series summary ⸺ You and Gojo have been best friends ever since you met him in university, through your long study nights with Gojo, you met his other best friend, Suguru Geto. Although the two of you never really became close, the three of you spent a lot of time together at school. About a year or so after graduation, you had found yourself working a corporate job for some big shot insurance company in the city. Geto, on the other hand, had always been more of a background presence, he was a friend-of-a-friend. That’s why it caught you off guard when, out of nowhere, he reached out to you asking you to catch up, one-on-one. What started as a simple catch-up soon became something else, shrinking the distance that had always existed between you.
pairing ⸺ Suguru Geto x Reader
series content warnings ⸺ this is an 18+ series - mdni, platonic-bestie!gojo, corporate-worker!reader, reader uses female pronouns, reader has a v*gina, alcohol use, smoking (both cigs and weed), drug use, p in v intercourse, oral sex (both ways), semi-public sex, size kink, ROUGH sex, themes of substance abuse & high functioning addiction, a bit of emotional manipulation, exhaustion from working, burnout, corporate world bs, mildly anxiety inducing.
taglist ⸺ check latest chapter
divider credit: @/toastray ୨୧ art credit: @/juziluohai
୨୧ simplygojo masterlist ୨୧ Ao3 series link ୨୧
author's note ⸺ Hello all!!! I wanna say again, thank you SO MUCH for all the support on this series!! I am blown away by your comments and support and DMs. I SERIOUSLY LOVE Y'ALL!!! ANYways here is chapter 6 pls lmk ur thoughts ilysm <3
pairing ⸺ Suguru Geto x Reader
content ⸺ corporate-worker!reader, emotional tension, modern au, the good-ole-days trope, sexual themes mentioned, reader uses female pronouns, taglist at end, 3.9k, this is an 18+ series - mdni
divider credit: @/toastray ୨୧ art credit: @/juziluohai
previous chapter ୨୧ series masterlist ୨୧ next chapter
The rest of the evening unfolded gently, like the warm glide of a second drink—smoother, slower, and softer around the edges. Conversation flowed easily, the kind that didn’t need to be clever or loud to feel good.
There were no revelations, no confessions, just small, steady moments: Geto nursing his drink long after yours was gone, you reaching for the bowl of bar snacks just as he pushed it toward you, the unspoken agreement to linger a little while longer than either of you expected to.
When it was time to leave, he walked with you to the subway.
Not because it was on his way—it wasn’t—but because, as he shrugged with a faint smile, “You never know.”
He rode with you all the way to your stop, never getting off, never needing a reason. He stayed close, quiet but attentive, occasionally murmuring something about the people passing through—soft observations more than conversation.
It felt less like small talk and more like a way to keep you company and make sure you got home safe.
He really was kind…
The two of you drifted through the city’s flickering lights in the quiet of the subway car, the hum of the tracks beneath you a kind of peaceful backdrop to the steady beat of your thoughts.
You had the strangest feeling that time was moving a little slower than usual.
But that’s what these kinds of moments felt like, didn’t they?
Moments that felt effortless, where even the silence didn’t feel like an absence.
You weren’t sure when exactly…but at some point, you stopped thinking.
Your mind wandered, drawn to the way Geto’s features softened in the dim light of the subway, the glow casting shadows across his face, making him seem somehow even more present, more real.
You sat side by side, both of your hands resting between you on the seat, close but not touching.
At least, you thought they weren’t—until you felt it.
A brief, subtle contact, as if the universe had nudged you closer in that moment.
Geto’s fingers brushed lightly against yours, the touch so faint, so fleeting, that for a second, you questioned whether it had happened at all. It was almost as if he didn’t even notice, his hand remaining still, his focus elsewhere, his attention absorbed by the world outside the subway window.
But before you could really lose yourself in the thought, the sound of the automated voice broke through, crackling over the speakers like an old radio.
Your station.
You recognized it instantly, its familiar tone cutting through the fog of your thoughts.
You blinked, suddenly pulled back to reality, and stood up from your seat. Glancing down at Geto, you gave him a small smile.
“Well, this is me,” you said softly.
He didn’t move right away.
A look lingered in his eyes, like he hadn’t quite accepted that the night was over. The subway car hummed around you, the city lights flickering outside the windows, a faint reminder of the world outside.
His hand rested just beside where your fingers had just touched, barely an inch away, the space between you somehow feeling heavier now—although it was probably just all in your head.
The soft rush of the city, the low murmur of the train all seemed to seep into the quiet that settled in the air between you.
He finally spoke, his voice a touch softer than usual, “It was really nice catching up. Feels like it’s been longer than it has.”
You met his gaze and nodded, warmth beginning to bloom in your cheeks.
“Yeah, it was. I’ve missed it.” You paused, unsure how to keep the conversation from slipping into the usual goodbyes.
Then, as the train slowed, he added, “I’ll see you soon, yeah?”
The way he said it, like it wasn’t a question, like there was no doubt about it, made the air between you tighten just a little more.
You gave him a smile, a little slower this time. “Yeah, I’ll see you soon.”
The door slid open with a soft chime. You stepped out, the sound of your shoes against the platform unusually loud in the quiet night.
"Goodnight, Geto," you said, your voice steady despite the subtle undercurrent that ran through it.
He didn’t immediately respond, but his eyes stayed on you, watching as you moved, a flicker of something unspoken in his expression.
He didn’t follow, didn’t reach for you. He simply stood there, the door sliding shut between you, leaving the space between you both quiet, full of things unsaid.
As the train pulled away, you could almost feel the weight of his gaze lingering, still suspended in the space between you, even though he was gone. The stillness clung to the air, heavy, unbroken.
୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧
You turned and made your way up the stairs, with the station mostly empty at this hour your footsteps echoed against the tiled walls.
Outside, the city had quieted.
The sharp edges of the day had worn down, leaving behind something gentler—cool air, the muted glow of streetlights, the distant hush of passing cars.
It was the kind of night that asked nothing of you.
You walked slowly, not in a rush to get home, the hush of the streets matching the quiet stillness that had settled inside you.
There was nothing particularly remarkable about the evening.
No grand turning point, no dramatic shift. And yet you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something had shifted anyway—something small, something soft. You felt lighter. Steady. As though something in you had been gently realigned without you even noticing.
Its warmth stayed with you all the way home.
Inside your apartment, you moved through the motions of your routine with easy familiarity.
Coat off, shoes by the door, bag dropped with a soft thud.
The apartment was quiet, but not in a way that made you feel alone more like the world had given you a little space to exhale.
You glanced at the clock: 10:13 p.m.
Funny—it hadn’t felt like nearly five hours. Somehow, the time had just… folded in on itself.
You made your way to the bathroom, peeled off the day layer by layer.
The water from the shower was already hot, fogging up the mirror and curling into the corners of the room like it was settling in for the night too. You stepped under the stream and let it wash over you, a steady, comforting heat that eased the faint chill from your walk home.
It was the kind of warmth that didn’t just touch your skin—it sank deeper, unwinding something knotted just beneath the surface.
You tilted your head back and closed your eyes, letting the water drum gently against your scalp, the steam rising around you like a shield.
You didn’t rush. There was no need.
Your thoughts wandered loosely, untethered—you hadn’t realized that you missed chatting with Geto until tonight.
It wasn’t just the conversation itself, but the way it felt—effortless, like playing a familiar melody you hadn’t heard in years, and still knowing every note. It had been a while since you’d let yourself settle into something like that, where the silence between words didn’t feel heavy, but comforting.
You inhaled deeply, the steam filling your lungs, and in that moment the world outside seemed to slip away. There was something about the rhythm of the water, the soft thrum of the pipes, that made everything else feel distant—like it was only you, here, and the quiet.
You thought of the way his eyes had lingered earlier, just a little longer than usual. But you didn’t dwell on it.
By the time you stepped out and towelled off, the tension from the week had left your shoulders entirely.
Later, dressed in a soft t-shirt and tucked beneath the cool weight of clean sheets, you sank into bed with the kind of ease that only comes when the night has given more than it’s taken.
You were tired, but not worn out—just full, in a quiet, settled way.
There was a peace to it. No buzzing thoughts, no spirals to chase. Just the soft afterglow of good company, of laughter that hadn’t needed to be loud, of silences that had felt like enough. A night that hadn’t demanded anything from you but your presence.
You reached over, turned off the light, and let the darkness fill the room.
For a while, you simply listened—to nothing, to everything.
And as your eyes adjusted to the shadows, a small, contented smile tugged at your lips, warm and weightless.
It had been a good night. And it made you happy to know you had another friend in the city.
And for once, that felt like more than enough.
୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧
You woke just past ten.
Not late by most standards, but enough of a sleep-in to feel like a small luxury—especially on a weekend, when your body usually insisted on rising with the same weekday discipline. The light in your room was gentle, filtered through the blinds, casting pale strips across the floor.
For a moment, you didn’t move.
Just let yourself exist in that thin space between sleep and wakefulness, where the mind is soft and the world feels a little quieter.
Your limbs were warm beneath the sheets, heavy in the best way, like your body hadn’t quite let go of the calm from the night before.
Eventually, you stirred, stretching your limbs beneath the blankets before swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. The hardwood floor was cool beneath your feet, grounding you further into the day.
You padded softly into the kitchen, still wrapped in the gentle quiet of the morning.
It was the kind of morning that asked nothing of you. No urgency, no noise.
And then your phone buzzed—loud and insistent, rattling against the kitchen counter like it had something to prove.
You flinched at the sound, the stillness around you abruptly shattered.
Gojo. His name lit up your screen in bold, unmistakable letters, followed by a series of increasingly chaotic emojis in the preview of his missed messages.
You sighed, already bracing yourself as you picked up the phone. It buzzed again in your hand, this time with a video call request.
Because—of course—he couldn’t just text like a normal person.
The call connected with a sharp buzz, and Gojo’s face filled your screen—bright-eyed and messy-haired, already halfway through what looked like a green smoothie in a too-big mason jar.
“Well, well,” he said, grinning. “Look who finally woke up.”
You rolled your eyes, voice still gravelly from your sleep. “It’s barely past ten.”
“For you, that’s practically noon.”
You gave him one of your fakest smiles and walked over to the counter, propping your phone up against the fruit bowl so you could continue doing your morning routine whilst yapping.
He talked as you filled the kettle and flicked it on, his words folding easily into your usual weekend rhythm—something about his hot coworker who got a nosebleed during a fire drill, and how he, naturally, had been the only one equipped with both tissues and sarcastic commentary.
You laughed as you rinsed your mug and set it down. “How do these things always happen to you?”
“I attract chaos. It’s a gift.” He lifted his smoothie like a toast.
You moved around your kitchen, wiping down the counter absentmindedly, the familiar cadence of Gojo’s voice a steady backdrop to your morning.
It was easy like this—comfortable. This was what your weekends often looked like. A sleepy catch-up call—either with Gojo or one of your other friends from university.
You opened the cupboard and reached for the tin of loose-leaf tea. Just as you were spooning it into the strainer, Gojo’s voice dipped casually into something quieter as he changed the topic of conversation.
“Soooo, you ended up hanging out with Geto last night, huh?”
Your hand stilled, spoon hovering just above the tin.
The soft rattle of the kettle heating filled the silence that followed.
You glanced at your phone. Gojo hadn’t said it with any particular weight—just a statement, light on the surface, but with a thread you weren’t sure you wanted to pull yet.
You didn’t look up as you answered. “Yeah.”
The word was light, clipped. Not defensive, just... efficient. Like you didn’t feel the need to elaborate.
You put two spoonfuls of tea into your mug and stepped around the open dishwasher, nudging it shut with your hip.
Gojo didn’t say anything right away, and that was suspicious in itself. You could feel it—his silence had shape to it.
Still, you kept going. Wiped down the counter, flicked a crumb into your palm and tossed it in the sink. “We just caught up,” you added casually, voice over your shoulder. “It wasn’t a thing.”
You didn’t have to look at the screen to know he was smiling.
“Oh yeah?” He said, leaning into the space between you like he always did when he smelled something interesting. “That’s not what heee said about last night.”
You paused with the towel in your hand.
“…What?”
Gojo let out a loud laugh, delighted at your colour-drained face. “Relax. I’m kidding.”
But your heartbeat had already ticked upward, just for a second.
“I haven’t even talked to him since Wednesday,” he added, totally unbothered, eyes squinting with a grin. “You should’ve seen your face, though. Goddamn.”
You stared at the screen, lips parting like you had half a dozen things to say and none of them made it to the surface. Then you blinked once. Twice.
“…You’re so annoying,” you said finally, turning back to your tea like it owed you something. The strainer clinked a little harder than necessary against the side of the mug.
Gojo was still grinning. “Aw, come on. You make it too easy.”
“I hate you.”
“You’re deflecting.”
You exhaled through your nose, slow and pointed, and reached for the honey. “You’re insufferable.”
“You say that, but I know for a fact you miss me every day of your life.”
You squeezed the bottle in your hand a little too tightly. “You’re gonna miss your life if you ever do that again. What the hell is wrong with you?”
He just laughed again, head tipping back against the couch cushions wherever he was. “Okay, okay. Truce. Promise. No more fake-outs.”
