at your pussy. It glided up to your clit first, then back down before pushing in. A choked gasp tore out of your throat, nails digging into Sukuna's arms, shoulders, back as his upper cock pushed in. At the same time, Satoru eased his tip into your ass, a new sensation that had you wailing into the crook of Sukuna's neck.
"Shh, you can take it, can't you?" The angel rasped, shaking as your virgin hole tried milking him dry. He wasn't a cruel angel, mostly — which was why he waited, why he didn't push in any further. You nodded to the best of your ability, holding on for dear life.
Sukuna didn't wait, however. Your pussy was greedy, swallowing up his length which definitely had a thicker girth than Satoru's did. The veins were plump, angry as they bullied their way inside you. The devil's lower cock rubbed between the sensitive space between both of your holes — but you barely noticed when Satoru pushed the slightest bit deeper inside of you.
"Stop prodding my dick with yours," he breathed, fondling your breasts with the little space he had between you and Sukuna's flushed bodies. "You'll give a man ideas."
"You only getting ideas after your lips were against mine? You jest, surely," Sukuna questioned, perplexed. He thrust into you at a languid pace, the tendons of his neck stretching as he rolled his shoulders back to prop you up against him properly. Satoru merely shrugged, peppering your bare shoulders with affectionate little pecks.
"Talk about this when we're done fucking our lady. Look at her, sulking at the lack of attention."
"S-stop, 'm not sulking," you denied, folded in half now as the men fucked you at the same time. All words were thoroughly pushed out of you, pleasure brought to the forefront of your mind — until your eyelids drooped and the soft uh's that left you were the only thing you could bring yourself to say.
"The look on your face is rather— shit, erotic," Sukuna teased, throat bobbing when your pussy convulsed with an impending orgasm. "You're close, I can feel it."
"Already?" Satoru let out a quiet whine, coaxing another inch inside of your ass. "I haven't even bottomed out yet."
Sukuna had, though — balls slapping against the curve of your rear as he fucked you to the very hilt. The wet patch of hair at the base grazed against yours, the devil's hips gyrating in a circular movement. It stimulated your clit, making your muscles tense and relax repeatedly.
Satoru was shaking his head, almost to the point of tears when your ass clenched, refusing to let go. "Gonna cum, baby. Gonna cum in this sweet hole 'n lick it aaalll up after. You want that, baby? You want me to—"
"Quit your rambling and make her cum, fool," Sukuna gritted through his teeth, thumb rolling your clit with purpose. Satoru huffed, but eventually relented — sucking at your earlobe as his hips plapped against your ass. "She's there, she's nearly there. Theeere we go, see?"
"Cumming, ohmygod—!" You squealed, toes curled and a burst of moisture spraying Sukuna right in the chest. His pert nipples glistened with your wetness. It dripped down his chiseled stomach, all the way down until it splattered down both of the men's cocks and onto the ruined sheets below.
Only then did Satoru spill a hot load inside of you, eyes rolling back like he had been possessed.
It triggered Sukuna's orgasm, who had bit down onto your throat to hold his husky groans back — to no avail. Ropes of cum, bitter to the taste, filled you up from both ends. Cursed creampies, the devil would joke, had he been in an appropriate state of mind, but your pussy was hot and Sukuna was a goner for the way you clung onto him like a vice.
You didn't know who recovered first, only dimly aware the three of you were lying down. Satoru was barely conscious anyway, mumbling about how good you felt around him. Sukuna hovered over you, all four eyes on his release spurting out of you in thick globs. It took everything in him to look away, to not fuck you again when you were so clearly spent.
"Apologies, dove. I will have you cleaned."
But his words fell on deaf ears as unconsciousness gripped you tight — much like the way you clung onto Sukuna's hands, refusing to let go.
════════════════
"This one?"
"No, put that other one on, the one with the— yeah."
"Again, you glorified chicken? Homosexuals do not arouse me."
You sighed for the nth time that night, cosied up beside the two nuisances that had admittedly made your life much more interesting. Sukuna fucked you. So did Satoru. Sometimes they fucked you at the same time. Hell, they even fucked each other.
Long weeks had passed since your first time with the two, and honestly? Despite your initial apprehension, all of the embarrassment you felt had disappeared, and they no longer felt like a nuisance in your life.
Letting them introduce you to a new world of pleasure was certainly the best decision you had made in a long time — and all it took was a little bit of tentacle porn to get that started.
Likes, reblogs, and comments appreciated. Thank you for reading <3
I am once again begging people to realize that AI checker doesn’t work. it’s never worked. it’s notoriously known to have flagged human-made works as AI and AI-generated works as human-made. and by feeding it people’s works, you are feeding more works to AI, because apparently the machine itself is AI.
the only thing AI checker does is harm genuine artists and people in general too.
series synopsis | you’re not looking for love, you never are. satoru gojo won’t stop tripping over himself trying to give it to you. the frat president with too much heart and the girl who swears she doesn’t have one. what starts as a mutual agreement of keeping things strictly physical becomes complicated when the one rule you had of no feelings involved becomes the one he breaks long before he’d ever learned your name. [mdni 18+]
chapters
⋆☀︎｡ prologue
⋆☀︎｡ one
⋆☀︎｡ two
⋆☀︎｡ three
⋆☀︎｡ four - coming soon
⋆☀︎｡ five - tbd
⋆☀︎｡ six - tbd
⋆☀︎｡ seven - tbd
⋆☀︎｡ eight - tbd
⋆☀︎｡ nine - tbd
⋆☀︎｡ ten - tbd
⋆☀︎｡ eleven - tbd
⋆☀︎｡ twelve - tbd
⋆☀︎｡ thirteen - tbd
⋆☀︎｡ fourteen - tbd
⋆☀︎｡ fifteen - tbd
one-shots
⋆☀︎｡ crossing the line | you're on your period and satoru realizes you don't need him anymore
⋆☀︎｡ jealousy, jealousy | satoru gojo learns that maybe he is the jealous type
smau
⋆☀︎｡ texts + posts [gojo x trouble]
credits - dividers by @/uzmacchiato - art by @/ruu_sugu
18+ ❤︎ . . . when a mission with him goes terribly wrong and ends with him deep in your guts...
satoru gojo ℘ fem!sorcerer!reader . . . aphrodisiac ( reader affected ) : reader is kind of mean but he's into it, canon-universe — explicit smut !! oral (fem rec.), fingering, p in v, slight overstim, cock drunk reader, messy confessions, mutual pining, slight brat taming, cocky gojo, reader cries during sex, orgasm denial ( in a way.. ), slight after care, cutetiful ending ♡ w.c 8.2k
you and satoru gojo were partners. best friends even.
in his eyes at least.
no matter how many times you swore you hated him whenever he pissed you off, he was somehow insanely persistent in trying to get you to like him. it was as if riling you up was his love language.
not that you didn’t like him — you did. more than you should. you just didn’t show it very well, per se..
you were kind of like a black cat girlfriend to him, while he was your golden retriever boyfriend. and he knew it. always did. even when he insisted on asking you the stupidest questions:
“so! if i got bit by a snake on my dick, would you suck the venom out to save my life?”
...
“what the fuck is wrong with you?”
yeah…
so even if he was the strongest sorcerer alive, he still insisted on tagging along on your missions whenever he could. not because you needed protection—you were perfectly capable of handling yourself—but simply because, according to him, you were his favorite person.
“and you are here again because..?” you hummed, stepping through the warped entrance of the abandoned inn where the special grade cursed object was rumored to be hidden, floorboards creaking softly beneath your feet.
behind you, gojo followed without a shred of caution, hands tucked behind his head like some sort of casual stroll instead of a mission for grade one and above.
he chuckled. “why can’t i? i just wanna spend time with my favorite girl.” his voice tilted into a teasing sing-song. “don’t act like you hate it~”
you stopped and turned to face him.
“im not acting. and since you’re here,” you began flatly, crossing your arms, “why don’t you ... go find whatever it is we’re looking for.”
he gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “i came all this way and yet you decide to dismiss me? i guess they were right…” he sighed, shaking his head. “you truly are a cruel woman.”
your eyes widened and you slapped his chest. “what? whose they?!”
he let out that stupid familiar giggle of his before turning and dashing off in the opposite direction, disappearing down the dark hallway.
“stupid idiot…” you huffed under your breath.
you wandered through the inn for a while, your flashlight sweeping slowly across warped walls and half opened doors as the old hallways creaked with every careful step.
the place smelled like dust and rotting wood, the kind of quiet that made every little noise feel louder than it should be.
you walked endlessly, the hours blurring together as every room you entered stood just as the last—dusty, abandoned, and hollow.
and despite knowing satoru was somewhere nearby, you couldn’t help the small tension settling in your shoulders.
“satoru?” you called once, mostly out of habit.
no response.
rolling your eyes, you continued down the hall, pushing another door open with your foot and flashing the light around the empty room before stepping back into the corridor—only for a voice to suddenly appear right behind you.
“boo.”
you yelped. the sound tore out of you before you could stop it, your flashlight jerking wildly as you spun around to find gojo standing there, already laughing.
god you just wanted to slap that infuriating smirk off his face. or kiss it off. you weren’t exactly sure of anything whenever it came to him…
“satoru!” you snapped, slapping his chest again, warmth spreading in your face from embarrassment. your punches and hits always landed easily, because, for reasons you’d never quite questioned, satoru gojo never kept his infinity up around you.
you dusted yourself off, ignoring the crippling wave of embarrassment that washed over you. “have you seen anything?”
even behind the fabric of his blindfold, it felt like his gaze hadn’t left you. it was always so heavy, unwavering, like he could you and pin you in place with his eyes alone if he really wanted to.
“nope!”
“gosh.. you are seriously useless.” you muttered, walking toward one of the last rooms in the hallway. one where the cursed energy felt strongest.
“well you could try to be nicer to me instead of mouthing off to me all the time, maybe i’d be nicer to you.” he pouted, following right behind you.
“really? be nice? how old are you again???”
in the center of the room sat an old incense box, the wood darkened with age and wrapped loosely in forgotten talismans. you knelt down beside it while gojo leaned against the doorway behind you.
“seriously…?” you murmured, opening the box. a faint pink mist drifted upward, slow and almost pretty in the dim light.
“this is our cursed object? they couldn’t have sent one of the second years? ridiculous.”
the scent that followed was surprisingly sweet and warm, something soft and calming that made you pause for a second longer than you meant to.
you took a breath.
“uh..” gojo spoke suddenly from the doorway, his voice losing some of its usual laziness. “i don't think you should go around sniffing random cursed objects princess.”
you huffed, rolling your eyes. “whatever.. besides, what did i tell you about the pet names?”
“well, i think they're cute.” he hummed, taking the box from your hands, slender, cool fingers brushing briefly against yours before he snapped the box shut with a quiet thud. the sudden shift in his energy left you slightly confused, but he only gave you a reassuring smile like nothing had happened.
“i’ll call ijichi and we’ll be on our way, yeah?”
you nodded slowly, thinking nothing of it.
the two of you waited outside the inn with your arms crossed against the cool night air while gojo paced in loose circles nearby, talking loudly enough into the phone that you could hear half the conversation even from where you stood.
when he finally finished, he stuffed the cursed object into his pocket.
“good news!” he announced. “ijichi said it’ll be handled. bad news is he thinks it’s some weird—”
oh.
satoru's voice softened slightly. “hey.. you okay?”
you blinked at him slowly.
there was a warmth spreading in your stomach that wasn’t there before, a heavy, unfamiliar sensation making your thoughts feel a little slower, a little foggier around the edges. you pushed yourself straighter against the street pole, trying to ignore how your face felt slightly warmer than it should.
especially around gojo out of all people.
“m’fine…” voice small in a way he’d never heard before.
that’s when he noticed it properly.
you, who never slipped. you, who never needed anything from everybody, especially not from him. the weariness and hesitance in your eyes.
“you don’t look very okay..”
he frowned slightly, stepping closer, his hand rested lightly on your arm as he spoke. “you sure? you look sick. if you want i can get us to shoko and—”
and the warmth in your stomach sharpened, more intense than before.
“—no!” you blurted suddenly, louder than you meant to.
gojo blinked.
“sorry,” you said quickly, already turning away from him. “no. i- i’m gonna go home, you can wrap this up.” you huffed, breath more shaky and worn out than you’d like it to be.
the night air clung to your skin, biting and sharp, a stark contrast to the warmth still lingering in your body. the moment hung quiet, too quiet, before gojo shifted closer, spinning you back around gently.
his free hand lifted, cool fingers brushing your cheek as he gently angled your face toward him. the chill of his touch seeped into your warmth, but this time there was nothing casual about it. his movements slowed, more deliberate as he studied you.
his thumb hovered near your cheekbone, lightly turning your face side to side checking for any physical markings as for what was making you act so strange.
“how can you even go home like this? i'm serious, let me.” he muttered under his breath, the usual teasing edge in his voice replaced with worry.
a soft whine slipped from your lips, more reflex than intentional, and you immediately swatted his hand away—half protest, half instinct—breaking the contact as you huffed in quiet defiance.
