put your loving where your mouth is (your sugar talking isn’t working tonight)
pairing- popstar reader x lead dancer gojo
The studio smells like sweat and floor polish that never quite covers the heat of too many bodies rehearsing the same thing over and over again.
“Five, six, seven—again.”
You’re moving before the count even finishes. You’re not sure if it’s because of the exhaustion that’s got you out of step or if it’s your very absent main dancer that’s somehow late to essentially the most important night of your life.
You spin along with the preformed music they have playing temporarily— so as to not wear out your voice less than 24 hours before your show.
Six-inch, glittery heels. A mock-up of your dress. A whole bottle of hairspray holding your curls together. A festival stage waiting in less than a day that already feels like it’s swallowing you whole.
Again. Always again.
You hit your mark perfectly, breath steady even when your feet are not. Your stomach dips— now is not the time for your feet to become sloppy, nervous, boneless slobs. You need to pull yourself together.
This is your space. Your show. Everyone else adjusts to you.
And that is supposed to include your fucking lead dancer. Your lead dancer who isn’t here. Your lead dancer who is replaced by an understudy who does a good enough job but isn’t Gojo Satoru. Isn’t as careful with his hands, as sure in his steps, or as smooth as his smile.
Because Gojo is late. And you think that if you see him, you’ll dig your heels straight into his chest.
You’re mid-transition with his understudy when it happens—
The door slides open. He walks in, and with three of those sure strides, he’s replaced your understudy slickly and taken his spot on your stage. You scoff to yourself, staring back at the rows of empty seats before you like you’ve practiced a hundred times before.
You don’t look at him at first. You don’t need to. You spin into the air and Gojo catches you—strong hands around your waist, pointedly avoiding the strings of your dress so as not to loosen the bodice, something his understudy lacked.
Effortless. Like it’s the only thing he’s ever been good at.
You land against his grip and immediately push off him, eyes cutting sharp.
“Are you serious?” Your voice cuts through the music even before it fully resets. “Do you think this is some kind of joke, Satoru?”
Gojo exhales like he was bracing for impact and still chose to take it anyway.
“I’m here,” he says lightly, voice barely carrying over the music.
“You’re late.”
“From the top,” they call, tired.
The music starts again. And you move. Gojo moves too. Perfectly.
“I know,” he mutters—gentle, apologetic—and his eyes stay on yours, soft but steady, like a reminder that he is here now.
“Do you really not care about any of this?” you ask, your voice cracking just slightly under the weight of it.
He catches your wrist in transition, turns you clean into the next sequence.
“What—no. Of course not.”
You twist out of his hold, sharper than necessary, and spin into your next steps.
“This is hours before the biggest performance of my life, Gojo. I don’t need you half-assing your way into showing up.”
His face shifts—just slightly. Not defensive. More like he’s taken the hit and doesn’t know how to move with it yet.
“You don’t get to just drift in and out like it doesn’t matter,” you continue, voice tight. “Everyone else is showing up on time. Showing up ready. And you just—didn’t.”
There’s silence in his expression now. He still moves with you, still catches you when he’s supposed to, but he’s listening. Letting your words sink in.
You sound so devastated and Gojo can’t stand it. He can’t stand that he is the reason for creating so much unnecessary stress on a day that means more to you than anything.
“The one— the one person I needed to be here—” you spin away and he pulls you back in, twirling you cleanly across his frame. “Wasn’t. You weren’t here, Gojo.”
Gojo sounds quieter when he replies, all stage confidence stripped down into something real.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, angel.”
Simple. Not flippant.
“I won’t let it happen again.”
But that doesn’t fix it. It doesn’t touch the irritation still sitting under your skin.
“Let’s keep the scene going—wrap it up with the finale of the song,” the choreographer shouts from the stands.
The choreography slows into its final arc.
Gojo slips into position, dropping onto his knees, then onto his elbows as you advance toward him.
You walk him down, and he retreats back, staring up at you. The recorded track carries your vocals now, leaving you silent—just presence, just movement, just emotion in every step.
Controlled. Precise. Eyes locked.
He leans back slightly on his forearms, still watching you like you’re the only thing in the room worth tracking.
You stop over him and begin to lower yourself.
Gojo’s breath catches—subtle, involuntary—at the way you come into his space, close enough that the air feels shared. God, you’re beautiful. You look fucking devastating over him and his heart stutters in his chest at the sight of you.
He can hardly breathe.
You hover above him, then shift into position, and he steadies you at your waist, guiding the turn so you face forward again.
“You disappointed me,” you say quietly.
It’s blunt. It’s honest—just like you.
His expression shifts immediately.
“I know,” he says, borderline reverent.
“I don’t ask for a lot,” you add. “Just show up. Just be where you’re supposed to be.”
His jaw tightens. “I know, angel.”
Then, softer—almost frustratingly calm:
“I’m sorry. I should’ve been here. I should’ve been on time. I wasn’t thinking, and I was an absolute fucking idiot.”
You shift, turning on your knees now, resetting for the next sequence.
His hands find you immediately—steadying you from behind, palms at your ribs like he can’t stand even a second of distance.
“I was hurt,” you say, voice lower now. “You not showing up made me feel like you couldn’t care less about something that is so incredibly important to me.”
He swallows. “I know.”
And then the choreography changes again.
You start retreating backwards—slowly, deliberately—your side facing the stage with your head tilting up at him, still performing, but moving away from him, lowering back on your elbows.
And he follows.
Crawling forward as you move back. Perfect synchronization. Step for step.
Distance collapsing and stretching at the same time.
“Please forgive me,” he says, breathless.
“Why should I?” you reply immediately. But it’s softer now. Less sharp.
He closes the gap again, hovering over you as you both reach the final formation.
Then he brings the mic toward your mouth, guiding it with careful precision—making sure it’s exactly where it needs to be for you, like always.
Careful. Controlled. Like he’s afraid to mess up again.
“Look at me,” he says quietly.
You do.
Still leaning back on your hands, still in character, still performing—but your eyes meet his fully.
And he isn’t smiling. Just watching you like you matter more than he knows how to say properly.
“I’ll be on time,” he says. “Every time. I’m not doing this badly again. Not with you.”
A beat. Then softer:
“Don’t shut me out.”
Your breath catches slightly.
But you don’t look away.
The music swells. You stay there for a moment—wind catching at your hair, tugging at your dress—before you finally move. You bring a hand to his shoulder, using it to push yourself up. He looks briefly defeated as you step away from him.
Then you sigh dramatically, kick his chest, and send him sprawling back onto the floor.
“Make sure it doesn’t happen again, Satoru.”
heudifhejeejeje i saw sabrina’s coachella performances and I’m genuinely obsessed I keep watching them back I’m getting such fomo I should’ve been there 😔
But I KNEW I had to write a gojo fic to this like asap so I hope u guys like ittttt