You hummed, noncommittal.
The kettle clicked off with a soft pop. You poured the water slowly over the leaves, steam rising between you and the phone propped up on the counter.
“So, to answer your question,” you continued, carefully neutral, “yes—it was fine. Good, actually. It was nice to know there’s another friend in the city.”
Gojo raised a brow, tilting his head like a smug little parrot. “Mmm. Friend, huh?”
You gave him a look. “Yes, Gojo. Friend. Capital F.”
Gojo wiggled his brows. “You say friend like that means something it didn’t used to...”
“Oh my lord, do you ever shut up.” you said flatly, fake-scandalized, snatching up your phone. “You weren’t even there!”
But even as the words left your mouth, you could feel the warmth creeping up your neck.
Gojo dissolved into laughter, head tipping back.
“You don’t know anything!” You added, brandishing the phone like a weapon.
“And yet,” he wheezed, “I know everything.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Wait—no, don’t—”
Click.
You held the phone in your hand for a second longer, staring at the dark screen, lips twitching upwards at that chaotic interaction.
Then you let out a small, exasperated laugh and went back to your tea.
‘Gojo always blows things out of proportion — this was just another example of that.’ You thought to yourself as you went to sit on your couch to start your lazy morning.
୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧
The rest of the morning passed with a softness that settled into your bones like the warmth of your tea. You let yourself sink deeper into the couch, curling your legs beneath you as the quiet of the apartment embraced you.
The sound of the show you were catching up on drifted lazily in the background, the plot unfolding at its own pace.
You didn’t pay it too much attention, letting it wash over you in the same way the morning sun had slowly warmed the room.
Time seemed to slip away. Hours passed in a soft, steady rhythm—just enough to remind you that the world was still moving, but not enough to demand your attention.
There was no rush, no schedule to follow, just the steady pulse of your own thoughts and the low hum of everyday life.
A few errands nudged their way into your day—nothing major.
You picked up groceries, took a slow walk through the park, and checked a few emails. The air outside was crisp, the sun filtering through the branches of trees that were just beginning to show signs of spring.
It was a small reprieve from the buzz of the workweek, a brief moment to catch your breath.
But despite the ease of the day, there was a persistent thought that lingered, always hovering just beneath the surface.
You tried to push it away, tried to focus on the small details of your errands or the quiet hum of the city around you.
It didn’t work. No matter how many times you distracted yourself, it crept back in.
Why hadn’t Geto texted you?
He wasn’t obligated to keep in touch. The two of you were just barely friends, and last night hadn’t been anything special or unusual.
Just a casual catch-up. Nothing to read into.
But still, the thought wouldn’t leave no matter how far you tried to push it back.
Maybe this was just how things would go—occasional texts, brief exchanges, and that was it.
Once a month you’d get together to catch up, maybe, like a fleeting check-in between old friends. Which is totally fine, because that's all you were—friends.
Nothing more.
You fiddled with the hem of your sweater, walking down the street back towards your apartment with your gaze fixed ahead as you tried to fight the odd twist in your gut.
You couldn’t quite pin the feeling down, but the absence of a text—the silence between the moments you’d shared—felt different than you expected.
Something about it tugged at the edges of your thoughts, like the quiet undercurrent of a stream you couldn’t see, but knew was there.
You stopped at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change, and tried to shake it off.
You almost reached for your phone to check—check what exactly?
You weren’t sure.
୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧
It wasn’t until the following night that you heard from Geto again.
You were standing in the kitchen, folding a dish towel still warm from the dryer, when your phone buzzed on the countertop. The sound was unremarkable, the kind of everyday chime that usually meant a notification from some app you hadn’t opened in weeks.
But something about it made your hands still.
You glanced over, and there it was—his name lighting up your screen, steady and quiet like it had been waiting for you to notice.
Geto: Busy weekend. Sorry I ghosted.
Two short sentences. No emoji, no punctuation embellishments. Just that even, familiar tone you’d come to recognize—casual, but never careless.
You read it once, then again. The tightness you hadn’t fully acknowledged in your chest loosened, just a little.
It shouldn’t have mattered.
He didn’t owe you anything. He could ghost you if he wanted.
And yet the silence had curled around you over the last day like a thread you couldn’t untangle. Now, with just a handful of words, it unravelled.
You: All good. Hope it wasn’t anything too chaotic, lol.
You hit send, then set the phone down—face down—as if that would keep your thoughts from spiralling back into it. But your hands betrayed you, fingers tapping the edge of the counter, heart thudding in a rhythm you couldn’t quite ignore.
Outside, the city breathed in its own quiet way—the low murmur of traffic, the occasional bark of a dog several blocks away, the muted clatter of a neighbour’s life just beyond the thin walls of your apartment. Rain tapped at the windows in a slow, unhurried rhythm, like fingers drumming on glass, steady and soft enough to almost blend into the background.
Inside, time stretched.
Then—another buzz.
Geto: Just some work stuff. Nothing I couldn’t handle.
You smiled before you could stop yourself. It was faint, but real.
Another message came through a moment later.
Geto: Was gonna text last night. Didn’t want to overdo it.
You blinked at that.
Something shifted low in your chest—quiet and unnameable, quiet and unnameable, but warm, like the weight of a blanket pulled over you in the middle of the night by someone who thought you might get cold.
The words landed softly, but something about them lingered—like the faint trace of perfume in an elevator, or the ghost of a thought you’d almost forgotten.
‘Overdo it’... overdo what exactly?
It wasn’t the kind of thing someone said unless they thought about it a lot. Considered what the boundaries were. Wondered if they might cross one. Did you even have the kind of relationship where you had to set boundaries? You barely ever see him?
You let your fingers hover over the screen, unsure if you wanted to step into that space he’d opened—or if you were just imagining it.
You: Not sure I’d call one text ‘overdoing it’.
The typing indicator appeared.
Then disappeared.
Then returned.
You waited. The moment swelled.
Geto: Fair.
And then, barely a breath later:
Geto: You doing anything right now? If you don’t have any plans, do you want some company?
Your breathing simply stopped for a moment.
You never did anything on Sundays.
That was the rule—even if it wasn’t one you ever said aloud. Sundays were for soft clothes and quiet routines. For folding laundry and eating leftovers in front of the TV. For getting into bed before ten and letting the weight of the week ahead settle gently onto your shoulders. The kind of day you kept for yourself, tucked away like a pressed leaf between the pages of a worn book.
You hadn’t so much as considered going out tonight.
It wasn’t even a question. You’d already washed your hair, already lit the candle on your nightstand that always meant we’re winding down now. The world had been filed away under tomorrow.
But then—
You: Sure.
You stared at the message, at that one syllable blinking back at you from the screen, and felt something shift in your chest—quiet and irreversible, like the soft click of a door swinging shut behind you.
It wasn’t what you meant to say.
Or maybe it was. Maybe some part of you had been waiting for this—waiting for him—to reach through the static and routine of your carefully constructed quiet, and ask.
The typing bubble appeared again, this time almost immediately. No hesitation.
Geto: Okay. You good with me just coming to chill for a bit?
You looked around your apartment— The laundry was still folded in the basket. The half-empty mug of tea on the coffee table. The quiet hum of your Sunday night life, suddenly feeling like a stage you hadn’t meant to set.
You: Yeah sure! That's fine!!
He didn’t answer right away.
Why did you use so many exclamation marks…
The typing bubble blinked on, then off, and when it finally returned—
Geto: Great, I’ll be there in 30 :)
And just like that, your night cracked open.
taglist ⸺ @killak9mi; @nikilig; @pinkhoneydrop; @armfloaties; @sat-hoe-ru; @kaqua; @rriwyu; @erenspersonalwh0re; @dishs0pe; @rwirxles; @yourname-exee; @pyruvic; @marianaz; @you-transfix-me; @simplyyyuji; @zoldyi; @linaaeatsfamilies; @anuncalledbridge; @aseqan; @starmapz; @nina-from-317; @kang-ulzzang; @hashahasha; @maybe-a-bi-witch; @zeunys; @pandabiene5115; @shibataimu; @enchantinghonymoon; @gradmacoco; @re-tired-succubus; @aspiring-bookworm; @idkidk32; @paintedperidot; @yourfavbabigirl; @tellria; @ruby-dubydu; @susanhill; @arabellasolstice; @getosshampoo; @xoxoblueyy; @bxnfire; @ayumilk
**please note: if your name is striked out, that means I was unable to tag you, please check your settings if you'd like to be tagged**
author's note ⸺ Y'all I'm so sorry im nothin but a nasty dog bc no way this is 4.3k 💀. ANYWHO this smutty fic idea came to me when seeing the art used as the cover for this by @actuallyvalerie (original art is linked here), I just couldn't help myself from writing this...heh. Hope you enjoy!
pairing ⸺ Mechanic!Toji Fushiguro x reader
word count ⸺ 4.3k (im a nasty dog y'all...)
content ⸺ 18+ content, SMUT!, oral (reader receiving), intercourse, dirty sex, choking, pet names (pretty girl), fingering, slight overstimulation, mndi, reader has a vagina, reader uses female pronouns
The low rumble of engines filled the air as you stepped into the garage, the familiar scents of motor oil and gasoline swirling around you. Your heartbeat quickened the moment you caught sight of him—Toji Fushiguro.
He was bent over the hood of his car, focused on something behind the propped-up hood.
The muscles in his broad back flexed as he worked, his white tank top clinging to his sweat-slicked skin. His strong arms glistened with a light sheen of sweat, smudged with streaks of oil that only added to the raw masculinity he exuded.
A dark smear ran along his sharp jawline, the grease contrasting with his striking, rugged features. The late afternoon sun filters through the wide windows of Toji’s garage, casting long shadows across the floor as you lean against the doorframe, watching him work.
His muscles flexed as he tightened a bolt with practiced ease. His black hair falls into his eyes, and he grunts, annoyed, pushing it back with his forearm before continuing.
You can’t help but smile at the sight. Toji, focused and in his element, and it was really turning you on…
The way he concentrated on the task at hand, brow furrowed and lips slightly parted as he grunted with effort, was enough to send heat coursing through you. Each twist of the wrench, every subtle shift of his frame, seemed to radiate raw masculinity, igniting a spark of desire deep within you.
Your pulse quickened, and you felt a warmth pooling in your core, drawn in by the mix of confidence and sheer masculinity he exuded.
Toji, sensing your gaze, glances over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “You gonna stand there all day or actually say something?” His voice is teasing, rough around the edges, but there’s that familiar smirk tugging at his lips, the one that makes your heart skip a beat.
You push off the doorframe and walk over, hands in your pockets, pretending to study the car (like you gave a damn) as if you understand half of what he’s doing.
“Just admiring the view,” you reply with a grin, leaning against the workbench. “You sure know how to make fixing a car look… good.”
Toji snorts, wiping the grease from his hands onto a rag before tossing it aside. “Yeah? Well, don’t get used to it. Not many people get a free show.”
You roll your eyes at his usual bravado but can’t deny that there’s something captivating about him. He straightens up, towering over you with that smug grin still firmly in place. “What, you just came here to stare?”
You shrug, deciding to play along. “Maybe. Can’t blame me, right? You’re good at what you do.”
His smirk widens, and he steps closer, towering over you now. There’s an intensity in his gaze, but it’s softened by the playful glint in his eyes. “You saying I should charge for it?”
You laugh, lightly shoving him. “Please, you’d drive everyone away with that attitude.”
He chuckles, leaning back against the car, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Probably. But you’re still here, so I must be doing something right.”
You look up at him, biting back a smile. “Guess I’m the lucky one, huh?”
Toji’s eyes narrow playfully, but there’s a warmth in his gaze that wasn’t there before. “Damn right.”
The two of you fall into a comfortable silence, the sounds of the garage filling the space once again.
After a moment, you speak again, your voice softer. “Need any help?”
Toji glances at you, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You offering?”
You shrug, moving closer to inspect the tools scattered on the workbench. “Maybe. I’m not exactly a mechanic, but I can hold a wrench.”
He snorts, amused, and hands you a tool.
“Don’t hurt yourself. That’s my job.”
You take it, rolling your eyes at his comment. But as you stand next to him, following his instructions and working together on the car, there’s a quiet contentment in the air.
You grip the wrench, watching Toji’s hands as he guides yours to the right bolt. His touch is firm, steady, sparking a heat between your thighs. His body is so close to yours that you felt the warmth radiating off him.
You try to focus on the task at hand, but with Toji standing over you, the subtle scent of engine oil mixed with his cologne makes your heart race, and it's hard to concentrate.
"Like this?" You ask, adjusting the wrench in your hand, trying to distract yourself from your dirty thoughts.
Toji’s lips twitch into a smirk as he leans in closer, his breath warm against your ear.
"Tighten it, don’t baby it, baby."
You roll your eyes but smile despite yourself. You give the wrench another turn, putting more effort into it this time.
"There. Happy?" You ask, looking up at him.
Toji’s gaze flickers down to meet yours, and for a moment, the air between you seems to thicken.
His eyes darken, a hint of something playful yet dangerous lurking in them.
He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he leans in even closer, so close you can feel the brush of his arm against yours.