“i’m serious too.” annoyance bubbled in your chest, turning on your heel and storming off into the night, leaving behind a very confused satoru.
+ ❤︎ ℘
as soon as you got home, you showered.
once.
then twice.
letting the cold water run over your skin until your fingers went slightly numb and your breathing felt slower under the steady hiss of the faucet. the warmth in your stomach didn’t leave. it only sat there stubbornly, dull and heavy like something pressing quietly beneath your thoughts.
you turned the water colder, leaning your forehead briefly against the tiled wall, trying to focus on anything else — the sound of water hitting the floor, the faint echo of your own breathing in the empty bathroom — but every time you closed your eyes you kept remembering the way he had touched your arm earlier, light and warm and far too distracting to shake off.
fuck.
it felt like your body couldn’t settle no matter what you tried, you changed into the lightest, thinnest clothes you had, hoping the strange heat under your skin would ease even a little bit.
but it didn’t.
satoru had been pacing the emptied out office ever since you went home, anxiety slowly gnawing at the back of his mind. it had been hours—no call, no text, nothing at all—and even though he told himself you were probably just resting.
the silence felt wrong.
so when his phone finally lit up with your name and his favorite photo of the two of you: where you had fallen asleep and slumped against his shoulder on the train back home, cheek squishing against his chest — his heart fluttered with a pang of hope before he answered.
“hey, i was just thinking of you,” he said when he picked up, voice instantly softening. “did you get home safely?”
he frowned when you didn’t answer right away. “uh, helloooo?”
on the other end of the line, you were clutching your phone tightly, his voice alone making the strange warmth in your chest feel sharper, harder to ignore.
“satoru—” you called, practically moaning out his name, breath uneven. body burning in embarrassment and taut with need as you buried your face into the arm of your couch, the scratchy fabric pressing against your sweaty forehead.
“i’ve tried everything. my fingers, my fucking shower head, my vibrator–” you whined, voice strained as you couldn’t stop yourself from blubbering everything out to him.
“i just— s’no use.” you wailed in defeat. the way your top brushed against your overly sensitive nipples each time you moved, the way your panties rubbed against your throbbing clit — it was all so overbearing, you couldn’t even think properly.
poor satoru couldn’t help but feel like a pervert.
the image of your legs spread, cunt swollen and fluttering around nothing, desperate to relieve the ache... just front and center in his mind, making his chest flutter. and well..
his dick throb in his trousers.
“hey, hey,” he said quickly, doing his best to ignore the slow strain against fabric. “it’s alright. what do you need me to do?”
“can you come over? please.”
the words were quiet, but they carried a weight he understood immediately.
not just any “come over.”
that kind of “come over.”
“be there in ten.”
“no.” you said immediately, voice stubborn and a little whiny. “five.”
he huffed quietly on the other end of the line.
“…fine. i’ll be there in three.”
you could’ve swore you heard the man smirking as he spoke.
truthfully, satoru wasn’t sure he had ever moved this fast in his life. he made a quick stop at a 24 hour convenience store on the way to yours.
if whatever this shit was had you asking for his help and using your manners???? it had to have been serious.
he avoided eye contact with the elderly lady at the register while she scanned his items, a faint beep cutting through the silence.
his items of choice?
a container of your favorite flavored mochi’s.
for you! post sex..
and a box of xl condoms.
also.. for you.. during sex.. if the two of you were to have sex that is.
soon enough, satoru was standing at your front door in just about two minutes, thanks to his inhuman abilities of course.
he was also a man who, annoyingly enough, did stick to his word.
he knocked once.
no answer.
he was about to knock again when the door suddenly swung open, revealing you standing there. a soft sheen of sweat on your skin, eyebrows knitted together in irritation—or arousal—lips stubbornly pouting while your body was enveloped by one of his worn out shirts with some faded digimon print on it—the same one he had left at your house last time he was there.
worn because you likely wanted to hide the fact you only had panties on under there.
“you said three minutes,” you said, frowning up at him
“yes. and i got here in two princess.” his tone was light, but his gaze dipped briefly below your chest, taking in the scene in front of him.
normally, his pet names pissed you off. so what the hell was this? why were you getting lightheaded??
“…is that my shirt?” he hummed, unable to fully hide the amusement threading through his voice, a grin already tugging at his lips, “—where exactly are your pants?”
you let out a groan, already regretting calling him in the first place. “it’s too hot for anything else.” you muttered, pulling the fabric of the shirt down a little.
as if that would make a difference…
you glanced down at the bag in his hand, raising an eyebrow, ignoring the way your pussy throbbed maddeningly at the sight and faint smell of him.
he noticed the shift.
of course he did.
his head tilted just slightly, quietly piecing together a thought he didn’t bother to say out loud, the corner of his mouth tugging up in quiet amusement.
“it’s stuff for you, don’t worry about it,” he spoke with a small, reassuring smile.
he stepped inside fully, the door clicking shut behind him as he locked it without a second thought.
“you’re gonna listen to me for a bit, yeah?”
his voice was light. easy. infuriatingly so.
his hand came up anyway, despite the fact you usually punched him if he tried, tilting your chin just enough to make sure you were looking at him.
his touch softened, less insistent now, more reassuring than anything.
“don’t get shy on me now,” he murmured, voice dipping just enough to make your breath catch.. “what is it you want?”
your breath hitched. “i… i wanna see you. please.” you mewled, embarrassed at how such a low level curse made your libido and sex drive skyrocket – to a point beyond your control.
he caught on right away.
slowly, he lifted his blindfold and unraveled it, the fabric falling away in one smooth motion. his blue eyes were clearer now without the barrier, sharp but unusually soft when they settled on you, the loose strands of his hair framing his face in a way that made your chest tighten.
you didn’t think about what was to come next. couldn’t, really.
the words died somewhere between your thoughts and your tongue, and before your mind caught up, you grabbed him by the collar, pulling him closer on pure instinct, locking your lips with his in a bruising kiss.
one large hand shot up instinctively, steadying you, while his eyes fluttered shut for a split second. he leaned down, meeting your eager lips.
he caught himself with ease, grip on you firm but controlled. satoru had always been ready for anything… just not that.
as you clung to his jacket, satoru tossed the bag aside—quick, almost careless in its urgency.
with his blindfold gone, his sharp gaze met yours without anything in the way. one hand settled on your hip, firm enough to steady you, but gentle in its hold—quietly letting you take the lead, giving you exactly what you needed.
you pushed him back until the couch hit the back of his knees, forcing him to drop down onto it with a soft thud, instantly following him down, settling on top of him.
a soft grunt slipped from him as you crashed into him, your whole body shuddering before you buried your face into the crook of his neck, trying to regain some form of self control.
you let out an embarrassingly loud moan as you slotted yourself right over his clothed cock, warmth seeping through the point of contact and spreading throughout your body.
“fuck… m'sorry toru,” you groaned, your face burning with embarrassment, frustration, and something you couldn’t name.
his breath hitched. toru…? well that was new.
he blinked, caught off guard, a grin threatening to slip past his composure. fingers tightening just enough on your hip, not to control, just… to keep you upright.
“…toru, huh?” his voice was low, teasing, but there was something raw beneath it, something he barely recognized in himself.
his smile dropped slightly when you didn’t indulge in his teasing.
“hey… look at me,” he hummed, gently tilting your head up, his finger resting lightly under your chin as he guided your face toward his. “don’t apologize, okay? aphrodisiacs aren’t that bad… you just need a bit of help is all.”
his hands settled at your waist to steady you, thumb brushing lightly against your sides as he met your gaze.
your eyes kept avoiding his, unable to settle. he noticed, gently tilting your chin up once more to meet him halfway.
“nuh uh—eyes on me, princess,” he murmured. “i’ll only do anything you want,” he hummed, booping your nose, making you blink abruptly.
“now tell me,” his teasing tone returned, though his gaze remained attentive. “this you or that cursed thing talkin'?”
you scanned his face rapidly, heat pooling in your stomach, growing heavier the closer he leaned. his large hands molded against your curves with ease, and his scent—soft, yet intoxicating—made it impossible to think straight.
“i—” you tried, but the word caught uselessly in your throat.
he cocked his head to the side, gaze sharp behind the faintest smirk. “don’t tell me you’ve gone all shy on me...” he murmured, his thumb pressing soft, steady strokes against your hip. “you were just mouthing off to me a couple of seconds ago.”
your grip on his shirt tightened immediately.
“yes—fuck, it’s me talking, satoru!”
his gaze lingered on you, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “yeah… i know,” he murmured softly. “that’s my girl. we’ll go at your pace.”
you groaned, still visibly annoyed, though the edge in your voice gave you away. “you don't need to coddle me satoru…” you muttered, pout lingering.
he let out a quiet breath, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “sorry for trying to play nice,” he murmured, though there was no real bite to it. “don’t wanna break you sweetheart... now c’mere.”
his hand slipped to the back of your head, steadying you as he kissed you first. slow, deliberate, giving you time to change your mind.
a chance to back out.
you let out a sigh as his lips met yours again, hands gripping at his jacket, entire body on fire as your hips moved on their own, gently grinding against him.
a purr of delight rumbled inside his throat as your hands hiked up underneath his shirt, tongues brushing against each other in tandem. you moaned into his mouth as his hands found your hips, rolling you against him, firmer than you had been doing — an attempt to ease the raging pool of arousal in you.
and only after a long, quiet moment did he pull back just enough to breathe, eventually (and regrettably) pulling from your lips, a string of saliva bridging the gap between you two. his forehead still hovered near yours, close enough to feel every shallow inhale you took.
“please… toru,” you whispered, voice small, urgent, almost trembling. “i need it…” grinding down on him once more, a spark of warmth building up and throughout your nerves.
he let out a quiet, breathy chuckle, tilting his head at you.
“mouth or fingers then?”
…
“w-what?”
you fumbled over your words, the need coiling tight in your chest, twisting sharper with every second he kept teasing.
if anything, it only made you wetter.
“w-w-what?” he echoed, a quiet laugh slipping out. “you heard me. mouth or fingers—pick.”
“now’s not the time to be fucking around, you dickhead,” you bit out, your voice tighter than you meant it to be.
you hated it—hated how he was still trying to be playful when you felt like you were falling apart inside.
he always knew exactly which buttons to push.
and somehow, you always reacted anyway.
“fucking around? i just want to be thorough.” his voice low but not unkind.
…
“h-hands…” you muttered, barely getting the word out, eyes refusing to meet his.
he let out a soft chuckle, clearly entertained, canines catching in the dim moonlight that creeped in through the cracked curtains. “there it is,” he murmured. “see? that wasn’t so hard.”
he hummed, a faint smile playing at his lips, canines catching the dim light.
“though, i was hoping you’d aim higher.” — making you roll your eyes with a heavy scoff.
normally, you’d tell him off. tell the six-eyed freak to go fuck himself.
but not tonight.
tonight was different.
he shifted slightly, guiding you with careful, deliberate movements until your back rested against the arm of the couch, lowering himself to his knees in front of you.
your thighs pressed together instinctively, a small whimper slipping out as if you could hide from him—hide how badly you really wanted it.
“c’mon… what'd i say about getting shy?” he murmured.
“can’t help you if you’re hiding from me pretty.” his grip shifted, and with an almost unfair ease, he used just the span of his hand—thumb and pinky guiding your legs apart, your slick having already soaked through the thin cotton of your panties.
if you knew satoru gojo was going to be fingering you until you came all over his hands tonight… then you definitely would’ve worn something a lot cuter.
maybe something silky, with lace around the edges, something easy to slip off.
but it’s not like he minded.
his breath caught in his throat. “…fuck,” whispering under his breath. and for a brief moment, his usual composure slipped. his gaze lingering just a second longer than before..
he was just so fucking obsessed with you.
with one slender digit, he hooked your panties, knuckle slightly grazing your entrance, collecting some of your slick along his knuckle. he pushed your panties aside with a slow, careful motion. exposing your sopping cunt to the cool night air.
after about a minute of tense silence, he hadn’t even realized he’d been gawking at your pussy. he couldn’t help himself. the way it was practically leaking, every curve, every clench.
so fucking pretty…
“satoru!”
he blinked, dragged back to the moment, and after a brief pause, finally looked up at you, a faint chuckle escaping.
“heh… sorry.” his voice steadied again. “just tell me if it feels good, okay?”
and with that, he inserted two of his slender digits past your wet folds, your juices coating his fingers entirely as he slipped in and out of you. a loud, sinful ‘shlick’ shattering the quiet of your living room.
your jaw went slack and your eyelids fluttered shut instantly with a loud moan as he angled them deep inside you, occasionally curling up and reaching spots you couldn’t even dream of reaching yourself—whining each time he did so.
you reached for the nearest couch cushion and pulled it over your face, attempting to muffle your moans, but you just couldn’t help yourself.
you weren’t normally vocal in bed. you had no reason to be, not with others or when you got off on your own.
you couldn’t tell if it was satoru’s effect on you… or just the curse wearing you down.
everything felt contradictory, like it shouldn't make sense.
and yet… it did.
it felt wrong and right all at once, as if somehow, he was the only one meant to see you like this.
it just felt so good. so perfect.
you bit your lip, holding back a sob, trying to ignore the aching in your tummy temporarily ceased to make way to utter bliss as waves of pleasure wash over you.
his free hand lifted, fingers catching the edge of the cushion. he didn’t yank it away.. instead, he tugged it down slowly, giving you a chance to stop him.
but you didn't.
“you’re doing a terrible job of hiding from me, you know that?” he hummed, tossing the cushion somewhere behind him.
“such a messy girl..” he added, adoration oozing through his voice. the way your cunt refused to let go of his fingers was almost hypnotizing, his knuckles glistening in whatever light came through the curtains, covered in your wetness.
“better than your own?” he hummed.
though it may have come across as condescending in practice, there was a hint of concern underneath it. his tone softened just enough to reveal something more genuine beneath the usual teasing edge.
“t-toru… fuck,” you whined, tears already brimming at the corners of your eyes.
“yes! somuchbetter.” mewling as he continued to work your pussy open.
his smirk widened, eyes sparkling with mischief.
“you mean that?” he asked, tone playful, cocky, as if daring you to take it back.
he wasn’t going to let you live that down.
not ever.
“hmm… that good, huh?” he murmured, leaning just a little closer, thumbs brushing at your waist, letting you feel him, letting you know he knew exactly what he was doing.
“you sound way too easy to please, princess.”
“please. just. shut. up— hngh–!”
your complaints died in your throat, as an unexpected stretch pulled at you, sharp and delicious, and you couldn’t help the gasp that escaped.
satoru had added another digit.
“gojo—” you choked. “toru! w-wait—” writhing against his grip, mind going fuzzy.
without a second thought, his other arm wrapped around your thigh, hand slithering down with deliberate ease, thumb circling your clit with a quick light hand, making you arch into the couch. moans getting louder with each press and swipe.
“i take it you like it?” hummed, curling all three his fingers up against you, his fingers grazing a perfect spot inside you, vision going hazy as your pussy clenching desperately around his digits, refusing to let go.
“hah… easy…” he hummed, watching the way your body tensed under him.
there weren’t enough words in any dictionary to capture how overwhelming it all felt.
too urgent, yet the perfect pace.
like it had been building far longer than you’d like to admit. everything amplified beyond reason, leaving you breathless and overwhelmed.
you needed this. needed him.
but still… it wasn’t enough. the aphrodisiac clawed at your senses, twisting every nerve into ache and frustration rather than pleasure.
“toru… please… i can’t—” you gasped, desperation lacing every word, trembling against him.
huh…
normally, this would have anyone else gasping and cumming in seconds, he was satoru gojo afterall.
this shit really was taking a number on you.
not that it mattered to gojo. he could keep up just fine.
“yeah… yeah.. of course you cant” he murmured underneath his breath. “you always this hard to handle?”
“j-just stop talking. so fucking—annoying.”
“annoying??” he huffed, warm breath ghosting your cunt.
“i’m hurt. thought you’d have something better for me than that princess.” a low purr escaped him as he brought his fingers to his mouth, savoring the evidence of you as his lips glided over them, tongue insistently circling around his digits, all while making eye contact with you.
every nerve in his body ached. he’d waited for this moment for so long. too long.
his thighs clenched underneath his slacks, his dick pressing up against his zipper, a painfully obvious bulge in his pants.
but he ignored it, for you.
the only thing on his mind was making you feel good. he could handle himself later; right now?
it was all about you.
the couch groaned beneath him as he leaned in, arms snaking around your thighs, yanking you down to his waiting face.
and without a second thought his plush lips latched onto your cunt. his tongue lapped up your juices, slipping in between your folds, eagerly exploring your velvet walls. “oh– satoru!”, you moaned, voice coming out cracked and quiet, eyes snapping shut in pleasure.
you choked on a sob as his tongue dipped lower, teasing your hole, completely drunk on how sweet you tasted. he fought back a smile as he practically made out with your pussy, working you open with his tongue before dragging upwards, tongue pressing flat onto your clit.
you sobbed again, hands flinging down to his messy white strands while he tucked his arms under your thighs.
tighter.
harder.
as if you were trying to run.
well… maybe because you were.
he lifted your hips to meet his mouth. your thighs trembled as your small whimpers filled up the room.
he was good at this. too fucking good.
you gasped, arching against him, brain melting into pure chaos.
tears brimmed at your water line as your body trembled, betraying just how far gone you were.
you tugged on his hair, some sort of signal that you were close. or so you thought.
your pussy pulsed under his tongue as he continued to lap at your hole. tongue swirling faster. the occasional digit plunging inside you over, and over, and over, juices coating his entire hand.
his cock achingly hard, pressing into the couch — the small friction relieving the ache in his pants.
you were certainly going to have a talk with him. about where the hell he learned all this, how he always gets it right, and why it feels like he knows your body better than you do…
you were so out of it, you hadn’t even realized he’d been speaking until a low, humming vibration shot through your body.
“good?” he murmured, muffled by your puffed up folds, reinforced by the soft slurp of him drinking you up.
when you finally forced your eyes open, satoru was already staring straight into you—bright blue eyes cutting through the dim room like he’d been waiting for this exact moment the entire time.
normally. such a sight would've made you cum immediately.
you had the strongest sorcerer on his knees… for you. every movement, every sound he drew from you, made your chest tighten, and your mind screamed at you: how the hell is this happening?
but the loudest thought pounding through your dazed brain was simple.
more.
your thighs began to quiver, hot tears of frustration spilling down your cheeks before you slapped your hands over your face—and out of his hair—letting out a frustrated groan.
your body didn’t wanna let you come.
it was the same thing over and over again: the pleasure built, warmth spreading, but no peak. it was never enough.
normally, crying in front of someone didn’t faze you—no one would believe them if they tried to say otherwise. so why did it feel different with satoru?
he noticed immediately, a wet pop breaking the quiet as he paused, wiping his face with his sleeve, leaving a dark mark on the navy fabric. his eyes met yours as he rose to his knees, eyebrows furrowed as he took in your flushed, trembling body.
“fuck… was it too much? i—”
“fuck me.”
he froze, eyes wide. “what?”
you sat up on your elbows, cheeks wet with tears, lips red from biting down on them so much.
it was so incredibly sexy.
“need your cock— toru. fuck me.”
he blinked once, them twice. “well, that escalated real fast..” he murmured. “you sure about that angel? or are you just talking all big again?”
“do it.”
“bold,” he chuckled under his breath. “but i didn’t hear a ‘please’,” a faint smirk forming. “try again, sweetheart.”
you groaned, hands gripping into the couch, brows furrowing.
“please.” you deadpanned.
“pretty please with a—”
“satoru!!”
he broke into a quiet laugh, clearly entertained, shoulders easing as he looked at you again. “alright, alright,” he murmured, still smiling. “you don’t have to shout.”
“where do you want it? here or—”
“—bed. now please.”
without another word, he scooped you up in his arms, carrying you effortlessly and placing you gently onto the mattress.
he leaned over you, slotting himself in between your legs caging you in completely, capturing your lips in a messy bruising kiss.
he pulled away from you, leaving you panting, that maddening, insufferable flutter in your stomach returning tenfold.
in one swift motion, he stripped off his uniform, tossing it somewhere across your room, revealing a chest and arms sculpted like they’d been carved from stone.
every muscle was defined, taut and powerful, a perfect balance of strength and sleekness. his shoulders were broad, his biceps solid yet flexible, his torso a masterclass in controlled power.
even the faint line of his abs beneath the pale skin hinted at raw endurance.
underneath all those fabrics, satoru gojo was full muscle. a sleeper build if you’d ever seen one.
he couldn’t help but let out a low, amused chuckle as you shamelessly ogled him, eyes wide and stomach twisting.
his gaze lingered on you as he exhaled a quiet chuckle.
“go ahead, princess. it’s all yours.”
you let out a small whimper, pushing yourself up onto your knees, hands instinctively finding his waistband.
your hands trembled slightly as you gripped the waistband, tugging slowly, deliberately. every motion was careful, teasingly slow, letting satoru see exactly how desperate you were, every second stretching out, electric with tension.
his eyes stayed locked on you, bright and sharp, a small smile tugging at his lips. the way he watched you… it made your pulse race even faster, stomach fluttering with anticipation.
after a shaky moment, you finally succeeded, the last piece sliding free under your fingers. you froze mid-motion.
“hello kitty… boxers…?”
your eyes widened, staring up at him.
“what? i have class.” he said, utterly unfazed.
you couldn’t believe you were about to fuck this idiot.
he hummed, interrupting your thought process. “hold on, let me go get something.”
you shot up instantly, grabbing his wrist. “what could you possibly need right now??”
“err… condoms?” he hummed, tilting his head innocently.
condoms.
“satoru. are you fucking serious?” you barked, frustrated and need overriding all rational thought.
“well… yes!” he huffed. “gotta be safe, princess.”
with a sharp tug on the waistband of his boxers, you pulled him forward, and suddenly he was hovering over you again, chest just above yours, a flash of surprise in his bright eyes.
“i’m on the pill,” you murmured, eyes glinting with unadulterated lust. “don’t worry about it.”
he paused for a moment, letting out a low hum. “god… you really are something.” he spoke, a teasing smile tugging at his lips.
then, with a soft, deliberate movement, he pulled back slightly, settling on his knees and locking eyes with you—cocky, amused, and just a little surprised by how bold you were.
he dipped his thumbs into the corners of his boxers, tugging them down completely, his hardened cock coming up with a ‘thwack’ to his stomach.
it looked borderline painful… his tip was a crimson red, clear rivulets of precum dangling off, threatening to hit the sheets beneath.
the weight of it was unmistakable. large, thick, and traced with faint veins that made him feel even more…
big.
it was almost impossible to ignore—you couldn’t help but stare, eyes tracing every twitch, pulse, and everything in between. unsure if you should laugh at the absurdity or flat out cry...
he dipped back down over you, close enough that you could feel his breath fan across your skin, his cock sliding in between your folds, the tip occasionally nudging against your clit, a small squish each time he made contact.
“say the word,” he murmured. “and we stop.”
you shook your head almost immediately, breath uneven.
“does it look like i wanna stop?” wrapping your arms around his neck for support.
his brows lifted slightly, then relaxed as a small smile tugged at his lips.
“fair point. didn’t think you’d be this eager.” he murmured. “…but you tell me if that changes, alright?”
and with that, he lined himself up with your entrance, making your breath hitch in your throat. he tilts your chin up slightly, just enough to meet his gaze, eyes sharp with focus.
“eyes on me pretty.. it's a big stretch.”
he slowly pushes in, inch after inch, your pussy swallowing him entirely, the two of you choking up in unison as he bottomed out inside you.
he filled you up entirely. cunt already spasming around him, nails digging into his back leaving small red crescents.
he was so close you could feel every exhale, every uneven beat of his heart—like it was syncing with yours. and he felt it too.
“fuck—” he choked, voice rougher than before. “are you okay? can i move?”
“satoru.”
“alright, alright…” he huffed, a breath of a laugh slipping through. his forehead dipped closer to yours, lips brushing the air between you.
“so bratty…” he murmured. “maybe i should stop going easy on you.”
“oh please, like you—mmph!”
he silenced you with a hard thrust, knocking the wind out of you.
then another.
and another...
they started coming back to back, all perfectly timed.
and for a minute, neither of you said anything.
the only sounds were the occasional whine from you, a groan from him, and the soft smacks of his sack against the curve of your ass as he gradually sped up finding his rhythm, a white ring already forming around the base of his cock.
lewd thwaps bounced off the walls, filling up the room, his eyes locked onto yours, sharp and unblinking, lips a breath away from your own.
a faint smirk tugged at his lips as he tilted his head, his hand finding the flesh of your hip, voice low and teasing, tickling the shell of your ear.
“this what you needed?” he hummed, lengthy cock stirring up your insides. “hm? some dick—hah—just to make this pretty pussy feel better?”
“satoru—” a pathetic whine ripped through your throat as his mushroom tip grazed one of your sweet spots, picking up his pace, your tits bouncing upwards with each slam, digimon shirt covered in sweat and the smell of sex.
“shh, m’gonna take care of you baby, gonna take care of this pretty pussy, gonna feel so nice..” he hummed, teeth grazing your pulse point.
and unfortunately, you couldn’t deny it.
you felt every inch of him, every movement, and it was impossible to ignore. you always felt this way with him—like the world had narrowed down to nothing but heat and sparks. your vision danced, stars bursting behind your eyes, heart racing, completely undone.
he always made you feel good.
this time it was just with his dick.
your sopping cunt squeezed down on his cock, as if trying to milk him, simply refusing to let go each time he pulled back away from you.
he choked on a laugh, eyes flicking down at you, lips twitching with amusement. “s-so needy…” he murmured.
you tugged him down, just enough to bury your face in the crook of his neck.
he fucked you so good. almost too good.
you weren’t surprised, he was satoru gojo after all. your arms curled around him, clinging tighter, while your body pressed closer, desperate for every inch of contact you could get.