"Not bad," he murmurs, his voice low. His big arms reached over you and tightened the bolt even more, just showing off his strength. "Maybe you’re not as useless around here as I thought."
You narrow your eyes at him, though there’s no real annoyance in your expression. "Oh, please. I’m the best help you’ve ever had."
Toji’s grin widens, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Big words for someone who didn’t even know where the wrench was five minutes ago."
You open your mouth to retort, but before you can, he reaches past you to grab another tool, his arm brushing against your side.
He doesn’t move away, staying so close that your shoulders are practically touching. It’s deliberate—you can tell by the smug look on his face.
Your heart skips a beat, but you don’t back down. Instead, you let your own smile grow, deciding to meet his teasing head-on.
"Maybe I don’t know cars, but I know you like showing off. How long did it take you to fix that last engine again? Two hours?"
Toji lets out a low chuckle, clearly enjoying your banter. "Two hours, and it was perfect. Don’t forget that part."
You tilt your head, raising an eyebrow. "Perfect, huh? Or just barely passable?"
He narrows his eyes at you, though there’s a playful edge in his gaze.
"Careful. You’re gonna talk yourself out of a favour if you keep that up."
"Oh? What favour?" you ask, leaning against the car now, your arms crossed, fully enjoying the back-and-forth.
Toji leans down, bringing his face closer to yours, his grin shifting into something more dangerous, more tempting. "The one where I let you stick around here. Don’t think I’ll keep you around for free."
Your breath hitches slightly, but you don’t let it show. Instead, you match his energy, pushing back without missing a beat.
"Oh, so you’re saying I have to work to earn my keep? What’s the price, then? More wrench-holding?"
He chuckles again, the sound deep and rich, vibrating through the air between you.
His eyes lock onto yours, and for a moment, the teasing fades into something heavier, something that lingers in the charged space between your bodies.
He’s close enough now that you can see the flecks of green in his eyes, close enough that you can feel the warmth rolling off him.
"Nah," Toji says, his voice dropping an octave, turning more serious but still holding that playful tone.
"I’ve got enough wrenches. I’m thinkin’ of something a little more… personal."
You can feel your pulse quicken, but you don’t look away. "Oh? Like what?"
He leans in, just barely brushing his lips against your ear.
"Guess you’ll just have to stick around to find out."
For a second, the world seems to slow down, your senses overwhelmed by the proximity of him, the way his voice sends shivers down your spine.
But before you can say anything, Toji pulls back, the smirk returning to his face as he casually grabs another tool and turns back to the car, as if nothing just happened.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, your heart still pounding in your chest.
Toji always knows exactly how to push your buttons, how to get under your skin in a way that leaves you wanting more.
“Tease,” you mutter under your breath, shaking your head with a smile.
Toji glances over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth quirking up.
“I’m not teasing this time, I’m just busy. Like I said, stick around...”
His voice was low, almost serious, but that playful gleam in his eyes hasn’t faded.
He gives you a wink, and something about the way he says it sends a shiver down your spine.
You open your mouth to reply, but words seem to get stuck in your throat. The way he’s looking at you right now—like you’re the only thing in the room worth paying attention to—makes your pulse quicken.
The air between you feels heavy, charged with an energy you can’t quite name.
Toji watches your reaction closely, his grin fading into something softer, more intense. He drops the tool he was holding onto the workbench and turns fully toward you, wiping his hands on the rag before tossing it aside.
“You really think I’m just messin’ with you?”
Your breath catches as he steps closer, closing the already small distance between you. His presence is overwhelming—tall, broad, and carrying that rough, irresistible confidence he always seems to have.
But this time, there’s something else in the way he looks at you, something different. His teasing smirk is gone, replaced by a look that makes your heart race.
“Toji…” you start, but you’re not even sure what you want to say.
He reaches out, his fingers brushing lightly against your chin, tilting your face up so that you’re forced to meet his eyes. The touch is surprisingly gentle, almost tender.
“I’m serious,” he says quietly, his voice low and rough around the edges. “You think I haven’t noticed? The way you look at me, the way you linger around here like you’re waitin’ for something to happen.”
Your cheeks burn at his words, and you’re not sure if it’s from embarrassment or anticipation.
Maybe both.
But before you can respond, Toji’s hand slips from your chin, moving to rest against the side of your neck, his thumb brushing against your skin. The touch sends a jolt of electricity through you.
“I’ve been holding back,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse, like he’s been keeping this confession locked away for too long.
The dark, dangerous edge in his tone sends a shiver down your spine. His grip on you tightens slightly, a subtle indication of just how much control he’s been forcing himself to maintain.
You’re painfully aware of how close he is now—his broad frame nearly eclipsing yours, his body radiating a heat that makes it harder to breathe. The faint scents of oil and metal lingers in the air, mixing with something distinctly him. It’s intoxicating.
“M’didn’t wanna push too far, but... maybe I’ve been waitin' for you to give me the green light.” His words hang in the air, a challenge wrapped in velvet. It’s like a line drawn in the sand, daring you to cross it.
Your heart pounds, adrenaline coursing through your veins. Every inch of you is hyper-aware of Toji—the way his hand lingers on your neck, the way his gaze seems to devour you. You want this. God, you want this.
“What if I gave you that green light right now?” The words leave your lips before you can fully process them, but there’s no hesitation, no second-guessing.
For a fleeting moment, Toji’s pupils dilate, his eyes narrowing with something primal, something dangerous. The smirk that spreads across his face is no longer playful—it’s predatory.
“Then I wouldn’t waste any more time.”
Before you can draw another breath, his mouth crashes down on yours, and it’s like a dam breaking—everything he’s been holding back unleashed in one searing, possessive kiss.
His hands move from your throat to your waist, pulling you against him so fiercely that your feet nearly leave the ground.
There’s nothing gentle about the way he kisses you. His lips are demanding, rough, as if he’s staking a claim.
You can feel the pent-up tension in every movement—the way his teeth graze your lower lip, the way his hands grip your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his hold.
Your hands move instinctively to his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands, pulling him even closer.
You match his intensity, giving in to the heat that’s been simmering between you both for far too long. Every brush of his lips, every press of his body against yours ignites a fire low in your belly, making you ache for more.
Toji pulls back for just a moment, his lips hovering dangerously close to yours as he catches his breath. His eyes, hooded and dark, search yours as if looking for any trace of hesitation. But there is none.
“You sure you’re ready for this?” His voice is low, rumbling with barely restrained need.
Your answer comes not in words but in the way you tug him back to you, pressing your lips to his once more, harder this time, as if you’re trying to tell him with your body what your words can’t quite express.
Toji groans softly, the sound vibrating against your mouth as his hands begin to explore, sliding under the hem of your shirt.
His touch is scorching, sending jolts of electricity through your skin.
There’s an urgency now, a desperation in the way his hands roam your body, as if he’s trying to memorize every inch of you.
Your back hits the cold metal of his car behind you, the chill momentarily cutting through the heat between you, but it only seems to heighten the tension.
Toji’s hands are firm on your waist, holding you in place against the cool surface, his body pressed against yours in a way that has your pulse racing.
He breaks the kiss, breathing heavily, his eyes smouldering with an intensity that makes your stomach flip. The darkness in his gaze has only grown deeper, and when he speaks, his voice is rough, husky, full of raw need.
“I’ve been patient,” he mutters, his thumb brushing over the sensitive skin just above the waistband of your jeans. “But you don’t want me to hold back anymore, do you?”
The way he says it, the low growl in his voice, sends a wave of heat straight to your throbbing pussy.
You can only manage a small shake of your head, your throat too tight to form any words.
His lips twist into a smirk, something predatory glinting in his eyes as he steps back just enough to grab you by the waist and hoist you effortlessly onto the hood of the car behind you.
He quickly unbuttoned your jeans, sliding them off your legs, letting his hands roam your skin.
The cold metal beneath you contrasts sharply with the warmth of his body as he steps between your legs, spreading them open with a firm grip on your thighs.
“You’ve been teasing me, y’know that?” he growls, his voice low and dangerous as his hands trace the outline of your hips, fingers brushing the edge of your panties.
“You comin’ in here wearing these tight jeans, given’ me those looks.”
Before you can respond, he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and, with one sharp tug, the fabric tears apart in his hands.
The sound of it—quick and final—echoes in the small garage, and the cool air hits your skin, making you gasp.
Toji’s eyes darken as he looks down at you, his gaze hungry and unrestrained. He licks his lips, the smirk from earlier gone, replaced with something far more serious.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, his hands sliding up your inner thighs, rough fingers brushing the sensitive skin as he leans down, bringing his face closer to your dripping cunt. His breath ghosts over your exposed skin, sending a shiver down your spine.
“Such a pretty sight.”
He pauses for a second, his thumb brushing dangerously close to your center, teasing, but not yet giving you the touch you desperately need. You squeeze your eyes shut, your head falling back with pleasure.
“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do this.”
Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he lets his thumb slide over your slick folds, testing your reaction, watching the way your body responds under his touch. The anticipation, the raw hunger in his gaze, it’s all too much, and you let out a desperate moan.
Your breath hitches as Toji's thumb slides teasingly through your folds, his touch both rough and deliberate.
You try to bite back the groan threatening to escape your lips, but the way his eyes flicker up to meet yours tells you he notices everything.
“Don’t hold back now,” he rasps, his voice gravelly, sending shivers down your spine.
“I wanna hear every pretty sound you make.”
Before you can react, he dips his head between your thighs, and the warmth of his breath against your sensitive skin makes your body tremble. His hands grip your thighs firmly, keeping you in place, as his tongue traces a slow, agonizing path over your slick heat.
Your gasp echoes through the garage, head falling back against the hood of his car as pleasure surges through you.
You feel Toji’s lips curl into a smirk against you, clearly enjoying the way your body reacts to his touch.
He doesn’t hold back—his tongue flicks, swirls, and sucks, each movement precise and calculated, as though he’s savouring every moment of this.
“Fuck, Toji—” you gasp, your hands instinctively flying to his hair, tugging at the dark strands as the heat builds inside you.
Toji growls in response, the vibrations of his voice against your pussy sending waves of pleasure through you, making your thighs shake.
He dives in deeper, his mouth working relentlessly, tasting every inch of you, each flick of his tongue pushing you closer and closer to the edge.
The sensation is overwhelming—his lips, his tongue, the way his fingers dig into your thighs, holding you open for him, like you’re his to devour.
It’s too much and not enough all at once. Every brush of his mouth over your clit sends electricity shooting through your body, and leaves you whining for more.
Your hips buck instinctively, seeking more, needing more of the pleasure he’s giving you.
Toji chuckles, dark and amused, his voice muffled as he continues to work you with his mouth. “So needy,” he murmurs, his voice like velvet against your heated skin. “I like that.”
It’s like he knows exactly how to unravel you, like he’s been waiting for this moment, studying you, learning your body, just so he could do this—just so he could make you fall apart beneath him.
“Toji—m' gonna cum,” you choke out, your voice barely a whisper, but he knows what you need.
He speeds up, his mouth and fingers working in tandem, the relentless pace driving you higher and higher, until the world falls away and all that’s left is him, his touch, and the pleasure that crashes over you in waves.
You cry out as your orgasm rips through you, your thighs clamping around his head as your body shakes with the intensity of it.
But Toji doesn't let up, continuing to lap at you, drawing out your pleasure until you're trembling from the aftershocks.
Finally, he pulls back, his lips and chin glistening as he looks up at you with a satisfied grin, eyes dark with lust. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, standing back up, towering over you once again.
“Come here, pretty girl,” he rasps, his voice a low growl that sends another wave of heat through your body.
Before you can catch your breath, his large hand slides behind your neck, gripping it firmly, but not harshly.
He lifts you from your position on the car, pulling you up until you’re sitting in front of him, your legs dangling off the edge of the hood. His hand lingers at your neck, his thumb brushing against your pulse, feeling the rapid beat of your heart.
Your body is still humming with the afterglow of your orgasm, but when you glance down and see Toji’s other hand move to the waistband of his pants, your breath hitches again.
He keeps his eyes locked on yours as he unbuttons them slowly, deliberately, the tension between you thickening once more.
Toji's eyes gleamed with that dark hunger as his grip on your neck tightened just a fraction, enough to remind you who was in control. His free hand moved to the back of your thigh, pulling you forward on the car until you could feel the heat of him between your legs.
“Look at you,” he growled, his voice low and rough as his hand caressed the curve of your hip, dragging you closer to him.
“So pretty, all spread out for me.”
Your breath caught as you felt the tip of him brush against your entrance, your entire body already aching for him, needing more. You leaned into his grip on your neck, your pulse racing beneath his fingers as you whispered,
“Please, Toji…”
He chuckled darkly at the desperation in your voice, his grin widening as he pressed himself just a little harder against you, teasing you.
“Please what, baby? You gotta use your words.”
You squirmed under his grip, your body screaming for more contact, for him to stop teasing.
“God Toji—I want y’to fuck me,” you said in frustration, your voice barely audible as your body begged for him.
“Good girl.” His voice was a low, approving growl as he finally lined himself up with you, his voice sent another wave of heat to your aching pussy. Without another word, he pulled you forward, thrusting into you in one swift motion.