“been thinking about you for so fucking long.” he grunted, the slaps of his hips knocking into you, the force sending waves of shock throughout the meat of your ass. “always wanted you on my cock, to be mine—”
your legs wrapped around his waist, pressing into him instinctively, pushing him deeper inside you. every small movement pressed your bodies together, your arms clinging tight as you let out soft huffs of breathless laughter, face buried in the crook of his neck.
he let out a soft, almost pathetic whimper, chest rising rapidly. “fuck… feel what you do to me baby?” he hummed, pressing a large hand over your tummy, pressing down so that he could feel his cock inside you, drawing out pathetic syrupy moans from you.
his voice was rough. strained.
and just low enough to send shivers down your spine.
satoru was in heaven. the way you clamped down on him refusing to let go of him. the way his cock slid in an’ out of you with ease — a loud wet squelch echoing each time, length completely covered in your juices, the soft sheen of his cock blinding him every time he pulled out of you, just to slam back into you once more.
so wet… and so… nasty.
and all for him.
your mouth went slack, drool pooling at the corner, threatening to spill over. he couldn't help but let out a sharp laugh.
who knew that all you needed was a little bit of dick to act right?
every touch sent shivers down your spine, every stroke of his cock made your pussy flutter helplessly, the way his cock filled you up was so… perfect. his tip grazed every nook and cranny of your walls, a white froth coating your folds and dripping down his sack as they slammed into you.
it was all too much. your folds were puffy from hours of torture pleasure: his slender digits working you open, his tongue lapping up at your cunt like a man starved. and now. this. fucking you so good as if he was trying to imprint himself into every part of you.
you couldn’t even form a proper sentence, just blubbering and whining about how good he felt, how big he was. he pressed down on you further, pressing you into the mattress as he slammed into you, curving up right into your sweet spot.
“such a good girl.. so perfect for me…” he breathed out, eyes locked on you
“ngh!— satoru– pleaseplease–” you whined helplessly, lips finding his flesh, biting down softly to muffle your moans and cries.
“look at youuu…” he murmured, pressing a small kiss to your sweaty forehead.
“so fuckin’ cute. gonna cum all over my cock like the pretty little princess you are?” crooning, as if he wasn't drunk off you and you alone.
he let out an absurd laugh, sharp and breathless, like he couldn’t believe how much he was unraveling under you. “m’close already.. you’re giving me a bad rep here..”
he looked down at you, expecting some sort of answer—only to be met by a small glare, or at least what you were trying to manage. your eyes were hazy, brows scrunched up, and it was laughably pathetic, but in the best way.
he let out a soft huff of laughter.
“right… sorry,” he murmured, smirk tugging at his lips at the fact his dick rendered you speechless.
“f-fuck— toru, m’close—” you whined, burying your face into him, squeezing your eyes shut.
he pulled back just enough to get a good look at your face, taking in the tremble of your lips, the warmth radiating from your cheeks, the sweat glistening off your skin…
so fucking pretty.
“don’t hide that pretty face from me, angel… i wanna see you,” he murmured, placing sloppy kisses along your neck and jaw.
you couldn’t help it—breath coming in short, uneven huffs, eyes locking onto his as if begging for more. your hands curled around his shoulders, clutching him tightly, legs instinctively wrapping closer, pushing him deeper into you.
he chuckled low and absurdly, leaning in so your faces were inches apart, breath mingling. “there you are… see? wanna see your face when you cum all over my cock.”
small, desperate whines escaped your lips, soft and almost helpless, and every tiny movement pressed you harder into him, “satoru—”
before you could react, he cut you off with a bruising kiss, noses knocking together, lips pressing hard and claiming, stealing your breath. your hands fisted against him, pulling him closer, while your legs instinctively curled around his waist, clinging like you couldn’t get enough.
he dragged his tongue from your bottom lip, down to your chin, before placing a sloppy kiss right below it. his hand slid down from your hip, his thumb carelessly found your clit — pressing hard firm circles making you cry out, his hips stuttering and becoming sloppy.
“…fuck… i love you, so perfect f'me” he gasped, voice raw and trembling, eyes locked on yours like he couldn’t look away.
the warmth in your stomach multiplied tenfold, spreading through every nerve and pulse.
“w-what?” you choked dumbly, voice trembling, before your body betrayed you and locked up, every muscle tightening as if it couldn’t handle him.
your orgasm had snuck up on you, hitting you like a truck.
your pussy spasmed helplessly as your lips pressed into a thin line, eyes crossing into each other as all the air got knocked into your lungs, toes curling uselessly in the air.
“that’s ittt...” he purred, smirk tugging at his lips as he watched you shiver, rolling his hips against yours.
soon enough, his own orgasm came rushing up on him, choking on a soft gasp as thick hot rivulets of his seed spilled out inside you.
rocking his hips back and forth, slow and controlled, pubic bone crushing down on you, burying his cock as deep as it can go.
his body locked up over you, thick white ropes still spilling out inside you, his balls clenching until they completely emptied out inside of you.
you slowly regained your senses, breath heaving, the warmth in your tummy slowly dying.
for a quiet moment, the two of you just stayed there, hearts racing in unison. he pulled out of you slowly, thick warmth slowly rolling out from your cunt.
he practically collapsed on top of you for a brief second before rolling onto his back, pulling you with him as he leaned back against the headboard, instinctively settling you on top of him. your head resting on his bare chest, listening to the rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath you..
his hand reached for a nearby throw blanket, careful not to move you too much, dragging it up and over the two of you, covering you both as he settled you against his side.
as your chest rose and fell against his, his touch lingering in your hair, soft and grounding
he let out a small cough.
“did it work?” brow quirking as he glanced down at you.
“uh-huhh,” you croaked out, chest still rising and falling fast, eyes still hazy and utterly exhausted.
another quiet minute passed, him absently stroking your face and tracing lazy patterns along your back.
“i got you mochi,” he spoke softly, his gentle caresses not ceasing.
you lifted your head from his chest like a newborn just learning how to use their motor skills for the first time.
“you did…?”
“mhm… thought it'd make you feel better.. though it might have melted. you didn’t give me a chance to put it in the freezer.” he added with a small chuckle.
“i hate you…” you groaned, plopping your head back onto his chest.
“don’t think you’re off the hook, satoru.” you slurred, poking his cheek lightly.
“wouldn’t dream of it, princess,” he murmured, smirk tugging at his lips, thumb idly tracing along your arm.
“soooo..” he began, brimming with way too much energy for what he just put you through, practically vibrating on the spot. “this means you'll go on a date with me right?”
you blinked up at him, lazy and teasing, then simply patted his cheek.
“don't make it weird.” you hummed, a small smile tugging at your lips.
“i didn't even get to say anything weird..” he pouted incredulously.
“don't have to.”
“date me. please.”
“you seriously are so annoying.”
“considering we just had sex, i can't possibly be that annoying.”
...
with a roll of your eyes, you pressed a small, fleeting kiss to his cheek. the soft press of your lips lingered longer than you intended.
despite your gruff exterior, your heart was pounding in your chest, betraying just how flustered you actually were.
“fine. only one,” you muttered, trying to sound indifferent, though it was clearly a lie.
he blinked, smirk tugging at his lips, eyes glinting with amusement. “hm… i’ll take it,” he said, voice low and playful, tugging you a little closer as if to savor the moment.
he leaned in close, whispering conspiratorially, “you know, one of these days, i’m gonna get you to confess your undying love for me.”
your breath choked up — “dont get greedy.” you huffed before laying back down against him, your cheek squishing against his bare chest.
he pulled you closer, fingers lazily tickling your back.
you were perfect.
absolutely perfect.
❤︎ inspired by this tweet . . . more from me !
likes && reblogs appreciated ໒꒰ྀི っ ⸝⸝ ˂ ꒱ྀིა !
Synopsis: In the midst of a heatwave your AC “breaks” (and you definitely didn’t mess with it) so now you’re at your neighbor’s place a little too underdressed, and you’re absolutely not trying to seduce him—obviously—it just kind of looks that way!
The city is in the middle of a brutal heatwave, and the air in your apartment sits heavy and thick, like a wet blanket you can’t kick off.
It’s a little after nine at night and the temperature inside still feels close to ninety-five. The cheap fan in the corner just pushes the same hot air around, doing nothing but making the sweat on your skin feel stickier. A drop rolls slowly down the back of your neck, slips between your breasts, and disappears into the waistband of the tiny black boy shorts you’re wearing. Your thin white sports bra is already damp, the fabric clinging to your nipples, which have been tight and sensitive for the last half hour just from thinking about what you’re about to do.
You broke the AC on purpose.
A carefully jammed filter and a casual lie to maintenance about how it suddenly died. No one’s coming to fix it anytime soon. Perfect.
Because right next door lives Gojo Satoru.
Your ridiculously attractive neighbor — tall, lean muscle, messy white hair, and those piercing blue eyes that always seem to see straight through you. He’s always walking around in those low grey sweatpants, usually shirtless when he takes the trash out or checks the mail. The kind of man who makes the air feel hotter just by existing.
Tonight you’re done pretending you don’t want him to ruin you.
You check yourself in the mirror one last time. The sports bra barely holds you in. The boy shorts ride high on your ass, the hem digging softly into the flesh. A light sheen of sweat already makes your skin glow. Good. You want to look like you’re melting for him.
Heart thudding, you step into the hallway. The air is only slightly cooler, but you know the second you walk into his place the contrast is going to hit hard. You raise your hand and knock — three firm taps against the door.
It only takes a few seconds before the door opens.
Satoru stands there in nothing but those grey fucking sweatpants slung low on his hips, the waistband sitting just below the sharp cut of his abs. His white hair is damp, a few strands sticking to his forehead like he just stepped out of the shower. Those bright blue eyes sweep over you slowly, taking in every inch — your flushed face, the way the sports bra clings to your chest, the tiny shorts that leave almost nothing to the imagination.
A rush of icy air rolls out from behind him and hits your overheated skin.
You shiver hard. Your nipples tighten instantly against the thin fabric, peaking so obviously there’s no hiding it. Another bead of sweat slides down your sternum and disappears between your breasts. His gaze follows it without shame.
“Evening,” he says, voice low and easy, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “You look like you’re about to melt.”
You fan yourself with one hand, letting your chest rise and fall a little heavier than necessary.
“My AC completely died,” you tell him, keeping your voice soft and a touch breathy. “It’s unbearable in there. I’m serious. I feel like I’m going to pass out if I stay much longer. Can I just hang out in your cold air for twenty minutes? I’ll owe you big time.”
Satoru leans one shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossing loosely over his chest. The movement makes the muscles in his shoulders shift. He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks — eyes drifting over the damp sports bra, the curve of your waist, the way the shorts sit high on your thighs.
The silence stretches, thick and charged. You feel it low in your belly.
Finally he steps aside, tilting his head toward the inside of his apartment.
“Come in.”
The moment you cross the threshold the cold air wraps around you like a shock. You can’t stop the full-body shiver that runs through you. Goosebumps rise across your arms, your stomach, the backs of your thighs. Your nipples ache now, stiff and sensitive, pressing visibly against the wet fabric. The sudden drop in temperature after the stifling hallway makes your skin feel electric.
Satoru closes the door behind you with a quiet click.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he says, casual but with an edge of amusement. “There’s cold water in the fridge. Ice too, if you need it.”
You walk further into the living room, letting your hips sway just enough. The cool air feels incredible on your overheated skin, but it does nothing to ease the heat building between your legs. You can feel his eyes on your ass as you move. You stop near the couch, turn slightly, and stretch your arms overhead, letting the sports bra ride up and expose a glistening strip of your stomach.
A soft sigh escapes you.
“God, that already feels so much better,” you murmur, half to yourself. “I was dying over there.”
Satoru doesn’t sit down. He leans back against the kitchen counter instead, arms still crossed, watching you openly. The front of his sweatpants already shows a noticeable bulge — not fully hard, but definitely interested. The grey fabric clings just enough to outline the thick shape.
You pretend not to notice. Instead you drift closer to the kitchen, stopping a few feet away from him. Another drop of sweat rolls down the side of your neck. You reach up and wipe it away slowly, fingers trailing along your collarbone.
His eyes track every movement.
“You’re still sweating,” he observes, voice quiet but direct. “You sure it’s just the heat?”
You meet his gaze, letting a small smile play on your lips.
“What else would it be?”
Satoru pushes off the counter and takes one step closer. Not enough to touch, but close enough that you can feel the warmth coming off his bare chest despite the blasting AC. The contrast is dizzying — freezing air at your back, his body heat right in front of you.