The sudden stretch had you gasping, eyes wide as your walls adjusted to his size, the feeling of him filling you completely was overwhelming.
Toji groaned, his grip on your neck tightening as he stilled inside you, savouring the feeling for just a moment. You grabbed his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he muttered through clenched teeth, his eyes locked on yours as each thrust sent a shockwave of pleasure through your body.
Your hands instinctively reached for him, fingers tangling in his dark hair as you clung to him, every nerve in your body on fire. Toji’s lips curled into a smug grin at the way you responded to him, the way your body seemed to melt under his touch.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” He rasped, his breath hot against your ear as he leaned in closer while maintaining his rough pace. His grip on your neck shifted to pull your head back slightly.
“Tell me how good it feels.”
“It’s so good,” you moaned, your voice trembling as he began to pick up the pace, the force of his thrusts making the car creak beneath you.
Every movement pushed you higher, the pressure building inside you all over again as Toji took you apart piece by piece.
Toji’s pace became relentless, each thrust hitting deeper, harder, and your body was a live wire, every nerve tingling under his touch. The pressure inside you built impossibly fast, the pleasure coiling tight in your core, threatening to snap.
“Toji—" you whimpered, barely able to form words as he drove into you, your body quivering beneath him.
Hot tears pricked at your eyes from the overstimulation you felt—never ever had anyone fucked you like this.
He groaned at the sound of your voice, his lips brushing against your ear.
"That’s it, pretty girl. Cum f’me," he rasped, his hand tightening around your neck just enough to send a thrill through you.
The roughness of his voice, the commanding way he held you—it pushed you over the edge.
Your body tensed, the world spinning as your orgasm ripped through you with a force that left you gasping, your walls clenching tightly around him as wave after wave of pleasure coursing through your veins.
You cried out his name followed by a pornographic moan, legs trembling, your nails digging into his shoulders as you rode the intensity of it, your whole body shaking as the pleasure overtook you.
Toji’s hand slipped from your neck, sliding down to your waist as he kept moving, working you through the aftershocks as your body convulsed beneath him.
“There you go,” he growled, his voice thick with satisfaction, his hips slowing as he watched the way you writhed under him, completely lost in the ecstasy he’d given you.
Panting and spent, your body collapsed back against the car, your chest heaving as the last waves of your orgasm rolled through you.
Toji’s eyes gleamed with pride as he pulled out, his hands still possessively resting on your hips.
"You look so damn pretty when you cum," he murmured, leaning down to press a rough kiss against your lips, your body still tingling from the intensity of it all.
You were utterly spent, trembling in the aftermath, but as Toji’s lips curled into that familiar smirk, you knew...
author's note ⸺ Hello all reading this!! THANK YOU SO MUCH!! This series has gotten so much support I am so excited to take you all on this journey that is this fic. I have lovveeedddddd reading all the comments and hearing your thoughts, SO PLS KEEP IT COMING ILYSM <3
pairing ⸺ Suguru Geto x Reader
content ⸺ platonic-bestie!gojo, corporate-worker!reader, slight tension, studying mentioned, modern au, the good-ole-days, reader uses female pronouns, 2.9k, this is an 18+ series - mdni
divider credit: @/toastray ୨୧ art credit: @/juziluohai
previous chapter ୨୧ series masterlist ୨୧ next chapter
"Hey," he said, his voice a touch smoother than usual, though it still held that casual tone that was oh so familiar.
For a moment, all you could do was stare.
The on-edge atmosphere of the station pressed in around you—hushed conversations, hurried footsteps, the distant rumble of another approaching train underneath you—but none of it reached you fully.
Your mind felt like it was catching up, trying to bridge the space between expectation and reality, between picturing him at the bar and seeing him here instead.
He was waiting. Not impatiently, not expectantly, just... there.
His hand dropped back to his side, fingers grazing the seam of his pants.
The ghost of a smirk played at the corner of his mouth as he tilted his head slightly, eyes never leaving yours.
“Hey,” you breathed out at last, sounding a little more unsteady than you had expected.
Geto’s warm smile deepened at your response—like he could hear everything unsaid in that single word.
You swallowed, willing yourself to move.
The space between you closed with slow, measured steps, work computer bag still slung over your shoulder, the city air clinging cool against your skin as it blew in through the glass doors.
“What are you doing here?” Your voice was quieter than you intended. The question felt unnecessary somehow, obvious even, but it still tumbled out.
Geto huffed a slight chuckle, glancing down briefly before looking back at you.
“Well, I know the streets in this city aren’t always safe, so I figured I’d meet you here and walk with you.” His tone was light, teasing, but there was something underneath it. Something careful. Considered.
You exhaled, a short, breathy laugh leaving your lips. “I mean, yeah…but Geto, you really didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
The words hung in the space between you, simple and easy, yet carrying something heavier beneath them.
A beat passed, and then another.
You should have said something—something lighthearted, maybe a quick retort about him being overprotective, about how you weren’t exactly helpless.
But the words didn’t come like they usually did.
Why weren’t you responding?
You weren’t sure, to be honest.
Maybe it was the way he was looking at you, the familiar weight of his gaze steady and unhurried, waiting for you to catch up to the moment so patiently.
Maybe it was the way his presence here, unexpected yet not unwanted, unsettled something in your chest—just enough to make you pause, just enough to make you notice.
Or maybe it was nothing at all. Just a lapse. Just you being slow at the end of a workday—A small, silent moment stretched far too long by your drained brain.
Geto didn’t rush to fill the silence. He never did.
He was comfortable in it.
Instead, he tipped his head slightly, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, like he was waiting for you to steady yourself.
And then he saved you from your spiralling thoughts with a breathy laugh so small you almost missed it—
“Come on,” he said, turning just enough to gesture toward the exit. “Let’s get out of here.”
You nodded, shifting the strap of your laptop bag on your shoulder before following him through the glass doors ahead.
The faint hum of the subway station faded behind you as you left the subway station, the air changing as you stepped onto the street—cooler, fresher, tinged with the familiar scent of city pavement and distant car exhaust.
As the two of you stepped into the night, the tension that had been coiling in your chest all week began to slip away—slowly, steadily—unwinding in the quiet comfort of his presence, in the easy way he moved beside you, like nothing in the world needed rushing.
The movement of the city folded around you both as you stepped onto the sidewalk.
The weeknight life carried on as if nothing had shifted—as if you hadn’t just spent an extra few seconds too long staring at him, as if you hadn’t just caught yourself hesitating for reasons you didn’t entirely understand.
But Geto didn’t call any attention to it. He was kind like that.
He simply fell into step beside you, adjusting his pace to match yours without even thinking about it.
“How was work?” He asked, voice low but unhurried.
You sighed, rolling one shoulder as if that might shake the weight of the day off.
“The usual. Meetings that could’ve been emails, and emails that could’ve been nothing at all.”
He huffed a small laugh, his hands slipping easily into the pockets of his baggy dress pants. “Sounds about right.”
You both kept walking, and somewhere between the exchange of words, your attention began catching on details that had nothing to do with the conversation.
The way Geto positioned himself slightly ahead, his body angled just enough that he was closest to the road.
The way his shoulder barely brushed yours when the crowd thickened, how he shifted so easily, subtly, making sure there was just enough space for you to walk and not get pushed by others.
Had he always done that?
Probably.
But maybe you’d never noticed it quite like this.
“You know,” he mused, his calm voice cutting through your thoughts, “I don’t think I’ve ever asked you—not that I really had the chance—but how’d you even end up in your job?”
You blinked up at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I get how Gojo ended up where he is—they probably gave him the job just to get him to shut up and leave,” Geto said dryly, “but you? I don’t remember you ever talking about wanting the corporate life back in university.”
You let out a breath of laughter. “That’s because I had no idea what I was doing after graduation. I kind of just… fell into it.”
He hummed in understanding, and as you spoke, your eyes drifted over him again.
His hair was longer than the last time you’d seen him.
You hadn’t noticed it at first, not really, but seeing it tied back in that loose half-bun, with stray strands slipping free to frame his face—it was different.
Still him, still familiar, but different, softer somehow.
“Do you like it?” He asked, pulling you back to the conversation.
You hesitated, tilting your head slightly before clicking back into reality and responding.
“Not really. I mean, it’s not what I pictured, but I don’t hate it. I just… don’t think too hard about whether I love it, either.”
Geto glanced at you then, something knowing in his expression. “That’s an interesting way of saying ‘I don’t know.’”
You scoffed, laughing a bit as you looked over at him. “You always do that!”
“Do what?” He looked at you, brows drawing together just slightly, the barest hint of confusion crossing his face.
“Summarize everything I say in, like, three words when I take five sentences to say it.”
He smirked, but didn’t deny it.
Another few steps, another moment of quiet stretching between you.
It wasn’t awkward—it never was with him—but something about the silence tonight felt fuller than usual, charged with something unspoken.
You glanced up at him again, watching the way the low glow of passing streetlights softened his profile.
His expression was as still as always, but his eyes hadn’t lost their softness—Neither had his voice.
And for some reason, your brain felt like that was something worth noticing, too.
You walked in comfortable silence for a few moments, the rhythm of your steps becoming almost synchronized with the hum of the city.
Geto’s presence next to you was like a quiet anchor, grounding the entire evening.
As you reached the bar, its neon sign glowing faintly in the distance, Geto took the lead, stepping ahead of you without hesitation.
He reached for the door first, a smooth movement, his hand easily grasping the handle.
But instead of just opening it, he held the door back, the solid wood creaking slightly as he pulled it toward him.
He stood a little taller for the gesture, holding the door open with an effortless grace, the kind of politeness that felt both instinctive and genuine.
You glanced up at him as you passed, giving him a polite smile, his stature making the action look all the more effortless.
The way he did everything—slightly above and beyond—seemed almost natural for him.
You stepped inside, the warmth of the bar enveloping you, replacing the cool air of the street.
Geto stepped in behind you, the door falling gently shut with a soft click, and he gave a quick glance around, before his gaze landed on you, a quiet smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
The space was dimly lit, the kind of ambient lighting that pulled shadows in all the right places, giving everything a sense of intimate mystery.
The atmosphere was alive but muted, like the soft pulse of a secret kept between strangers who’d all found refuge here.
The walls were a dark, moody shade of navy blue, interrupted only by sleek, matte black frames holding abstract art pieces—art that made you pause to interpret it, even if you weren’t quite sure how. The floor beneath your feet was smooth, polished concrete, worn in spots from years of footsteps, giving the place a lived-in yet carefully curated feel.
Above, industrial light fixtures hung low, casting pools of soft light, the shadows playing across the faces of patrons hunched over their drinks, their conversations murmured low.
A blend of smooth jazz with a touch of modern beats floated in the background, just enough to set the tone without intruding.
The whole place felt alive, but in a way that encouraged quiet conversation, the kind of vibe that made everything feel a little more personal, a little more connected.
The actual bar itself was an island in the middle of the room, a massive slab of dark wood worn smooth from years of use, lined with high stools that had low backs.
Behind it, bottles glimmered like treasures in the dim light, arranged with a precision that made you think the bartender must be a perfectionist.
“Not bad, huh?” He murmured, watching your reaction with that subtle attentiveness he always carried.
You nodded, already feeling at ease in the space. “Definitely has a vibe.”
He chuckled softly, then stepped just ahead of you, leading the way to a small, tucked-away booth near the back.
The plush, velvet-covered seats wrapped around a low table, inviting and private without trying too hard.
As he slid into his side, the soft flicker of candlelight danced across his face, highlighting the quiet ease in his expression—the kind of unhurried patience that made it feel like the night had nowhere else to be but here, with you.
You followed, settling into the opposite side of the booth.
The seat gave a little beneath you, plush and warm, and for a moment, you just sat there—feeling the quiet hum of the bar seep into your bones, the flicker of the candle between you catching the amber in your water glass that was already set on the table.
“You look great, by the way.”
Your hand paused mid-reach.
His voice came just as you were reaching for the water, quiet but certain—like he wasn’t just saying it to be polite, but because he meant it.
Like it was simply a fact, not a compliment.
You looked up at him, your fingers still grazing the glass, and caught the way his eyes were already on you—god he was always watching…his gaze was warm, steady, with just a hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth, like he’d noticed your pause and was already filing it away for later teasing.
The candlelight didn’t help—or maybe it helped too much. You weren’t sure.
You blinked once—twice—then dropped your gaze with a half-laugh, half-exhale, as the warmth started to crawl up your neck.
“Thanks,” you murmured, trying not to sound as breathless as you felt. “You look even bette—uh—I mean you look good too.” The words tumbled out in a blur, and you immediately winced, mentally tripping over the way your mouth had gotten ahead of your brain.
His smile tugged a little deeper, but he didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. Just looked at you for a moment, like he was letting the words settle before quietly accepting them.
“Even better? Well… I’m not sure about that, but thank you,” he said, simply.
And just like that, the air shifted again—barely—but enough that you felt it, in the quiet space between his voice and the candlelight flickering between you.
Then, mercifully, the waiter appeared—tall, relaxed, with sleeves rolled to the elbows and a familiarity in his walk that said he belonged here.
“Hey,” Geto said, smiling easily. “Didn’t know you were working tonight.”
“Every Thursday,” the guy replied smoothly, pulling a little notepad from his apron but not bothering to look at it. “What can I get you guys?”
Geto glanced at you, one eyebrow lifting slightly. “You still like espresso martinis?”
Your face lit up before you could help it—like a reflex, like he’d just pulled a small memory from the back of your mind and handed it to you wrapped in velvet.
You hadn’t seen him in at least a year—and yet he’d remembered what you liked, knew you well enough to know you’d still like it, and added just enough of a twist to make it feel personal.
It was almost unfair.
“Oh my god, yes,” you said, a little too enthusiastically, then laughed. “It’s been forever.”
Geto grinned, then turned back to the waiter with a decisive nod. “Two espresso martinis.”
Then, after a beat, he added, “Hers shaken with Baileys.”
The waiter gave a short, amused laugh, scribbled it down, and disappeared as smoothly as he’d arrived.
You raised an eyebrow at Geto. “Since when do you know my espresso martini order better than I do?”
He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table, the candlelight catching in his eyes like slow-burning embers.
“Since the end of second year. That one time at that business formal when Gojo bailed halfway through to go see that one girl, and we stayed behind.”
You blinked, the memory flashing into place like a forgotten film reel clicking on in the back of your mind.
“Right,” you murmured, a smile tugging at your lips. “I forgot about that.”
“I didn’t,” he said, simply.
And something about the way he said it made you forget—again—how to breathe quite normally.
For a brief moment, it felt like the whole bar—the city, even—had narrowed down to just the two of you, sitting across from each other, with nothing loud or flashy to distract you from how easy it felt. How surprising it was. And how much more of the night is left….
taglist ⸺ @killak9mi; @nikilig; @pinkhoneydrop; @armfloaties; @sat-hoe-ru; @kaqua; @rriwyu; @erenspersonalwh0re; @dishs0pe; @rwirxles; @yourname-exee; @pyruvic; @marianaz; @you-transfix-me; @simplyyyuji; @zoldyi; @linaaeatsfamilies; @anuncalledbridge; @aseqan; @starmapz; @nina-from-317; @kang-ulzzang; @hashahasha; @maybe-a-bi-witch; @zeunys; @pandabiene5115; @shibataimu; @enchantinghonymoon; @gradmacoco;
**please note: if your name is striked out, that means I was unable to tag you, please check your settings if you'd like to be tagged**
author's note ⸺ HEY FRIENDS!!! Chapter 5 is finally up!!. My apologies for the delay my laptop simply just hates me, LOL. I hope you are all doing well, and thank you so much for all of your comments/feedback on this series, it means the world <3
pairing ⸺ Suguru Geto x Reader
content ⸺ corporate-worker!reader, emotional tension, alcohol use, modern au, the good-ole-days trope, sexual themes mentioned, reader uses female pronouns, taglist at end, 3.4k, this is an 18+ series - mdni
divider credit: @/toastray ୨୧ art credit: @/juziluohai
previous chapter ୨୧ series masterlist ୨୧ next chapter
*3 Years Prior: Business Association Ball*
The hotel lobby shimmered with that brand of over-polished elegance reserved for galas and business formals—too many chandeliers, too much marble, and the kind of ambient jazz that made your heels sound louder than they should.
The three of you stepped in together—Gojo in a navy suit already half-unbuttoned, Geto head to toe in charcoal black, all clean lines and quiet confidence, and you in a dress you weren’t totally convinced wasn’t a little too short.
Geto’s gaze flicked toward your legs for less than a second, then up—never lingering, but not hurried either. His expression stayed neutral, but he straightened beside you like something about the sight had realigned him.
He adjusted the lapel of his jacket, one thumb brushing down the fabric as if smoothing a crease that wasn’t there.
“Remind me why we’re here again?” you muttered, clutching the tiny purse that barely fit your phone.
“Because I’m charming and persuasive,” Gojo said, flashing a grin that had gotten you both into trouble more than once. “And because they’re giving out free drinks.”
“He means because our professor bullied him into coming,” Geto added, deadpan, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt as he eyed the already-forming crowd inside the ballroom.
The doors stood open, gold trim gleaming, and beyond them, the event buzzed with early arrivals—small clusters of students, faculty, and alumni already sipping from stemware and circling the charcuterie like moths around cheese.
Gojo beelined to the bar the moment you stepped in, dragging Geto behind him with a dramatic sigh. You followed, the smooth glide of Geto’s shoulder brushing yours in the slow push of the crowd.
The bartender barely blinked when Gojo leaned on the counter.
“Three of your finest cocktails,” he said. “Make 'em strong enough to make our internships feel fake.”
He tapped the edge of the counter twice for dramatic flair, then added, “And nothing pink, please. I’m trying to look like I pay rent on time.”
The bartender, a man in a crisp black vest who looked like he’d heard every variation of that line, raised a single brow before turning away.
Gojo leaned back on his elbows, surveying the room like a self-appointed social director.
“You ever think we peaked in first year?” He asked absolutely no one in particular.
“I think you peaked when you printed business cards that said ‘Idea Man…’” Geto replied, rolling his cuff once, then folding it again with careful precision.
You nodded in solemn agreement. “And misspelled ‘consulting.’”
“I stand by that branding,” Gojo said, unfazed. “It was bold. Disruptive.”
Before he could launch into a TED Talk, the bartender slid three martinis across the counter—crystal clear, elegantly brutal, each with a gleaming olive skewered on a thin silver pick.
Gojo grabbed it with both hands like it was a cursed object. “Oh god,” he said. “They’re… classic martinis?”
“Congratulations,” Geto said. “You’ve been served like an adult.”
Gojo held it up suspiciously. “I thought they’d at least taste like citrus or joy.”
You lifted your glass more carefully, giving it a cautious swirl before taking the smallest sip. The gin hit sharp and cold, like chewing ice through a fog of pine. Not your favourite. But manageable.
You could totally stomach this and pretend you had big opinions on the ethics of insurance companies.
Your eyes drifted over to Geto, who didn’t flinch when he took a sip.
A faint ripple moved through the line of his throat as he swallowed it, and when he lowered his glass, his eyes met yours across the rim—steady, dark, and unexpectedly close in the space between words.
Heat bloomed low in your cheeks before you could stop it, and your gaze darted away, sudden and sharp, like the snap of a rubber band. You busied yourself with your glass, fingers adjusting your grip on the stem as though it might anchor you from—whatever that was.
Gojo took one sip, coughed, then recoiled like he’d been personally insulted.
“This tastes like regret in a stemmed glass,” he sputtered. “Why would anyone willingly drink this? I feel like I’m being punished by the British Empire.”
You snorted, nearly spilling yours. “You asked for this.”
“No, I asked for charisma in a cup. This is… anti-charisma. This is what spies drink when they’ve lost the will to live.”
Geto, unfazed, clinked his glass against yours. “To second year.”
“And to surviving third year...” you muttered, bumping his glass gently.
Gojo, still scowling, gave in and raised his reluctantly. “Annndddd to the poor choices of the past, and the even worse ones to come.”
You all drank to that—well, sipped slowly.
Gojo winced again. “There’s something else in here. Is that… despair?”
“Olive brine,” Geto said.
“Same thing,” Gojo muttered.
୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧
Time slid by in a blur of clinking glasses and half-remembered names. You saw classmates drift in and out—some lingering for polite conversation, others waving on their way to the buffet or vanishing into alumni circles that orbited the room like planets with more polished resumes.
The air had warmed with bodies and soft chatter, jazz fading into a slightly more modern lounge mix that still made your heels echo like punctuation.
Gojo, despite the occasional impulse to flirt or flit, had stubbornly claimed a post near the bar. “Best view in the house,” he insisted, gesturing vaguely at the room like it was all part of his domain.
He wasn’t wrong—the bar sat just high enough above the ballroom floor to make people-watching an art form.
You set your glass down with a soft clink, the olive tilting in the swirl of clear gin.
The buzz of conversation around the ballroom had risen—laughter bouncing off marble, the clink of glass against glass.
Someone passed behind you a little too close, and Geto’s hand briefly touched the small of your back. Just a gentle, steadying thing—gone almost as quickly as it had come.
You didn’t say anything, didn’t look at him. But you felt it.
Gojo made a face, eyeing the crowd like he was above this all. “God. Everyone here just gets tipsy and talks about themselves.”
“Well,” you said, taking another sip, “you should fit right in.”
Geto laughed—quiet but sudden, like you’d caught him off guard. The sound of it sent a little pulse of satisfaction through your chest before you could stop it.
Not because it was loud or dramatic, but because it was him.
You didn’t say anything about it. Just tucked the moment away somewhere small and stupid and yours.
Gojo narrowed his eyes at you both.
“I’m feeling very attacked, and I haven’t even started talking about my brand yet.”
“Please don’t,” Geto said mildly, but you could see the curve at the corner of his mouth—lazy, amused.
Gojo had already tuned you both out, eyes scanning the room like a periscope.
Then he straightened, too fast to be casual. “Wait. Redhead. Nine o’clock.”
You followed his gaze. There she was—sleek hair, red lipstick, the kind of neckline that made Gojo’s eyebrows do that cartoon-arched thing.
“Oh nooo,” you muttered.
“Oh yes,” he said. “I know her. I think she once offered me an internship and then took it back when I made a dumb joke about crypto.”
Geto gave him a flat look. “I’d take it back too.”
“She laughed,” Gojo said defensively. “It just... wasn’t the right demographic.”
“Human?” You offered.
“She’s here with the Ryker crowd,” Geto said, scanning the name badges. “Probably recruiting.”
Gojo straightened his already crooked tie. “Well, I’m here to be recruited as long as she's the one doin’ it. Don’t wait up for me!”
Then he was gone, already halfway across the ballroom, weaving between groups like he was born to navigate cocktail politics and ambient jazz.
You shook your head, turning back to the bar—and found Geto already looking at you, one brow lifted, the faintest smile lingering like he’d never been surprised by Gojo in his life.
“Should we start a Gojo survival fund? Or just bet on how fast it’ll take that girl to realize he’s a total loser?” You said with a teasing smile spread across your lips
Geto chuckled, low and warm. “Depends. Is the over-under set before or after he forgets her name?”
You laughed, feeling the buzz of the martini finally catch up to you—just enough to soften the edges of the room, just enough to make the look he was giving you feel closer, somehow.
A pause settled between you, not awkward, but full.
The kind of quiet that didn’t ask to be filled. Geto’s eyes didn’t wander the way Gojo’s always did in a crowd.
Your hand tightened slightly around the stem of your glass. “You’re not gonna go network or charm alumni into funding your mysterious nonprofit dreams?”
His smile curved a little deeper, but his steady gaze never left yours. “And give up premium seats at the bar?”
You huffed a soft laugh, glancing down at your glass like it might offer a clever reply. “Big sacrifice.”
Geto leaned a little closer, elbow grazing the bar, eyes still on you as his face became a few inches closer.
“Besides,” he added, voice quieter now, “I think Gojo’s covering enough social ground for all of us.”
You followed his gaze for a second—just long enough to see Gojo doing finger guns at that beautiful redheaded woman—and shook your head. “God help her.”
Geto hummed, something like agreement, then lapsed back into that comfortable silence that had begun to feel oddly intimate.
You weren’t often left alone with Geto. It wasn’t something you were particularly used to.
Usually, if Gojo stepped away, you followed—or you went home—partly out of habit, partly because Gojo had a way of taking the center of gravity with him.
But this wasn’t the kind of event where slipping out was easy. Name tags, assigned tables, and too many professors watching.
So you stayed. And so did Geto.
It wasn’t awkward, exactly—just unfamiliar. You didn’t have a blueprint for how to pass time with him one-on-one.
With Gojo around, there was always noise, a buffer of jokes and movement. Without it, everything just… settled. A little quieter. A little slower. You could hear the hum of the room more clearly now—silverware clinking, muffled laughter, the velvety scrape of heels across marble.
Then the bartender reappeared, wiping his hands on a bar towel, eyes flicking between the two of you like he was interrupting something.
“Another round?” He asked, already reaching for your empty glasses.
You glanced at Geto. “Feel like a change?”
“I’ll just take whatever she’s having,” Geto added, nodding toward you with the smallest lift of his chin.
“You don’t even know what I’m ordering.”
“Don’t need to,” he said, the corner of his mouth tilting up. “You’ve got good taste.”
You gave a half-laugh, shaking your head as you turned back to the bartender. “Two espresso martinis. Shaken with Baileys, please.”
“Of course,” he said, already moving like he’d expected that answer.
As he turned away, you caught the way Geto’s gaze lingered a second longer than necessary—on the back of the bartender’s hands, on the movement of bottles behind the bar, then back to you. Not with any urgency. Just that same steady, quiet presence he carried like second nature.
“You always this decisive with drinks?” He asked.
“Only the important ones,” you replied, nudging your elbow lightly against the bar. “Coffee and alcohol. Life essentials.”
“Makes sense,” he murmured. “You always did show up to morning lectures more awake than the rest of us. I thought you were just naturally energetic.”