He reaches past you into the freezer and pulls out a tray of ice cubes. The casual reach brings his arm brushing lightly against the side of your breast for half a second. You inhale sharply.
“Want some ice?” he asks, holding the tray out. His tone is calm, but his eyes have darkened.
Your pulse kicks hard between your legs. You can already feel yourself getting wet, the thin boy shorts starting to stick for reasons that have nothing to do with sweat.
You take the tray from him, letting your fingers linger against his a moment longer than necessary. The cold plastic is a sharp contrast to your hot skin.
“Thank you,” you say softly. You pluck one cube free and bring it to your lips, sucking lightly on the edge while looking up at him. The ice melts fast against your tongue, cold water trickling down your throat.
Satoru’s jaw tightens. His eyes drop to your mouth, then lower.
You trail the melting cube slowly down your neck, letting the icy water run down your chest and soak into the top of your sports bra. The white fabric turns sheer where it gets wet, your hard nipples clearly visible now, dark against the thin material.
A low sound rumbles in his chest — quiet, but you catch it.
“You’re making a mess,” he says, voice a little rougher than before. “Need a towel… or something?”
You tilt your head, letting another drop slide between your breasts.
“Am I?” you ask, all sweet while your clit throbs.
Satoru’s eyes stay fixed on the trail of water. Without a word, he reaches to the side, grabs a clean kitchen towel from the counter, and tosses it to you. You catch it, the fabric still warm
“Clean up before you soak my floor,” he says, tone casual but his voice a little lower than before.
You press the towel to your chest, dabbing slowly at the water, letting the motion drag the damp fabric across your skin. The cold from the melted ice and the warmth of the towel create a confusing contrast that makes your breath hitch.
Satoru watches every second of it.
You set the half-melted cube on the counter and hand the dripping tray back toward him with a small smile.
“Thanks for the ice… and the cold air. I think I’m already feeling a lot better.”
Satoru takes the tray, his fingers brushing yours again. This time his thumb strokes once over your knuckles, slow and deliberate.
“Anytime,” he says, voice low. “Door’s open if you need it.”
He pops the remaining piece of ice into his own mouth and sucks on it while his eyes stay locked on yours. The wet sound is obscene in the quiet apartment.
You should leave now — let the tension simmer so you can come back tomorrow wearing even less.
But your feet don’t move.
And Satoru doesn’t tell you to go.
The cold air keeps blowing. Your skin is still flushed.
You dab at your chest one last time with the towel, then fold it neatly and set it on the counter. The sheer patch on your sports bra is still damp, clinging in a way that makes the fabric almost transparent in places. Satoru’s eyes flick down to it again before returning to your face.
“Want something cold to drink?” he asks, turning toward the fridge without waiting for an answer. He pulls out two bottles of water, the condensation already beading on the plastic. He hands one to you, fingers brushing yours for the third time tonight. This brush lingers a second longer.
“Thanks,” you murmur, twisting the cap off and taking a slow sip. The icy water slides down your throat, a sharp contrast to the heat still simmering under your skin.
Satoru leans back against the counter again, uncapping his own bottle and drinking without taking his eyes off you. The kitchen light casts shadows along the lines of his abs and the sharp cut of his hips where the sweatpants sit low. You let your gaze drift there for a moment, then back up to his face, letting him see that you looked.
The silence stretches, comfortable but heavy. The only sounds are the low hum of the AC and the occasional soft clink of the water bottles.
You shift your weight, letting one hip cock slightly. The boy shorts ride up a little higher on your thighs. Satoru notices. His jaw tightens just a fraction.
After a few more minutes, you set the half-empty bottle on the counter and stretch your arms overhead again, arching your back just enough to pull the damp sports bra tighter across your chest.
“I should probably head back,” you say softly, voice carrying a teasing lilt. “Don’t want to overstay my welcome.”
Satoru’s mouth curves into that faint smirk.
“You’re not overstaying,” he replies, easy and low. “But if your place is still a sauna, the offer stands. Come back anytime.”
You take a small step closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body again. You tilt your head up to meet his eyes.
“I might just take you up on that,” you say, letting the words hang between you. Then, softer, with a small smile: “Goodnight.”
You turn and walk toward the door, feeling his gaze on your back the entire way — especially on the curve of your ass in the tiny shorts. At the threshold you pause, glance over your shoulder, and give him one last look, letting your eyes drift down his bare chest once more before you meet his stare.
“Sleep well,” you add, the teasing edge clear in your voice.
You slip out into the hallway before he can respond, the heavy door clicking shut behind you.
The moment you’re back in the stifling heat of your own apartment, the contrast hits hard. Your skin is still tingling from the cold air, from his stares, from the repeated brushes of his fingers. The boy shorts feel even damper now, and not just from sweat.
You lean against your own door for a moment, breathing slow and deep, a satisfied little smile playing on your lips.
Tomorrow night, you’ll give him even more to look at.
The next evening, the heat didn't let up at all.
By 9:15 p.m. your apartment feels even worse than the night before. Sweat already coats your skin as you stand in front of the mirror. This time you’ve chosen something much skimpier: a thin white tank top, soft and slightly oversized, with nothing underneath. The fabric is so delicate it clings to every curve and turns nearly see-through where it touches your damp skin. Your nipples press clearly against it, dark and obvious. Paired with it are even tinier black shorts — the kind that ride high on your hips and barely cover the bottom curve of your ass.
You look like pure temptation.
Satisfied, you step into the hallway and knock on his door — two light taps this time.
He opens it faster than last night.
Satoru stands there in another pair of low sweatpants, no shirt. Those blue eyes rake over you slowly. The rush of icy air hits you the second you step inside. You shiver hard, nipples tightening visibly.
“Back already?” he says, voice low and smooth. “Looks like the heat’s still winning.”
“It’s worse tonight,” you reply softly. “I couldn’t take it anymore. Can I hide in your apartment again?”
He closes the door behind you. “Come in.”
You drop onto the couch, the tiny shorts riding up high on your thighs. Satoru brings the ice tray over and stops right in front of you.
“Figured you might want this again,” he says, voice already lower as he holds the ice tray out to you.
You take it, your fingers brushing his in a slow, deliberate slide. The cold plastic bites against your warm palm. You pluck one large cube free and bring it to the side of your neck, letting the freezing edge glide down slowly. The ice melts instantly on contact, sending cool droplets racing down your throat. Some slip beneath the thin strap of your tank top, others trace lazy paths over your collarbone before disappearing into the neckline.
The white fabric darkens in seconds, turning sheer and clinging obscenely to the soft swell of your breasts. The cold makes your nipples tighten into hard peaks, clearly visible now through the soaked material. More water escapes, rolling in slow, teasing drops between your breasts, down the center of your stomach, and onto your bare thighs, leaving glistening trails that catch the low light.
Satoru watches every single drop with dark, hungry eyes, his gaze following the water like he wants to taste it.
“You’re making a mess,” he says, voice low and rough. “Want me to help?”
“Sure,” you breathe, already aching from the way he’s looking at you. You hold the half-melted cube out to him. “If you don’t mind.”
The moment his fingers close around the cube, his voice drops deeper, rougher.
“Oh, I don’t mind,” he murmurs, stepping fully between your spread knees so his thighs press against the insides of yours.
He trails the ice down your neck and presses it lightly against one nipple through the soaked tank top, rolling it in slow, teasing circles. The freezing pressure makes your breath hitch sharply.
“These nipples are so fucking hard already,” he murmurs, voice thick. “You like the cold on you?”
“Yeah,” you whisper, arching your back just enough to push your breast into the ice. “It feels really good. Keep going.”
He lets out a low, pleased hum and grabs a fresh cube with his other hand. He works both nipples now, rolling the ice in slow, deliberate circles until the entire front of your tank top is drenched and completely see-through. The thin fabric molds to your breasts like a second skin, your dark, stiff nipples straining against it. Meltwater streams down in cool, shiny trails — between your breasts, over the curve of your stomach, pooling in your navel before sliding lower to soak the waistband of your tiny shorts.
“Making such a pretty mess all over my couch,” he says, eyes dark as he watches the water drip down your body. “Let’s get this off so I can see everything.”
His fingers hook under the hem of the soaked tank top. He peels it slowly up your body, the wet fabric dragging teasingly over your sensitive nipples as he lifts it. You raise your arms for him, and he tugs it off completely, tossing the ruined shirt aside.
His gaze drags slowly, hungrily over your bare breasts, taking in the way your nipples glisten with melted ice water.
“Fuck… these look even better bare,” he breathes.
He picks up two fresh cubes and presses them directly to your bare nipples. The sharp, intense cold makes your back arch off the couch with a soft, needy moan.
“God, that’s cold,” you gasp, squirming under the freezing pressure as fresh streams of water cascade down your breasts and stomach.
“Too cold?” he asks, but the slow smirk on his face says he already knows.
“No, don’t stop,” you manage, breath hitching. “It feels intense. In a good way. I like it.”
He chuckles softly, low and warm. “Good. I wasn’t planning on stopping.”
He leans down and replaces one cube with his hot mouth. His tongue drags slowly and deliberately over your nipple, licking up the melted water while the other cube stays pressed firmly to the opposite peak. The sudden switch from freezing ice to scorching heat pulls another soft moan from your lips.
He sucks lightly on your nipple, tongue flicking over the sensitive bud, then switches sides, repeating the slow, torturous contrast while fresh cubes replace the melting ones. One cube trails down the center of your stomach, leaving a cool, slick path that the AC air chills even further. Another slides teasingly along your inner thigh, getting closer and closer to where you’re throbbing but never quite touching it.
You’re breathing heavier now, thighs pressing together as more meltwater drips down your body and soaks into the couch beneath you.
Satoru pulls back just enough to look at you — flushed, wet, trembling under his hands.
“God, you’re such a mess, princess,” he says, voice low and filthy. “And we’re just getting started.”
He slides a fresh cube down the center of your stomach, letting the freezing edge glide slowly over your heated skin. The ice melts almost instantly, leaving a cool, slick trail that the AC air chills even further. When it reaches the dip of your navel, he pauses, letting the cube rest there so the meltwater pools and then overflows, sending icy trails cascading down toward your hips.
The cold water reaches the waistband of your tiny black shorts. Satoru hooks two fingers inside the fabric and tugs them down your legs along with your panties in one smooth, deliberate motion. You lift your hips instinctively to help him, and he pulls the soaked material all the way off, dropping it to the floor with a soft, damp sound. You are completely bare now, spread open on his couch, skin glistening with sweat and melted ice, your pussy already visibly wet and swollen.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, spreading your thighs wider with both hands, thumbs pressing firmly into the soft flesh. “Coming over here in your slutty little outfits. No bra, shorts that barely cover your ass. You wanted me to see how wet you get for me, didn’t you, baby?”
You nod, breath shaky. “Yes, I did.”
He chuckles softly, pleased. “Good girl. Honest tonight.”
He grabs a large, fresh cube and presses it firmly against your swollen clit. The freezing shock rips a sharp gasp from your throat. The intense cold against your hottest spot makes your hips jerk involuntarily. He rubs it in slow, tight circles, watching with dark fascination as the ice melts fast against your heat. Cold water mixes with your slick and drips onto the couch in wet, obscene little sounds.
“Fuck, you’re dripping everywhere,” he says, voice rough with arousal. “This pretty pussy is melting faster than the ice. You’ve been aching for me to touch you like this, haven’t you, princess?”
“I have,” you whimper, hips twitching helplessly. “Fuck, it’s cold.”
He slides the melting cube lower and gently pushes the rounded edge inside you, just barely. The cold intrusion makes your walls clench hard around it. A broken moan spills from your lips, your thighs trembling as the freezing sensation spreads deep inside.
“Too much, princess?” he asks, but he is already slowly pulling the cube out, watching the melted water leak from you.
Before you can answer, he replaces the ice with his hot mouth.
His tongue drags slowly and deliberately through your folds, licking up every drop of melted ice and your arousal. He groans deeply against you, the low vibration shooting straight through your body and making your hips buck against his face.
“Oh my god,” you moan, fingers tightening desperately in his white hair. The heat of his mouth after the freezing ice sends a sharp jolt through you, the contrast making every flick of his tongue feel ten times more intense.
He sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue flicking steadily while two thick fingers slide deep inside you, curling against that perfect spot that makes your toes curl and your back arch. At the same time he grabs another cube and rolls it over one of your nipples, then the other, never stopping the relentless rhythm on your clit.
The constant contrast is overwhelming. Freezing ice on your nipples, scorching mouth on your pussy, his fingers stroking deep and steady inside you. Your mind starts to fog over. Everything feels hazy, too intense, too good. Thoughts slip away until all you can focus on is the pleasure and the overwhelming sensations.
“I’m close,” you gasp, thighs shaking violently around his head.
“Come for me, baby,” he murmurs against your clit, voice muffled but commanding. “Let go. I want to feel this pretty pussy come on my tongue.”