You gave a dramatic shudder. “God, no. Caffeine and fear. That’s what is getting me through undergrad.”
He chuckled again, and the sound—dry and warm and just a little private—settled between you like the start of a shared secret.
***Present Day***
“Oh god yeah, I remember that night…” Your smile curved slow, amused. “Wait… wasn’t that when Gojo tried to charm that redhead girl from Ryker?”
Geto let out a short laugh, already shaking his head. “Yup, and I don’t remember either of us being surprised.”
You grinned. “She looked like she ate interns for breakfast.”
“She probably does,” he said. “And I’m sure Gojo thought he was volunteering.”
You laughed. “He really straightened his tie like he was walking into a date and not a corporate slaughter.”
Geto smirked. “He didn’t even have his own tie. He borrowed mine.”
“Oh my god, you’re right.” You leaned forward, the memory coming back in full detail. “He didn’t come back the rest of the night.”
“Nope.” Geto took a sip of his drink, watching you over the rim. “And when we asked the next morning, he said, and I quote, ‘She had recruiting energy, but not the kind I was hoping for.’”
You burst out laughing, covering your mouth. “He totally thought he had a shot.”
“He always thinks he has a shot.”
You tilted your glass in his direction. “And honestly? I respect the delusion.”
A smile tugged at your lips as you sipped, the old rhythm between you falling back into place like no time had passed.
He looked over again, a little more curious this time. “So… what about you? Anything new? It’s been a while—catch me up.”
You gave a casual shrug, though your fingers tapped once against the glass. “Honestly? Nothing too thrilling.”
Geto didn’t say anything—just nodded, giving you space to speak.
“I ended up at that insurance company,” you said. “Kind of by default, really. It was the only offer I got after graduation.”
He raised his eyebrows, not surprised, just listening.
“And I don’t hate it,” you added quickly. “I like some of the people there. One of the analysts bakes bread every Sunday and brings it in on Monday mornings. That alone is keeping morale up on our whole floor.”
He grinned. “Bread-based workplace cohesion. Very modern.”
You pointed at him with your martini glass. “Exactly. That’s the real culture fit.”
He chuckled softly, leaning back in his seat, letting the glow of your laughter settle between you.
“But…” you went on, letting your voice trail slightly, “my contract’s up in a few months. So I’ve been poking around. Checking out other jobs. Nothing’s really grabbed me yet.”
“Are you looking for the same kind of thing?”
You hesitated. “I don’t know. I guess I thought I was. But every time I scroll through a job board I just feel… tired.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “That’s not nothing.”
You let out a breath, your thumb tracing the rim of your glass as your eyes instinctively avoided his. “Yeah. I mean, it’s not bad. I’m just not sure it’s meant for me, you know?”
Geto’s glass tilted slightly in his hand, the chocolate-coloured liquid catching a bit of the candlelight and flickering like something alive. Around you, the bar buzzed with a low hum—ice rattling in shakers, someone’s laugh punctuating the air too loudly, a spoon clinking against a ceramic mug.
“I think you always knew what didn’t feel right,” he said, voice warm and laced with a familiar sense of reassurance.
Your lips curved faintly, but the muscles around your mouth stayed still for a second longer. Then you exhaled through your nose, barely audible.
“I guess I just thought I’d have it figured out by now,” you said, setting your glass down with the kind of precision that didn’t match your words. The condensation left a faint ring on the napkin below, perfectly round.
His eyes followed the motion, then flicked back to yours.
A beat passed. Then another.
“And yet,” he said, mouth tugging slightly, “here you are. Still here, doing alright.”
You let out a dry laugh. “What a glowing review.”
He shrugged with one shoulder, the movement easy. “Surviving in this economy? That’s not easy work y’know. You’re a smart girl, you’ll figure it out.”
The words landed heavier than they should have, a prickle started at the base of your neck, low and slow, blooming upward until the heat kissed the tops of your cheeks.
You shifted in your seat, brushed a knuckle under your nose—trying your best to hide it, and dropped your gaze for a half-second to the condensation sliding lazily down the stem of your glass.
The feeling clung stubbornly, but you pushed through it, lifting your head again with a small, practiced smile—like wiping steam off a mirror and pretending you hadn’t noticed it clouding over in the first place.
You leaned forward a little, elbow propped on the table, fingers curled around the stem of your glass.
“What about you?” You asked, not quite letting the question linger. “You said you were doing like, charity outreach? Tell me about that, sounds just like something you’d do?”
You waited, but didn’t push—just like he would do
Geto glanced down and adjusted the watch on his wrist, as if it suddenly needed attention.
“Sort of,” he said. “I’m with a philanthropic division now. Private company. They fund youth programs—stuff like financial literacy workshops, math clubs in elementary schools, mentorship programs for kids who are good with numbers but don’t have a lot of support.”
His voice carried an unassuming fulfillment, shaped by something older than ambition. Across the small table, his hands moved gently as he spoke—one resting on the base of his glass, the other making the faintest, unconscious gesture you've always noticed he does when talking.
“I’m on the financial operations side of things,” he went on.
“Budgets, project proposals, making sure the funding actually gets to the right schools. It’s a lot of board meetings and a lot of spreadsheets, but... It’s good. It feels real.”
The bar lights shifted overhead as someone passed by, throwing a warm flicker across his face. It caught in the quiet focus in his eyes, the steadiness in his posture. His gaze didn’t move, but something softened in it—a flicker, almost imperceptible, like the last edge of a candle flame before it settles.
You watched him a second longer than you meant to, struck—maybe not by what he said, but by how he said it with that quiet conviction that never needed to be declared to feel present.
“It suits you,” you said, lightly—but not flippantly.
His eyes flicked to you, steady. Then down again. “You think so?”
“Mhm.” You swirled your glass, the condensation leaving a faint ring on the table. “Helping the next generation reach their potential. Making sure the math checks out. It’s a very selfless thing to do ya’ know…That’s very you.”
That earned you a subtle shift in his mouth—too brief to be a smile, too sincere to be anything else.
“You say that like you mean it,” he murmured.
You blinked, a little thrown—not by the words, but by how softly he said them.
“I do,” you replied, after a second. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”
He nodded—slow, thoughtful. The kind of nod people do when they’re not just hearing you, but tucking the words away. You watched his jaw shift slightly, his gaze dipping for a second toward his glass, like the weight of your honesty had to be set down somewhere.
Then, quieter still: “Still. Nice to hear.”
You studied him—the deliberate calm of him, the way he filled silence like it was a language he’d grown fluent in. And for a second, the noise of the bar fell away. Just the warm light, the low clink of glasses, and him—sitting across from you like no time had passed at all.
“Yeah, well.” You reached for your glass again, fingertips brushing the wet ring it left behind. “You’re not that hard to root for.”
He let out a breath—one of those faint exhalations that lived somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. But his eyes stayed on you.
“You used to say I was annoying.”
You leaned back slightly, arching a brow. “I said you were cocky.” Your voice was playful, edged just lightly with something warmer. “Different thing.”
“Hm.” He tilted his head, like he was pretending to consider it, but there was a pull at the corner of his mouth again—more a flicker than a grin. The kind of expression that made you wonder what memory he’d just stepped into.
Your knees bumped beneath the table, a small, almost accidental thing. But neither of you pulled away.
The touch lingered, as quiet and steady as the rest of him.
Neither of you spoke. The silence stretched, comfortable—not heavy, but full, like something unfolding slowly between sips and glances and the warmth shared beneath the table.
Outside, the night went on.
But here, in the hush between words, something had shifted.
author's note ⸺ Hello gang! So happy you guys are liking this series, I love it, and I luv u <3
pairing ⸺ Suguru Geto x Reader
content ⸺ platonic-bestie!gojo, corporate-worker!reader, slight tension, studying mentioned, modern au, the good-ole-days, reader uses female pronouns, 4.2k, this is an 18+ series - mdni
divider credit: @/toastray ୨୧ art credit: @/juziluohai
previous chapter ୨୧ series masterlist ୨୧ next chapter
Sleep came quickly, tugging at the edges of your consciousness.
Then—just as you were about to slip under completely…
Your phone buzzed against the nightstand.
Your eyes cracked open, pulse skipping despite yourself. For a moment, you didn’t move. Didn’t reach for it.
But eventually, you did.
You turned over swiftly, the sheets rustling as you reached out, fingers fumbling against the smooth surface of your nightstand.
The cool metal of your phone met your palm, and you pulled it close, the glow of the screen cutting through the dim room as you blinked against the brightness.
Your thumb hovered over the screen for just a second before you swiped to unlock it. The notification stared back at you, crisp and clear against the dark backdrop of your bedroom.
Geto: How’s Friday?
Your breath left you in a slow exhale.
Not a lot of fanfare. No excessive punctuation, no embellishments. Just a simple question, efficient and to the point—exactly like how you remembered him.
Your eyes flicked to the top of the screen, where the time blinked back at you—10:42 PM. Wednesday.
Two days.
A part of you had half-expected to wait another few days before he got back to you. Maybe the plans would fall through entirely, slipping through the cracks of life’s inevitable distractions. But there he was, responding just hours after you reached out.
You licked your lips, your fingers tapping out a quick reply.
You: Works for me. What time?
The three little dots blinked on the screen almost immediately.
Geto: I’m assuming you work until 5…does 5:30 work?
You: Yeah, that’s fine. Where where you thinking?
Geto: I’ll send you the location on Friday morning. Looking forward to catching up :)
You stared at the screen for a beat longer than necessary, your fingers hovering over the keyboard before you typed—
You: Sounds good. Me too.
Too much? Maybe. But before you could second-guess it, the message was sent, disappearing into the ether of late-night conversation.
The read receipt popped up almost instantly, followed by one more reply.
Geto: Dream sweet.
Simple. Unassuming. And yet, it left something warm curling in your stomach.
You set your phone down on the nightstand, exhaling as you sank deeper into the pillows. The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the city beyond your window, but your mind was anything but still.
It had been a long time since you last saw him. Since you last spoke like this, in small, measured words that somehow still felt significant. It was just dinner.
Just a catch-up between two people with a mutual friend.
Two friends-of-friends catching up…That’s all.
୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧
Morning came too soon, the alarm slicing through the quiet like a dull blade.
A sharp inhale, a stretch, the heavy warmth of sleep still clinging to your limbs.
But before you even shifted beneath the covers, your hand had already reached for your phone, fingers wrapping around its familiar weight.
The screen lit up. No new messages. No last-minute changes. Just the same notification from last night, waiting in silence.
You weren’t sure what you had expected…A follow-up? A confirmation? Something to make the evening ahead feel more real? Whatever it was, it wasn’t there.
The morning routine carried on as always—water rushing against porcelain, steam curling over the bathroom mirror, the muted sound of the city filtering in through the window.
Everything was the same. Everything should have felt the same.
But there was something about today, a small hitch in the rhythm, an offbeat in the usual melody of your day.
At work, tasks filled the hours like usual. Emails stacked into neat little rows, keyboards clicked in hurried bursts, voices blurred into the steady hum of office chatter.
You answered messages, skimmed reports, lost yourself in half-distracted conversations.
And yet—before noon, your hand found your phone again.
A flick of the screen. A glance. Still nothing.
You weren’t sure why you kept checking. It wasn’t like you normally did this.
Your messages weren’t exactly unpredictable.
Gojo texted often, usually in long, chaotic bursts—half-thoughts, inside jokes, dramatized retellings of his latest workplace disaster.
Your roommate’s texts were more routine—grocery lists, rent reminders, the occasional complaint about your neighbours. A familiar pattern, easy to follow, easy to expect.
But now?
Now, your fingers hovered over the screen for just a second longer than necessary before you locked it again, pressing it face-down against your desk, pressing your fingers into your temples briefly before forcing yourself to refocus.
Lunch came and went in a series of half-heard conversations. The scent of reheated leftovers hung in the air, blending with the ever-present bitterness of burnt office coffee.
A coworker complained about their weekend plans, and another debated whether they had time to grab a latte before their next meeting.
You responded when necessary, nodding at the right times, but your mind remained elsewhere—somewhere just outside of reach.
Then—without thinking—you picked up your phone again.
Still nothing.
You exhaled, locking the screen and setting it aside. You didn’t know what you were expecting to happen. It wasn’t as if anything had changed since the last time you checked.
And yet, the absence of a message felt noticeable in a way that it shouldn’t have.
By mid-afternoon, the habit had settled in.
Your hand moved before you could stop yourself, unlocking the screen with a flick of your thumb. Waiting.
But the screen remained the same—quiet, still, steady.
And yet, despite that silence, tomorrow night loomed closer. Inevitable.
The weight of it settled in long before the day had ended.
The thought of being alone with him for hours wove itself into the spaces between tasks, filling the pauses in conversation, curling around every absent glance at your phone.
At some point, the screen stayed dark long enough for a sense of finality to creep in. No more checking. No more reaching. It didn’t change anything.
Still, something simmered beneath your skin, restless and unresolved.
The feeling made no sense.
Geto had never been a source of unease before.
If anything, he was one of the easiest people to be around—steady, unhurried, a presence that never demanded anything from you. His words always measured, his energy effortless.