You come hard, crying out as pleasure crashes through you. Your walls pulse and flutter around his fingers, hips jerking uncontrollably against his mouth. He keeps licking you through every pulse, gentler now, using the melted water to cool your oversensitive clit until the tremors slowly ease and you are left panting, boneless, and dizzy on his couch.
When your breathing finally starts to slow, he pulls back just enough to look up at you. His lips are shiny with your slick and melted ice, eyes dark with satisfaction and hunger.
“Look at you,” he says softly, voice rough. “Already falling apart and I haven’t even fucked you yet. My pretty little neighbor came over dressed like a slut just so I would make her dumb like this.”
You can only whimper in response, head still spinning, unable to form a coherent reply.
He presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh, then stands, shoving his sweatpants all the way off. His thick, hard cock springs free, flushed dark and leaking at the tip.
He grabs one last cube from the tray, the ice clinking softly against the plastic. He presses it firmly against your still-throbbing clit as he lines himself up at your entrance. The freezing pressure is immediate and intense, making your hips twitch involuntarily toward him.
“You ready for me, princess?” he asks, voice low and rough with barely contained hunger. “Ready for me to fuck you while this pretty pussy is still cold from the ice?”
“Yes,” you whimper, nodding desperately, your hips rolling toward him in a silent plea. “Please. I need you inside me.”
Satoru’s eyes darken with clear satisfaction. He rubs the ice in one final slow circle over your clit, letting the last of it melt against your swollen, sensitive flesh. Then he pushes inside you in one deep, smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt in a single motion. The stretch is overwhelming. His thick cock fills you completely, hot and heavy, pressing against every sensitive wall while the freezing cube stays pressed tight to your clit. The sharp contrast between the burning heat of his cock and the icy pressure on your most sensitive spot makes your back arch sharply off the couch. A loud, broken moan tears from your throat as your body struggles to adjust to the sudden fullness.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groans, holding perfectly still for a long moment so you can feel every thick inch of him buried inside you. His cock twitches deep in your walls, pulsing against your clenching heat. “So wet and tight, baby. This pussy is sucking me in like it was made for me.”
The ice melts fast against your clit, cold water mixing with your slick and dripping down to where your bodies are joined. The sensation is obscene. Cool droplets run along your folds and pool beneath you on the couch. Satoru starts moving, slow, deep rolls of his hips at first, letting you feel every single inch as he drags almost all the way out and pushes back in. Each thrust makes more melted water splash between you. The wet, filthy sounds of skin meeting skin and ice melting fill the room, loud and unmistakable beneath the steady hum of the AC.
“It’s so much,” you moan, your nails digging hard into his shoulders as your body trembles beneath him. “Fuck, I can’t think.”
Satoru smirks down at you, his hips snapping a little harder, driving deeper with each stroke. “That’s right, princess. Getting all dumb for me already?” He switches the ice to one of your nipples, rolling the fresh cube slowly while his thumb takes its place on your clit, rubbing firm, steady circles that make your toes curl. “You came over here dressed like that just so I would fuck the thoughts out of your pretty head. Look at you now. Can barely speak, can you?”
You whimper, your head falling back against the couch cushions. The constant shift between the freezing ice on your nipples and the scorching heat of his cock stretching you open is too much. Your mind feels fuzzy and slow, every deep thrust pushing you further into that hazy, pleasure-drunk state where thinking becomes impossible.
“Feels so fucking good,” you manage, your voice shaky and breathless. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
“I won’t, baby,” he promises, his voice rough as he leans down to suck on your other nipple. His tongue flicks over the cold, sensitive peak, sending sharp sparks of pleasure through your body. “I’m going to keep fucking you until the only thing you can think about is how full you feel with my cock.”
He picks up the pace, thrusting deeper and harder, the angle perfect so that every stroke drags against that sensitive spot inside you. The slap of skin against skin grows louder, mixing with the wet sounds of melting ice and your soaked pussy. Every time he bottoms out, the head of his cock presses firmly against that perfect spot, making bright sparks burst behind your eyes and your breath catch in your throat.
You’re losing control fast. Words slip away until all you can do is moan and gasp his name between shaky breaths.
“Oh my god, so close”
“Come for me, princess,” he groans against your breast, his thumb rubbing faster and firmer on your clit. “Come all over my cock like the needy little slut you are. Let me feel you fall apart.”
The combination of his filthy words, the relentless deep thrusts, and the last traces of cold on your skin sends you over the edge again. You come hard, crying out as your walls clench and flutter wildly around him. Pleasure crashes through you in heavy, overwhelming waves. Your thighs shake violently, your nails scratching down his back as your body tightens and pulses around his cock, drawing him even deeper.
Satoru groans deeply, his hips stuttering as your pussy squeezes him so tightly. “That’s it. Good girl,” he pants, fucking you through your orgasm with deep, punishing strokes that prolong every wave of pleasure. “Squeezing me so fucking perfect. You are making such a mess, baby. My cum and all that melted ice dripping out of you.”
A few more hard, deliberate thrusts and he buries himself to the hilt, coming hot and thick inside you with a low, guttural groan. You feel every heavy pulse as he fills you, the warmth spreading deep in your belly, mixing with the cold remnants of the melted ice still leaking from your body.
He stays buried inside you for a long moment, both of you breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat, melted ice water, and cum. The AC continues to blow cold air over your overheated skin, making you shiver and clench around his cock with every cool gust.
Satoru finally pulls out slowly, watching with dark eyes as his cum leaks from you. He leans down and kisses you, deep and possessive, his tongue sliding lazily against yours.
“We’re not done, princess,” he murmurs against your lips, voice still rough. “C’mere. Let’s shower.”
Before you can answer, he slides an arm under your knees and another behind your back, lifting you effortlessly. Your body feels heavy and loose from the orgasms, but you wrap your arms around his neck anyway. He carries you through the apartment, your bare skin brushing against his with every step.
He kicks the bathroom door open and sets you on the cool tile floor. Steam starts to rise as he turns the shower on, adjusting the temperature until the water runs warm. He steps in first, then pulls you under the spray with him.
The heat of the water hits your skin like a soothing blanket after all the cold. You tilt your head back, letting it cascade over your face and down your body. Satoru stands behind you, his chest pressed to your back, his hands sliding slowly over your hips.
“You look so fucking good like this,” he says, voice low against your ear. “All flushed and marked up. You’ve been teasing me for days, princess. Showing up like that, knowing exactly what you were doing to me. I think it’s time you got a little punishment, don’t ya think?.”
Before you can respond, he reaches for the detachable shower head and adjusts the setting to a strong, pulsing jet. He brings it between your legs, aiming the powerful stream directly at your sensitive clit.
The sudden, intense pressure makes your knees buckle instantly. You gasp sharply, grabbing onto his shoulders for support as the warm, pulsing water beats relentlessly against your swollen clit. The sensation is overwhelming — too strong, too direct, too good.
“Oh my god,” you moan, hips jerking forward into the stream even as your thighs tremble. “It’s too much.”
Satoru wraps one arm around your waist to hold you steady, his voice low and smug in your ear.
“Too much? This is what you get for teasing me, baby. Walking around in those tiny shorts, showing off this pretty pussy like you wanted me to lose control. Now you’re gonna take your punishment like a good girl.”
He moves the shower head in slow, deliberate circles, sometimes pulling it back to tease you with lighter pulses before pressing it closer again, increasing the intensity. The warm water beats against your clit in rhythmic bursts, making your legs shake and your breath come in short, needy gasps. Every pulse sends sharp sparks of pleasure through your already overstimulated body.
You are quickly losing control, your mind going hazy from the relentless stimulation.
“Feels so intense,” you moan, head falling back against his shoulder. “It’s too much.”
Satoru chuckles darkly, his free hand sliding up to pinch one of your nipples. “You can take it, princess. This is what naughty little sluts get when they dress like they wanna get fucked. Look at you — already shaking and whimpering from the shower head alone. So fucking pretty when you’re falling apart for me.”
The pulsing water never lets up. Your clit throbs under the strong jets, the pleasure building fast and almost painfully. Your thighs quiver, and you have to cling tighter to him to stay upright.
“I’m gonna come,” you gasp, your voice breaking.
“Not yet,” he says, voice firm but teasing as he pulls the shower head back just enough to ease the pressure for a moment. “You don’t get to come until I say so. You’re being punished, remember?”
He edges you like that for what feels like forever — bringing the pulsing stream back to your clit when you start to calm down, then pulling it away again when you get too close. Each time the pressure returns, the pleasure hits harder, making your mind fuzzier and your legs weaker.
“Please,” you beg, voice trembling. “I can’t take it anymore.”
Satoru finally presses the shower head firmly against your clit again, the strong jets beating directly on your swollen nub.
“Come for me, princess,” he growls against your ear. “Come like the needy little slut you are.”
You come hard, crying out as the orgasm crashes through you with brutal force. Your body convulses against him, thighs shaking violently as waves of pleasure rip through you. He keeps the shower head pressed against you through the entire orgasm, drawing it out until you are whimpering and oversensitive, your clit pulsing under the relentless stream.
Only then does he turn the shower head off and hang it back in place with a soft click.
The sudden absence of the pulsing water leaves your clit throbbing and hypersensitive, still pulsing with aftershocks. Your legs feel weak and unsteady, your body trembling from the force of the orgasm he just forced out of you. Satoru does not give you any time to recover. He presses you firmly against the cool tiled wall, the sharp contrast between the warm spray raining down on your back and the cold tiles against your front pulling a soft gasp from your lips.
He lifts one of your legs, hooking it high over his hip and spreading you open completely for him. His cock, now rock hard again and flushed dark at the tip, nudges against your slick entrance. The thick head slides teasingly through your folds, coating itself in your wetness.
“Ready, baby?” he asks, voice rough with raw need. “Ready for me to fuck you after your punishment?”
You nod frantically, still panting, your chest rising and falling quickly. “Yes. Please fuck me.”
Satoru’s eyes flash with dark satisfaction. Without another word he sinks into you in one deep, powerful thrust, burying himself to the hilt in a single smooth motion. The stretch is overwhelming. His thick cock fills you completely, pressing against every sensitive wall and bottoming out so deep it steals the breath from your lungs. The warm water continues to rain down on both of you, making every inch of your joined bodies slick and hot.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groans, forehead resting against yours as he holds perfectly still for a long moment, letting you feel every thick inch buried inside you. His cock twitches deep in your walls, pulsing against your clenching heat. “So wet and tight. This pussy was made for my dick.”
He starts moving, slow and deep at first, the new angle allowing him to hit even deeper than before. Every deliberate thrust drags against that perfect spot inside you, sending bright sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine.The warm water cascades over your joined bodies, running down your breasts, your stomach, and between your legs, making every slide smoother and wetter. The rhythmic sound of skin slapping wetly against skin echoes through the steamy shower, mixing with your soft, needy moans and his low groans.
You cling tightly to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as another wave of pleasure begins building fast and heavy inside you. Your mind is already starting to haze again, the overwhelming fullness, the heat of the water, and the relentless drag of his cock making it difficult to form a single coherent thought.
“It feels so deep,” you moan, your head tipping back against the cool tiles.
Satoru smirks against your neck, his hips snapping harder, driving into you with more force. “That is right, princess. Getting all stupid for me again already?” He leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear. “Look at you. Can barely speak, just moaning and taking my cock like you were made for it.”
You whimper, your legs tightening around his waist as he fucks you harder against the wall. The warm water rains down relentlessly, making your skin slick and hypersensitive. Every deep thrust pushes you closer to the edge, your mind growing fuzzier and slower with every stroke until all you can focus on is the pleasure and the feeling of being so perfectly full.
“Feels so good,” you manage, your voice shaky and breathless. “Don’t stop.”
“I won’t, baby,” he promises, his voice rough as he grips your thigh tighter, holding you open for him. “I am going to keep fucking you until you cannot walk straight. Until the only thing you can think about is how full you feel with my cock.”
He picks up the pace, thrusting deeper and harder, the slap of skin against skin growing louder and more urgent. Every time he bottoms out, the head of his cock presses firmly against that perfect spot inside you, making bright sparks burst behind your eyes and your breath catch in your throat.
You are losing control fast. Words slip away until all you can do is moan and gasp his name between shaky breaths.
“Satoru. Oh my god.”
He leans in closer, lips brushing your ear as he fucks you harder against the wall.
“Say my name again,” he growls, voice low and rough. “Don’t stop.”
You whimper, the pleasure making your voice break. “Toru— fuck, Toru—”
“Come for me, princess,” he groans, hips slamming into you with deep, punishing strokes. “Come all over my cock like the needy little slut you are. Let me feel you fall apart one more time.”
The combination of his filthy words, the relentless deep thrusts, and the warm water raining down on your sensitive skin sends you over the edge again. You come hard, crying out as your walls clench and flutter wildly around him. Pleasure crashes through you in heavy, overwhelming waves. Your thighs shake violently around his waist, your nails scratching down his back as your body tightens and pulses around his cock.
Satoru groans deeply, his hips stuttering as your pussy squeezes him so tightly. “That is it. Good girl,” he pants, fucking you through your orgasm with deep, punishing strokes that prolong every wave of pleasure. “Squeezing me so fucking perfect. You are making such a mess, baby.”
A few more hard, deliberate thrusts and he buries himself to the hilt, coming hot and thick inside you with a low, guttural moan. You feel every heavy pulse as he fills you, the warmth spreading deep in your belly and mixing with the shower water that runs down your joined bodies.
He holds you there for a long moment, both of you breathing hard under the steady spray. Finally he lowers your leg gently, keeping one strong arm around your waist to steady you as your knees feel weak and shaky.
He kisses you again, slower this time, deep and possessive, his tongue sliding against yours in a lazy, claiming rhythm. When he pulls back, there is a smug little smile on his lips.
“Let me clean you up properly, baby,” he murmurs, reaching for the soap.
He lathers it between his palms and starts with you, running his soapy hands over your shoulders and down your arms with slow, gentle strokes. He lingers for a moment on your breasts, thumbs brushing lightly over your nipples, then moves lower, carefully washing between your legs and rinsing away the mess he left there. The warm water cascades over both of you as you take the soap from him and return the favor, soaping his chest and abs, feeling the way his muscles shift under your palms.
The touch is intimate and unhurried, the steam filling the small space as the water rinses everything clean. When you are both washed, Satoru shuts off the shower, wraps a towel around you first, then dries himself quickly. He scoops you up and carries you back to his bed like you weigh nothing.
You expect him to pull the covers over you and call it a night. Instead, Satoru props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with that signature smirk, damp hair falling into his eyes.
“You know,” he says, voice low and playful, “when you first knocked on my door claiming your AC was broken, I knew you were full of shit.”
You laugh softly, too worn out to pretend otherwise. “Was I that bad at it?”
“Terrible.” His fingers trace a slow line down your side. “Still let you come back, though.”
He leans down and kisses you, slow and teasing.
You bite your lip, hesitating, then mumble, almost shy, “Y’know… it actually is broken now.”
He pulls back a little, caught off guard. “Wait—really?”
You give a small shrug. “Yeah. I broke it. On purpose.”
Satoru lets out a low, warm chuckle. “Fucking crazy.”
contents. nsfw! mdni. dom! nerdjo x fem! reader. est rel: dating. college au. unprotected piv. cǒckwarming. riding. praise + slight degradation if you squint. he’s just frustrated. reader’s called: baby + sweetheart. art creds: to00fu ˖ ࣪ . ࿐
studying for your biology final with satoru is hard. not because the material is, although the krebs cycle is currently working overtime to melt your brain into a puddle.
or because your boyfriend is a bad a tutor — he’s an amazing one. so patient, never getting frustrated when you mix up steps or forget what comes next.
and it’s definitely not because you’re not smart.
studying with satoru is hard because there’s always a fundamental conflict of interest. while you’re clawing at his sweats and t-shirt, slipping your tank top off, and trying to drag him into bed, he’s swatting your hands away and redirecting your attention to the textbook open between you
it’s hard for both of you. you can see the war raging behind his cerulean eyes, the way his gaze flickers from the desperate arch of your back to the highlighted text on the page.
satoru hates denying his pretty, wildly out-of-his-league girlfriend anything. but he’s also stubbornly, infuriatingly determined to see you pass this biochem exam.
he wants you to succeed, to prove that his brilliant girlfriend is more than just a pretty face. and you, right now, just want to feel him inside you.
“toru, please,” you whine, looping your arms around his neck, nuzzling the soft ivory hair at his nape. “my brain’s fried. we’ve been studying for hours. ‘m boreddd! i need a break.”
“a break is what got you a c- on your midterm,” he says, voice stern, though he doesn’t pull away from your touch. you can feel the tension in his shoulders, the way his muscles are coiled tight. “we’re almost through the unit. please focus”
“fuck the unit,” you murmur, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his neck. “fuck me. i want to be close to you”
he heaves a tortured groan, catching your wrist as your hand starts to drift down the front of his sweatpants. “not right now, baby”
“oh . . .i get it” you huff, pulling back. the rejection stings, even though you know it’s not personal. he just wants the best for you “you think i’m chopped.”
satoru’s head whips around, his brows furrowing in genuine confusion. “chopped? baby what are you talking about?”
“chopped,” you repeat, crossing your arms over your chest. “you know. like. . . unattractive . is that why you don’t want me? because you think i’m chopped?”
he just stares at you, his mouth slightly agape, expression shifting from confusion to utter disbelief.
“unattractive,” he says, propping his elbows on the textbook, completely abandoning the pretense of studying. “you think i find you unattractive.”
“well you’re not exactly jumping at the chance to touch me,” you mumble, feeling your cheeks heat up under his intense gaze.
he lets out a short, sharp laugh, completely devoid of humor. he grabs your hand, the one he’d just rejected, and slams it palm-down against his sweatpants. “does that feel like i think you’re unattractive?” he snaps
you shake your head, a quiet flustered breath escaping as you try to avoid eye contact.
“you think this is easy for me?” he murmurs, blue eyes darkening. “you think i want to be reading about flavin adenine dinucleotides when my girlfriend is sitting here looking like a wet dream and trying to get her hand down my pants? it’s taking every ounce of my self-control not to bend you over this desk and fuck you”
your breath hitches. you didn’t think he’d actually fall for your ragebait
“but i won’t,” he continues, gently holding your hand in his. “because i’m not just your boyfriend. i’m your tutor. and i care more about you passing this exam than i do about my dick feeling good for ten minutes. so no, i don’t think you’re chopped baby. you’re a beautiful distraction, and i’m trying to do the right thing here.”
he’s so sincere, so stubbornly devoted, it makes your chest ache.
“so” he sighs, tone shifting back to something softer, the sharp edge of his earlier frustration melting away. “are you going to stop pouting and let me teach you about the krebs cycle or are we going to have to find a way to make you focus?”
you blink meekly at him, at the way his shoulders slump slightly as he runs a hand through his already messy hair, a gesture of weary surrender.
he wants to be a good boyfriend, and a responsible tutor. but he also wants you. you decide to push your luck.
“i don’t know,” you hum, your voice a sultry lull “i have a very short attention span. i think you’re going to have to make me focus”
“can we at least compromise sweetheart?” he pleads, his voice dropping to that soft, persuasive tone he knows you can’t resist. “i know you’re bored. i know you want me. but i won’t be able to live with myself if you fail this exam.”
you want to stay mad, to maintain your pout, but it’s impossible when he talks to you like that.
“what kind of compromise?” you ask, your voice still a little sullen, but the fight has been drained out of it
a slow smile spreads across his face. he knows he has you. “you get what you want,” he says. “but we do it my way.”
your interest is piqued. “your way?”
“mhmm,” he hums, hands coming to rest on your thighs. his thumbs strokes the sensitive skin there. “you’ve been so good, sitting here and trying so hard. you deserve a reward. but it’s going to be a productive one.”
you have absolutely no idea what he’s talking about, but the promise in his voice is enough to make you nod in agreement.
“you want me inside you so bad? fine. you’re going to sit on my lap, and you’re going to keep my cock warm while we finish this unit. you get what you want, and i get what i want. okay?”
it’s a great idea, really. a perfect one. satoru gets to be your mean tutor and you get the satisfaction of being filled by him, even if it’s not the hard, fast fuck you’re craving.
“okay,” you agree, a blinding smile tugging at your lips. you’re going to be the death of him.
satoru doesn’t waste any time. he shoves the textbook aside and pulls you onto his lap. your skirt bunches around your hips as you straddle him on the creaky desk chair.
with deft, practiced movements, he hooks his thumbs into your panties and slides them down your legs. then he shrugs down his sweatpants just enough to free his cock.
he’s already rock-hard, his tip flushed a deep, angry red and beading with pearlescent pre-cum. he gives himself a few lazy strokes, cerulean eyes locked on yours, before positioning himself at your entrance. “all the way down,” he murmurs. “and then you stay still. understand?”
“mhm” you nod, breath catching in your throat. you rise up on your knees and slowly sink down, taking him inch by inch. you’re so wet he slides in so, so easily. your walls clench around him greedily. he groans, his head falling back against the chair as you settle in his lap, his entire length buried inside you.
“fuuuck,” he breathes, his hands flying to your hips to hold you still. “you’re— mghh— so tight.”
“toru please”you whimper. you want to move, to rock your hips, to ride him until you’re both a mess, but you force yourself to stay still, just like he asked you to.
he reaches for the textbook, propping it open against your back. the positioning is awkward, but it works.
“focus,” he says, his voice a little shaky “where were we baby? acetyl-coa combines with oxaloacetate to form citrate. what’s the enzyme?”
“citrate synthase,” you manage to gasp out.
“good. and citrate is then converted to isocitrate by aconitase. what happens next sweetheart?”
you try to focus, you really do. but your body betrays you. the feeling of him twitching inside you is just too distracting. you can feel your sweet slickness coating him, soaking the fabric of his sweatpants. you can’t help the tiny, involuntary roll of your hips.
“what did i say about staying still?” he frowns, grip tightening on your hips.
“but toruuu,” you whine, grinding down against him again, “i need . . . pleasepleaseplesse— pl”
“baby no” he tuts, his voice low and mean. “we’re almost through the unit. can you be patient for me? please? just a little longer?”
“you’re so mean” you glare at him over you shoulder. to his relief, you finally stop squirming and just sit still
“that’s my girl,” he murmurs, placing a gentle kiss on your shoulder. a sweet gesture that makes your cunt clench around him. “you’re perfect.”
to your credit, you try. for half an hour you answer all his questions, your voice wavering as you fight the urge to move. core tightening as he murmurs sweet praises against the curve of your neck
every time he shifts to turn a page, his cock drags against your walls, a constant reminder of what you’re not getting. you really can’t take it anymore. you start to move, a slow, deliberate grind that drags his cock against your most sensitive spots.
“mghh toru” you’re not trying to make yourself cum, not yet. you’re trying to provoke him. you just want to feel something more than the passive fullness.
satoru shakes his head, his voice strained. “two more pages, baby. c’mon just wait — fuuuck —you’ve been such a perfect student so far”
his praise is meaningless and irrelevant now. all that matters is the ache between your legs. you’re rutting hard against him now, chasing a high that remains just out of reach.
you can’t. you can’t think. you try to move, to drive yourself towards an orgasm, but it’s no use. the angle is all wrong. you can’t make yourself cum like this, not without satoru moving in sync with you.
satoru tries to maintain his composure. he clears his throat and tries to read a section out loud, but his voice is a wrecked, broken mess. “the. . . the regeneration . . step. . . please baby… malate. . . closes the cy— hck. . . cycle”
that’s it. that’s his breaking point. he can’t do it anymore. the words dissolve into a choked groan as you grind down particularly hard, your slick walls clenching around him. your wanton moans reverberating in his ears
with a guttural whimper, he finally tosses the textbook away. it lands with a heavy thud on the floor. his hands fly to your hips, grip bruisingly tight.
“you just couldn’t wait, could you?” he says despondently. “you’re just too impatient, you don’t listen to me and i’m not going to tutor you anymore”
( it’s the emptiest threat you’ve ever heard, you’ve got him wrapped around your finger )
you don’t answer. you wince as you twist around in his lap, a meticulous movement that brings you face to face with him. you loop your arms around his neck, your bare chest pressed flush against his t-shirt, and look him dead in the eye. your gaze is a silent plea for him to finally give in.
he meets your gaze, bright blue eyes burning with intensity. he does give in. with a breathy moan, he thrusts up into you.
“oh my—” the first thrust is so hard it steals all the air from your lungs. it’s not the gentle roll you’re accustomed to. it’s a harsh snap of his hips that nudges against a spot inside you that makes you see stars. you cry out, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt for purchase.
“oh, you wanted this,” he pants, his face mere inches from yours. his eyes are burning, all traces of your nerdy, doting boyfriend gone. “don’t pretend you didn’t — mhh— this is what you’ve been pestering me for.”
he rolls his hips again, another deep thrust that lifts you slightly off his lap. he’s not holding back anymore, using the strength in his thighs and core to fuck up into you, over and over.
“fuuuck! s’too much toru ,” you moan,head falling back. he bends his head to press hot, open-mouthed kisses to your neck, his teeth scraping lightly against your skin.
“look at me,” he murmurs. when you don’t obey immediately, one of his hands leaves your hip to gently cup your jaw, tilting your face forward, forcing you to meet his radiating gaze. “you wanted my attention, you have it. so— mghh keep your eyes on me”
each thrust is a powerful grind that sends jolts of electricity through your body. the desk chair groans and creaks beneath you, the obscene sound mixing with the wet, slick noises of your bodies and your broken, breathless moans.
“is this what you needed?” he breathes out, jaw clenched with effort. “you care hck about this more than passing your final?“
“yes,” you sob, the word torn from your throat. “fuckfuckfuck please don’t stop ‘toru.”