He was a fixture in the periphery, present in the way a familiar song fills the background of a car ride, inextricably linked to something larger.
Gojo.
Geto had always been part of a pair—One half of a whole.
His presence had been a condition of Gojo’s—the two of them moving through the world like a force of nature, colliding with everything in their path, dragging you along in their wake.
Conversations that turned into debates, nights that stretched too late, laughter that came easy, never isolated, never belonging to just one of them.
Tomorrow would be different.
Tomorrow, there would be no Gojo.
The realization sat heavy, threading unease through the anticipation. This was new. Unfamiliar.
The rhythm had changed, and you weren’t sure what to do with the space it left behind.
The walk home felt longer than usual.
The city hummed around you, headlights casting fractured light against wet pavement, snippets of conversations floating past in bursts of sound. A car horn. A ringing phone. The hiss of a bus kneeling at the curb.
Inside your apartment, the quiet stretched.
The overhead light flickered once before settling. A jacket shrugged off, shoes nudged aside, the soft creak of wood under your steps. The routine unfolded like muscle memory—bag on the counter, fridge open, fridge closed, a glass of water filled and left untouched.
Then—your phone, facedown where you had left it.
Fingers hesitated before reaching. The screen lit up, bright against the dim kitchen. Nothing new.
A slow breath pushed through your chest.
Tomorrow loomed ahead, fixed and inevitable.
A meeting set in place, agreed upon in neutral tones, as casual as a hundred other plans that had come before it.
But still, something shifted under the surface, unspoken and undefined.
There was no reason for this weight in your stomach. No logic to the way your pulse had started counting down hours before the night had even arrived.
And yet—
Your grip tightened around the phone. The glow of the screen faded to black.
୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧
Friday Morning at 5:45am
The alarm cut through the stillness, its sharp trill pulling you from sleep. A breath, slow and steady, before your hand reached out, silencing it with a practiced swipe.
For a moment, you stayed there—burrowed beneath the blankets, eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering through the curtains. The weight of the day settled in, stretching out ahead of you in quiet inevitability.
With a sigh, you pushed yourself up.
The floor was cool beneath your feet as you padded toward the bathroom, the fluorescent light flickering to life above the mirror. Water rushed against porcelain, the steady rhythm filling the quiet as you rinsed sleep from your skin.
Back in your bedroom, the closet door yawned open, revealing rows of neatly hung blouses, slacks folded with precision, dresses lined up like choices waiting to be made.
The usual routine would be easy—something simple, something safe. But today, your fingers lingered a little longer, hovering between options, the usual rhythm disrupted by something almost imperceptible.
It wasn’t like this was anything special. Just another workday. Just dinner after. Nothing to warrant the quiet indecision pressing at the edges of your thoughts.
And yet—your hand skipped past the standard choices, grazing over fabric with absent consideration.
The crisp button-down felt too stiff, the usual sweater too plain. A dress, maybe? No, too much.
Eventually, you settled on something in between—polished but not overdone. Something that fit seamlessly into the workday but still felt…intentional.
The fabric smoothed over your frame as you adjusted the hem, checking the mirror with a glance that lasted a beat too long.
Still, there was no real reason for this hesitation. No reason at all.
And yet—
The thought slipped away as your phone buzzed from the nightstand, breaking the quiet with a sharp vibration.
Your breath stilled.
You hesitated for only a second before walking over to it and picking it up.
Your fingers tightened around your phone before turning the screen toward you.
Geto: Morning. Here’s the place for tonight.
A location link followed, sitting there unassuming, waiting to be pressed.
Your thumb hesitated over the screen before tapping it. The maps app opened, the address pulling up with a smooth flicker.
A small pin dropped into place, marking a street you didn’t immediately recognize—tucked between taller buildings, almost easy to miss.
The image loaded, revealing a dark storefront, nothing but a sleek, unmarked door tucked beneath a flickering neon sign.
You swiped through the photos.
Inside, the space stretched narrow, lined with moody lighting and dark wood, bottles glinting along an illuminated back bar.
The kind of place that didn’t need to advertise itself—exclusive but not pretentious, refined but comfortable.
And the food—unexpectedly elaborate for a bar, plated like something out of a fine dining restaurant.
Of course.
Something about it felt so distinctly him—lowkey but effortlessly cool, the kind of place you’d never have found on your own.
Before you could type out a response, another message drew your eyes to the top of your screen.
Geto: If you tell me which station you're at, I can meet you there.
Your breath stalled, pulse knocking against your ribs in a way that made no sense.
The words sat there, simple and unassuming, yet something about them sent a ripple through your chest.
Your thumb hovered over the keyboard.
It was a thoughtful offer—practical, even.
It would make things easier, and save you from navigating alone, from the awkward shuffle of stepping into a new place by yourself. A small thing.
Still, a strange tension crept into your shoulders.
Geto had always been easygoing, a casual presence that had never demanded anything from you. But that presence had always been conditional—always shadowed by Gojo’s loud energy, balanced by the familiar push-and-pull of their dynamic.
Now, without that buffer—without Gojo filling the space between you—it felt different.
Not bad, not uncomfortable, just… noticeable.
You smoothed your hand over the fabric of your skirt, fingers tracing absent patterns against the hem.
Maybe it was the anticipation humming beneath your skin. The awareness of the hours still stretched between now and tonight, every moment edged with something undefined.
Maybe it was the way Geto’s name looked on your screen—alone, unaccompanied, as if he existed in a separate context now.
Or maybe it was nothing at all.
You exhaled, slow and steady, before typing out a response.
You: It’s okay, I can just meet you there.
The message sent in an instant. Final.
You locked your phone, setting it facedown against the vanity as if that might quiet the small, unspoken weight in your chest.
Then, a breath.
‘Alright tine to get yourself together…’ You thought to yourself
The routine should have unfolded as usual, the same series of motions you could do half-asleep.
But today, each step carried a little more weight.
You reached for your makeup bag, fingers brushing over familiar products. Concealer smoothed over skin, concealer dabbed beneath your eyes—nothing too heavy, just enough.
A sweep of blush, a touch more than usual. A careful flick of eyeliner, precise and steady, stretching just a little further than the way you usually wore it.
Your reflection stared back at you, almost unchanged—almost.
The brush glided through your hair in slow, deliberate strokes, smoothing flyaways, shaping strands into something more intentional. A little extra effort. Nothing obvious, nothing dramatic, just…more.
The soft chime of a notification pulled you from the mirror. Not Geto—just an email reminder, something about a report due by noon.
A quick glance at the clock on your wall let you know it was time to go.
You grabbed your bag, slipping your phone inside before second-guessing and tucking it into your jacket pocket instead.
Shoes on, keys in hand, one last look around the apartment before stepping out into the crisp morning air.
The city stretched ahead, unchanged, unaware.
But as your footsteps carried you down the shiny tiled stairs, something lingered in your chest—light but steady, like a held breath waiting to be released.
୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧
The clock inched toward 5 p.m., the final minutes of the day ticking away slowly, yet with an urgency you could feel in your bones.
It had been one of the busiest Fridays you’d ever had—emails to answer, reports to review, meetings that bled into each other without any real break. The pressure was constant, a low hum beneath your thoughts, and yet… you were grateful for it.
Grateful that there was no room for your mind to wander, no space for thoughts to spiral.
If today had been any slower, if you’d had even a moment of quiet, you knew exactly where your thoughts would have gone.
To Geto. To tonight.
To the pull in your chest that wouldn’t seem to loosen, no matter how much you tried to ignore it.
You backed up your things a few minutes early, tucking everything into your bag with methodical precision. It wasn’t until you had everything in place, zipper pulled tight, that you realized you were practically holding your breath.
Five o'clock.
Finally.
You stood up, brushing a few loose strands of hair behind your ear, and made your way to the door.
The office was quieting down, the buzz of energy that had filled the room all day beginning to dissipate as everyone else filtered out. You left without another glance back, fingers pressing the button for the elevator.
Outside, the city was as busy as always, people rushing by, their faces a blur. You slipped into the flow, a part of it, but somehow still detached. Every step took you closer to the subway, closer to the anticipation that built in your chest.
It wasn’t that you were nervous, exactly. No, that wasn’t quite right. You were just… unsettled. A kind of restlessness that had no real source.
You pulled your phone from your pocket and typed out a quick message to Geto:
You: On my way over.
The text sent, and within seconds, the three dots blinked back at you.
Geto: See you soon.
You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. It was almost a relief that he replied so quickly—something about it soothed the jittery feeling that hadn’t quite settled.
Sliding your phone back into your pocket, you descended the stairs to the platform, your feet tapping lightly against the ground in rhythm with the train’s arrival.
But even as you joined the crowd and boarded the car, your mind drifted to that last time you saw him—the night that felt so far away and yet so close.
It had been just after graduation, the last time you were all together like that.
A night of drinking, good food, and laughter, shared memories of the years behind you, of the moments that had solidified your friendship.
You leaned back against the cold train window, eyes closed for just a moment as you let the memories sweep over you.
୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧
*1 year and 3 months prior — Graduation Celebration at KBBQ*
Graduation had come quicker than expected–It truly felt like a finish line that once felt distant was now suddenly beneath your feet.
The ceremony itself had been a blur—flashes of caps in the air, the hum of applause, the stiff feeling of formalwear that barely felt like your own.
But this? This dinner, this night, this group—this was what felt real.
Somewhere between the first introductions and the years spent studying together, these people had become a constant.
Not just classmates or drinking buddies, but something more—a tangle of friendships built over sleepless nights, library study sessions, and long conversations that stretched past closing hours at your favourite spots.
Gojo had been the first familiar face, but through him, the circle expanded. Geto, quieter but no less magnetic. Shoko, always ready with a sharp remark. Nanami, steady and unwavering. Utahime, initially wary of Gojo’s chaos but undeniably part of the group. Hibara, warm and easygoing, always pulling everyone together.
The group had settled into something comfortable, something natural.
And tonight, for what might be the last time in a while, everyone was here.
The Korean barbeque restaurant buzzed with the warmth of lively conversations and sizzling grills.
The sharp scent of spices and grilled meat filled the air as the plates kept coming, steam rising from the center of the table where everyone sat clustered around.
The group was loud, a mix of voices competing with the hum of the crowd and the crackling sounds of the grill. Gojo's booming laugh punctuated the noise every so often, drawing chuckles from Shoko and Hibara, who were sitting beside from him.
You sat between Utahime and Geto, the cool air from the ceiling fans brushing your skin, just enough to keep the warmth of the meal from becoming too much.
The grill tables were relatively small, so Geto was close, his knee brushing yours under the table as the group passed plates of food around.
He didn’t seem to mind, just as you didn’t, the space between you both shrinking with each subtle shift.
Occasionally, Geto would lean in slightly when he spoke to you, his breath almost grazing your ear as he commented on the food or made a quiet remark about something Gojo had said.
The closeness felt natural—effortless, and yet, in a way, it stood out.
A part of you noticed how much quieter it felt when his voice dropped to a low hum as if sharing something just between you.
Across the table from you, Gojo made some outrageous comment, his animated gestures nearly knocking over his drink, and everyone burst into laughter. Your gaze met Geto’s in the midst of it all—his eyes holding yours for a fraction longer than anyone else’s.
It wasn’t an obvious moment, just a quiet beat where his stare lingered, and you couldn’t help but notice the pull, the intensity beneath it, even if you quickly looked away to join in the laughter.
The evening stretched on, the conversation meandering between stories and jokes, but there was always something in Geto’s attention when it turned toward you.
When plates of food arrived, he was the first to make sure your plate was full, his hand brushing against yours each time as he slid something onto your side of the grill.
"Here," Geto said, his voice steady as he slid a piece of cooked meat onto your plate.
He glanced at you, a quiet certainty in his expression, lips tugging into a small, effortless smile—like he knew something you didn’t.
"Thanks," you replied, your gaze briefly meeting his again before turning back to the others.
His eyes stayed on you for just a second longer than they should have, a quiet intensity hidden behind the casualness of his smile.
There was no hurry in his movements as he leaned back slightly, his attention still fixed on you as you returned to the conversation.
Gojo, sitting directly across from you, noticed how Geto was looking at you. His eyes gleamed with mischief as a knowing smirk grew upon his lips. His hand tapped the edge of his glass as he made sure his gaze found Geto’s.
Before Gojo could say anything, Utahime cut in, her voice light as she dragged Gojo into her conversation.
"I always thought you were the one who thought you were above all the tests and exams, Gojo," she said, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
"But look at you now. Obviously, you weren’t entirely ‘above’ it all, or you wouldn’t have graduated!."
A laugh bubbled up from you, easy and warm, the playful jab aimed at Gojo hitting the right note.
Geto’s eyes flicked toward you instinctively, a slight shift in his posture as he watched you laugh.
For just a second, his gaze softened, lingering on the way your eyes crinkled and your mouth curved up.
It was subtle, but the way he looked at you in that moment—unobstructed and full of quiet admiration—was impossible to miss, even if you didn’t notice.
Gojo rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress his own chuckle, clearly unbothered by Utahime’s jab.