“my perfect girl” he groans, his voice breaking. “love it when you beg. you sound so pretty.” his praise only fuels the fire building in your core.
“you’re so wet— fuuuck you’re drowning me,” he whimpers, his gaze dropping to where your bodies are joined. “look at the mess you’re making mmh all over my sweats. you’re driving me crazy.”
you can only gasp in response, your ability to form coherent thoughts or sentences completely gone. the pressure in your core winds tighter and tighter. you can feel it in your thighs, in the base of your skull, in every single nerve ending.
“toruuu, i. . i’m going to. . . ” you trail off, eyes squeezing shut as he relentlessly grind into you “mghh i can’t— fuuuck i can’t take it”
“shhh it’s okay baby,” he murmurs, his pace becoming almost frantic. “i’ve got you. need to feel mhh feel you cum on my cock”
the sheer need in his voice is what finally pushes you over the edge. your orgasm completely shatters you, your body convulses as your walls clench and flutter around him.
“you’re so beautiful,” satoru sighs, his thrusts becoming erratic as he chases his own release. burying himself deep inside and painting your insides white.
you slump forward, trembling. he catches you, a strong arm wrapping around your waist, and he immediately laces his fingers through yours.
he presses soft, reverent kisses to your shoulder, the curve of your neck, any inch of skin he can reach, his body still shuddering with the aftershocks of your release. he stays buried inside you, lips never ceasing their gentle worship of your skin.
for a long moment, the only sound in the room is your ragged breathing and the frantic pounding of your hearts.
when you can finally form words again, you lift your head and look at him. his face is flushed, his lips are puffy and swollen, his foggy glasses askew on his nose.
“are you really going to stop tutoring me?” you pout leaning closer, lightly tugging at the hem of his t-shirt. “do you hate me that much toru?”
you’re completely aware that your pretty face and a little well-timed pout can completely unravel him. you revel in pushing just enough, saying just enough to watch the smartest guy on campus stumble over his words.
you throw him off balance on purpose. and he knows it, but that doesn’t make him any less susceptible to it. despite knowing better, he still falls for it every time. because he’s hopelessly devoted to you.
“no baby, i would never,” he sputters, pushing his glasses up “even if you’re not always the best student, you’re still my favorite one.”
satoru looks completely wrecked. it just makes you want him even more
you lean in and press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. “i personally think i was an amazing student,” you whisper, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye, “now, take me to bed and fuck me properly.”
︵‿ ♪ Sexually frustrated nerdjo cries while fucking your face ⊱ cw: light angst, face fucking, cum swallowing, begging, praise
Satoru was about to go insane. His heart thrummed beneath his ribs as he scurried down the hall, beads of sweat gathering along his hairline and creeping down his brow.
A creak echoed through the empty corridor as he forced the door open. He rushed inside, dropping his bag and scattering the books in his arms without a second thought.
He had just come back from a solitary study session at the library—abandoned rather than done for the day—with notebooks soaked in coffee and the most frustrating boner he had ever felt in his life.
He stumbled into the living room, eyes flickering around in search of you.
You two had an arrangement—an unspoken understanding. When the weight of work, exams, or life itself pressed too heavily on your shoulders, you would steady each other. Soft reassurances. Gentle touches. The quiet comfort of skin against skin. A way to let the tension melt without needing to explain it.
It had always been mutual.
Until about two weeks ago.
Exam season had been grinding Satoru down, day by day. The pressure built quietly at first, then all at once—tightening around him until he could barely breathe under it. And somehow, in the middle of it all, you had become another thing he couldn’t handle.
He'd snapped.
Said he didn't need you hovering. Didn't need the distractions. That he could manage on his own.
The words had landed harder than he intended—sharper, colder. Unfamiliar, even to him.
And they stayed with you.
You hadn't argued back. Hadn't pushed. After things cooled, you let it go. You gave him the space he asked for, stepping carefully around the absence where your closeness used to be, and carried on like everything was fine.
But it wasn't.
And Satoru knew it.
It had only been so long, but regret had rooted itself deep inside him, winding tighter each day, creeping through his thoughts like something alive.
Today, it was unbearable.
The entire time he was at the library, his mind kept drifting to you.
He'd missed your touch. Hearing your thoughtful words graze against his ear.
Your lips on his skin... your skin against his body...
He couldn't focus. He read the same line on his syllabus over and over again. His notes were a mess, he could barely manage five words before his mind went blank. At one point, his hand slipped, knocking his coffee over, dark liquid bleeding through the pages he'd spent hours trying to fill.
He just sat there, staring at it.
Too tired to fix it. Too frustrated to think. His body ached in ways he had never experienced before.
The realisation hit like a final blow—after a day like this, he had nowhere to go. No soft place to land.
Not anymore. Not after what he'd said.
The thought hollowed him out.
Before he could stop himself, he was already moving, on course to your room, on the verge of calling your name—
And then he heard it.
A soft, absent-minded hum, drifting from the kitchen. The sound of running water accompanying it.
He froze for half a second, then he followed the sound.
Each step felt unsteady, his chest tight, breath uneven. He tugged at his shirt, an attempt to save some dignity.
"Satoru? Is that you?" you called, voice light, unaware.
You turned as you set the last dish aside, drying your hands on a rag. There was a brief pause when your eyes met his.
"You're back early."
Upon seeing your face, his shoulders dropped.
He takes a step closer without thinking, arms tentatively reaching out. Unsure.
"Are you okay?"
He swallows, a whisper of your name leaving his mouth. It felt like he hasn't said it in years. At least not laced with extreme neediness like it was now.
"I— I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
You tense as his fingertips brush your arm, limbs staying locked by your sides.
He notices as soon as you do, hands moving in a flash to cover the humiliating tent in his pants.
He stammers, shame growing on his face. "Um— this isn't— I'm not—"
You cut him off. "Oh, baby."
It wasn't condescending. Wasn't mocking. You didn't say it out of amusement either.
Your tone was only understanding. Judgement free.
And it undoes him. Every. Single. Time.
You take his hand in yours, pulling him close so you could rise onto your tip toes and land a peck on his cheek.
A soft huff of air tickles your skin and you smile, lips curving against his skin in a way that has his heart skipping a beat.
Then, slowly descending onto your knees, you press a gentle kiss to the bulge before unbuckling his belt.
A hand instantly flies to your head.
Satoru sighs. Relief already beginning to wash over his nerves. Only now does he realise truly how much he needed this.
How much he needed you.
His cock is pulled free, a filthy shadow stretching across your entire face.
It's already leaking translucent little beads of precum, tip flushed red and veins pulsing thickly.
You take it in your hand, wrapping around the base and resting the cockhead on your tongue. It twitches like a ticking clock as you give the slit a tiny, teasing kitten lick.
He hisses, unable to ever stay silent when you're in this position. It happens only rarely. He never asks for it, despite how often he takes that role of going down on you himself. To him, it feels disrespectful—yet refusing you would be just as much so.
So when you do, he takes it without fuss. Savouring the experience. Every feeling. Every expression you make. The way you suck as if you actually enjoy it. As if you want to taste him. Want him to flood your mouth with his seed.
Slowly, you slide it in, the warmth coating his sensitive length like a loving embrace.
Satoru's hand jumps from your head to the edge of the countertop. His fingers clutching the marble so tightly the knuckles blanch, tendons standing out along the back of his hand.
It was restraint.
After a gruelling twelve days without any sexual relief, he felt like he was about to burst.
The urge to take a fistful of you hair and ram himself down your throat repeatedly was eating away at him. Unbearably.
But he wouldn't dare be rough with you.
He couldn't.
Yet now he finds himself teetering between pulling you off to avoid that happening and letting the desire take over completely.
The sight isn't helping. Saliva dribbling down your chin as you ease him down, cheeks hollowing and eyes glossing over.
Satoru feels filthy. Disgusting, even.
After the way he treated you—sharp, unkind, unforgivable in his mind—you still offered your help. You accepted his brief apology without question, without hesitation, and set to work as though none of it had mattered.
And now his mind turns on him, urging him to use you like a fleshlight, to fall into the ease you make of things, as though you were nothing more than something to be relied upon.
Tension coils through him again, holding him taut—keeping him from softening, from accepting the pleasure and relief you're so gently trying to give.
Then you reach for his hand and guide it to the back of your head—an act with kind intent, offered without thought.
But to him, it shatters what little restraint he had left. A strangled, broken sound forces its way past his lips, thick with frustration.
"No— y-you feel so good. I'm so sorry."
He recoils from his own wanting, face tightened as if bracing against a blow—eyes closing and head turning aside like a door slammed against temptation.
But it's too late. His hip snaps forward, tip bruising the back of your throat—an involuntary action.
Tears trace your cheeks, your throat aflame as your hands seize his thighs in a desperate grip. The abrupt roughness unmoors you, tearing a choked sound out as you gag on the unfathomable length.
"Ah, I'm sorry— I can't... your throat is so tight," he cries, pressing you closer until your nose brushes against the light coloured pubes at his base.
Giving his thighs a squeeze, you manage to draw his attention back to you, his gaze dropping to your face gingerly.
You reassure him, thumbs stroking lightly in unspoken permission—not that you could give it verbally.
That's all it takes. He melts. Tears beginning to well in his eyes. "Thank you. Ah— thank you."
The fingers once placed flat against your head curl up into a fist as he drags you off, then slams back in.
He does it again. And again. Slowly picking up the pace while blabbering apologies and words of gratitude all the same.
"You're too good to me. Hngh— I-I ... I don't know what I did—hic t-to deserve you."
His thrusts are far from rhythmic—they're messy, beatless, driven by pure need, desperation, fustration. Hot tears stream down his face, his breathing ragged and heavy.
"Agh... you're an angel. You're an angel, aren't you?" he rasps. Voice breathless. Words earnest. "Y-you... I haven't even apologised properly."
A moan vibrates around his throbbing cock as his ruts grow brutal, back pressing into the thin edge of the counter to steady himself.
The groan he had let out was devastating. The sound coarse and dragged long, a sob cutting through. His tears were flowing out endlessly, warm droplets landing on your cheeks as you watch him push his glasses back into his hair, head thrown back.
Your chest aches for him—this is why it started, after all. He was always so hard on himself, keeping everything locked away. And you needed an outlet too, so somehow, it worked. You found each other when things got hard.
So when he snapped at you that day, it stung—but the hurt was tempered by something softer, heavier. You found yourself thinking of what he must be carrying, and decided that, this time, distance might be the gentler choice.
Being wrong isn't always bad.
"You have no idea how sorry I am... hah—" he sobs as he continues to harshly thrust into your mouth. Your nails dig into his clothed thighs, a dense line of fluids trailing down your neck and into your cleavage.
If Satoru were to look down right this moment, he'd probably cum on the spot.
"It was s-so... ngh— unfair of me to treat you that way."
Your moans keep ringing around him. Resonate. Shooting intense waves of pleasure through Satoru's body. You're cupping his balls with a shaky hand, knees burning beneath you.
"I c-completely disregarded your feelings—ohhh... I'm sorry."
"Mmmh," is all you can manage. You tried to shake your head, but it was being moved back and forth feverishly, Satoru's grip much too strong for you to do anything but.
Through tear-blurred vision, you glimpse his face as he looks down. Even indistinct, the details sting—eyes reddened like yours, lips swollen and caught in a small, pitiful pout.
"Oh god. You look s-so pretty," he says, sniffling. "You feel so good— I think I'm gonna cum."
He brings his hand down and feels up your throat where the prominent bulge of his cock slides in and out. A whine echoes through the kitchen.
"Oh god, oh god—inside? Please?" he asks, voice cracking.
You let out a sound, and that was all he needed.
In a split second, everything stills. You're being pressed against his pelvis again, face buried in the hair at his base, cock lodged deep down your throat. You feel his knees tremble, and then warmth pouring down your throat.
Satoru cums with a quiet sob, a contrast to how loud he had been just moments ago. You happily swallow every drop.
Finally, he lets go, your lips coming off the tip with a wet pop.
You gasp, a hand pressed to your chest as you struggle to steady your breathing, hastily wiping away your tears. In front of you, Satoru sinks to the ground, his back sliding slowly down the counter as his gaze drifts, unfocused, into the distance.
He's catching his breath too—still sniffling, tears clinging to his lashes—but there's a grace of relief softening his features.
You manage a weak smile. "You don't need to apologise anymore. You were stressed. It’s okay."
He shakes his head, voice raw, vulnerability at its edges. "No. I need you to understand." His eyes meet yours, expression turning faintly sheepish. "I'm sorry for being so rough just now, too."
You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. "It really is okay, Toru. I'm fine... and I forgive you."
A small smile tugs at his lips. "I'm glad."
After a moment, he speaks again. "Can I still make it up to you?"
You grin, voice light. "Yes, of course."
what is life without needy pathetic nerdjo? serious question. check out this post for more + taglists and also my masterlist. taglist: @heeknow @stellarixe @meowyway