"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I’m the only one keeping this table from sinking into the abyss of academic mediocrity and you all know it."
His words were light, but his gaze flicked over briefly to Geto again, catching something in the way he sat facing you, the way his attention never seemed to stray too far from you—and Gojo noticed, how could he not?
The night went on, but the unspoken connection between you and Geto never fully slipped away.
Every now and then, when you caught his eye again, there was something that was undeniably there—a spark that he didn’t try to hide, but never overtly acknowledged. It was quiet, comfortable, and real in a way that felt like it had always been.
୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧
You stepped off the subway car, your shoes clicking softly against the platform as you shook off the last remnants of your thoughts.
The evening air outside felt cooler than you expected, the slight breeze tugging at your sleeves as you ascended the stairs.
The weight of your bag settled comfortably against your shoulder, and with every step upward, the tension in your chest seemed to loosen just a little, like a knot unwinding slowly.
The train ride had felt long despite the short distance.
Anticipation had gnawed at you the entire way, but now, with the weight of the day finally behind you, there was a space in your mind where you could let your thoughts breathe.
It was almost calming, knowing that once you stepped out of the subway station, you’d be heading straight to the bar to meet Geto. A casual evening with no expectations.
Just the two of you.
You reached the top of the stairs, the sound of your footsteps fading into the background as you made your way toward the exit.
The station was busy with the usual rush of people, but your eyes were focused on the small patch of city street ahead, imagining the two-minute walk to the bar, the dim lighting, the low hum of voices inside.
But as you turned the corner—
There he was.
Your steps faltered.
Standing just beyond the turnstiles, casually leaning against a pillar, one hand in his pocket, the other offering a small, easy wave.
The half-lit fluorescents cast a soft glow on his face, highlighting the familiar, effortless coolness of him, making everything around him fade just slightly.
Geto. Here.
His expression softened as he watched you stumble a bit over your own feet, and his smile grew just a little, as if he were waiting for you to get your bearings, to process the fact that he was standing here, in front of you, instead of across the table at the bar like you had expected.
"Hey," he said, his voice a touch smoother than usual, though it still held that casual tone that you recognized.
taglist ⸺ @killak9mi; @nikilig; @pinkhoneydrop; @armfloaties; @sat-hoe-ru; @you-transfix-me; @kaqua; @rriwyu; @erenspersonalwh0re; @dishs0pe; @rwirxles; @yourname-exee; @pyruvic; @marianaz; @you-transfix-me; @simplyyyuji; @zoldyi
**please note: if your name is striked out, that means I was unable to tag you, please check your settings if you'd like to be tagged**
author's note ⸺ Hello all! This is a teaser chapter for a series I've been cooking up, just wanting to put it out here while I work on a few requests. :)
pairing ⸺ Suguru Geto x Reader
summary ⸺ You met Gojo in university through your roommate, and while the two of you became the closest of friends, his other best friend, Suguru Geto, was always just a mutual acquaintance. After graduation, life pulled you all in different directions, with only the occasional reunion keeping you connected. But when Geto unexpectedly reaches out asking to catch up, your mind can't help but wander...
content ⸺ platonic-bestie!gojo, corporate-worker!reader, modern au, reader uses female pronouns, this is an 18+ series - mdni
divider credit: @/toastray ୨୧ art credit: @/juziluohai
series masterlist ୨୧ simplygojo masterlist ୨୧ next chapter
You met Satoru Gojo because he briefly dated your roommate. Three weeks, to be exact.
It wasn’t a particularly serious relationship—Gojo wasn’t exactly the “serious relationship” type back then—but somehow, when it ended, he didn’t just disappear from your life like most fleeting university romances did.
Instead, he stuck around, not as someone’s boyfriend but as a chaotic, ever-present force in your friend group.
He was simply too much fun to let go, and despite his ex moving on, Gojo embedded himself in your daily routine as if he had always belonged there.
The two of you clicked almost instantly.
Perhaps it was his boundless energy, the way he could make even the most mundane of tasks feel like an adventure. Or maybe it was because you, unlike many others, had no problem challenging him, calling him out when he was being insufferable—which was often.
Either way, within a matter of months, you and Gojo were practically inseparable.
Your late nights turned into study sessions that lasted until dawn.
Over time, those sessions gained a third member: Suguru Geto, Gojo’s quieter, more composed friend. Compared to you and Gojo, anyone would seem reserved, but Geto had an air of serenity that balanced out Gojo’s manic energy.
He wasn’t just one of Gojo’s best friends; he became an integral part of your routine.
While Gojo would get distracted and try to rope you into some absurd conversation about the merits of sunglasses indoors, Geto would be the one actually ensuring the group got any work done.
He was thoughtful in small ways—like bringing you both coffee before an early lecture (though Gojo always insisted on lemonade because, in his own words, “coffee is for old people”).
You liked Geto. He was nice. But you never really got to know him beyond the surface. He was there, a presence woven into the fabric of your university life, but you never considered him more than a friend-of-a-friend.
Then, university ended.
You landed your first real corporate job in the city, trading the carefree nature of student life for morning commutes and office politics.
Gojo, despite his initial complaints about you ‘leaving him behind,’ ended up securing a job in HR somewhere in the rural south—how he managed that, you’d never know. The details remained murky—he provided no real explanation, only a steady stream of texts detailing his ongoing struggles with adulthood.
And of course, every now and then, the three of you—Gojo, Geto, and you—would reunite for drinks or sushi, laughing about your university days as if they weren’t already slipping into nostalgia.
But despite the occasional meetups, your dynamic with Geto remained unchanged.
You were friendly, sure, but you were just mutual friends.
Every conversation was held in Gojo’s orbit, every interaction buffered by his larger-than-life presence. You had never hung out with Geto alone, or even had a conversation. There was simply no reason to.
That’s why the message caught you off guard.
It was late, the soft glow of your phone illuminated your darkened bedroom. A new message popped up, not from Gojo, but from Geto.
Geto: Hey, are you still working in the city?
You blinked at the screen.
You couldn’t even remember the last time you and Geto had texted one-on-one. Maybe a few years ago for a party? Maybe never? And yet, here he was, reaching out.
Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, heart beating just a little faster than it should.
You: …Yeah. Why?
Geto: If I remember correctly…I just started working in your area.
Your brows furrowed as you reread his message. Geto? Working in the city? That was unexpected.
You had always assumed he’d followed a path similar to Gojo’s—something a little off the beaten track, something unconventional.
To be honest, if you thought about it, you didn’t really know where Geto went after you all graduated.
'He could have been in the city the whole time and you wouldn't have known.'
You: Oh, that's nice! It’s a pretty good area—what are you doing?
The three little dots appeared, then vanished. After a few moments, they appeared again.
Geto: Doing some accounting for a Nonprofit. Community outreach stuff. It’s pretty decent.
That sounded about right. You could picture it—Geto, with that steady, composed demeanor, seamlessly fitting into a role like that. He’d always had a way of making people feel heard, like whatever they were saying actually mattered. It made sense.
You: That does sound decent. Way more noble than my corporate grind, lol.
You expected that to be the end of it. A polite exchange, nothing more. But then—
*Geto Liked Your Message*
Geto: You free this week? Would be nice to catch up. :)
The casual phrasing didn’t match the unfamiliar weight in your chest.
Your stomach twisted in something that wasn’t quite nerves, wasn’t quite excitement either. You stared at the screen, rereading the words, trying to remember a time Geto had ever asked to see you alone.
He hadn’t. Not once.
It wasn’t like you had anything against Geto. Quite the opposite, actually. If you were being honest, you had always thought he was attractive. How could you not?
Even back in university, when you spent most of your time sparring with Gojo over nonsense, you had still noticed Geto.
He was the kind of person who didn’t need to be loud to command attention.
While Gojo filled a room with sheer force of personality, Geto had an effortless gravity to him—sharp eyes that always seemed like they knew something you didn’t, an easy smirk that hinted at amusement even when he barely spoke.
And he was—annoyingly—good at everything. Studying? He aced it. Debating? He never raised his voice, but somehow, he always won.
He was the only one who could rein Gojo in with just a single look, a quiet “Satoru” spoken in that low, measured tone of his.
You had noticed all of it.
But noticing him wasn’t the same as knowing him.
And when it came down to it, Geto had never really been your friend—and you don’t mean that in a rude way.
He had been Gojo’s best friend. A presence you had gotten used to that was conditional to Gojo’s presence, but not one you had ever gotten close to.
So why now?
You: Yeah, I think I could be..
You paused before sending the next message.
You: Should I invite Gojo?
There were a few minutes of hesitation before his reply came through.
Geto: He isn’t in the city, might as well not force him to commute.
You stared at his response, reading between the lines.
He wasn’t saying no outright. But it also wasn’t a yes. And for some reason, that felt significant.
Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, a dozen different responses flitting through your mind. You could leave it there, let the conversation fizzle out naturally. It wasn’t like you and Geto had ever been close—this was already unusual enough.
But instead, you found yourself typing back faster than you expected
You: Fair point. Where are you thinking?
His reply came quicker this time.
Geto: I know a place. I’ll send you the details later this week.
Simple. Straightforward. Like this was just a casual meetup between old acquaintances. Like it wasn’t strange that, after all this time, he was reaching out to you specifically.
You exhaled, setting your phone down on the nightstand and staring up at the ceiling. The city buzzed softly outside your window, the distant hum of traffic filling the silence.
Maybe it was nothing.
Maybe it was just a coincidence.
But as you turned off your phone and settled into bed, you couldn’t shake the feeling that, for the first time, Geto was stepping out of Gojo’s shadow.
And he was looking directly at you.
୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧
The soft light of early morning filtered through the blinds, the city streets already bustling with their usual noise.
The sound of your alarm dragging you from sleep felt abrupt, too sudden, as though your body wasn’t quite ready to let go of the peaceful weight of the night.
You groaned, stretching and blinking into the darkness of your bedroom. Another day of emails, meetings, and the familiar grind of corporate life—the rat race, if you will.
The message Geto had sent you last night flashed in your mind.."You free this week? Would be nice to catch up. :)"
You could almost hear his calm, measured tone in your head. The quiet rhythm of his speech that always made you feel like whatever he was saying was worth listening to.
You stared at the screen for a long moment before closing the app and tossing the phone back down.
It wasn’t like you were doing anything special today. You had a million things to think about—your morning routine, that proposal you needed to finish, the quarterly meeting you’d been dreading for weeks.
Yet, for some reason, his message had settled into your mind like a loose thread that wouldn’t stop unraveling.
You dragged yourself out of bed, pulling your work clothes from the closet with the same practiced motions you had done a thousand times before. But today, as you stood in front of the mirror, brushing your hair and debating whether or not to wear something a little more polished than usual, you caught yourself.
You hadn’t done this in ages. You hadn’t even thought about what you’d wear in advance, or how you’d look.
‘Get a grip,’ you thought to yourself. ‘It’s not like he works in your building—or that I even care what he thinks…’
Geto hadn’t reached out in a year and a half, and yet now, here he was, pulling you from your routine with nothing more than a few words on a screen.
You exhaled and ran a hand through your hair, pushing any butterflies back down into your stomach, because as all the finance bros say..the grind never stops.
As you gathered your things for the day—grabbing your coffee, slipping on your coat—you found yourself checking your phone again, more out of habit than anything else.
No new messages.
You shook your head as you pulled open your apartment door, stepping into the cold, gray morning. The bustling sounds of the city greeted you, but your mind kept drifting back to Geto.
The way he’d worded his invitation. The odd shift in his tone.
You told yourself you’d just focus on work today, push this all to the back of your mind. But it didn’t quite feel like you could.
You walked to the subway, lost in thought, wondering if maybe you were reading too much into it.
You had always assumed that, between the two of them, you and Geto would always just… be friends of Gojo. An afterthought.
‘I’m sure he just wants to catch up, it has been a while…and I guess we did spend a lot of time studying together’
But as the subway doors slid shut and you pressed your earphones in, blocking out the noise around you, one thought lingered in your mind like an unanswered question.
Why now?
a/n: hi all, this is a new series I am thinking of continuing...please let me know if you liked it!! I'd love to ehar your thoughts <3 ty for reading
author's note ⸺ Hello all! Tysm on all the love and support you've given me on just the teaser!! I have begun the series taglist as well (at end of fic) and if you'd like to be added, please comment so I can add you :)
pairing ⸺ Suguru Geto x Reader
content ⸺ platonic-bestie!gojo, corporate-worker!reader, slight tension, studying mentioned, modern au, reader uses female pronouns, this is an 18+ series - mdni
divider credit: @/toastray ୨୧ art credit: @/juziluohai
previous chapter ୨୧ series masterlist ୨୧ next chapter
Morning meetings were always the worst.
Your eyes flicked between the PowerPoint presentation on your laptop and the clock in the bottom corner of the screen. 10:17 AM. Barely past mid-morning, and already your inbox was overflowing, a steady stream of tasks waiting to be tackled.
Your manager was droning on about Q2 projections, but you weren’t really listening—your mind was elsewhere.
More specifically, back to Geto’s message.
You had responded, the plans had been loosely set in motion, but ever since then… nothing.
No follow-up text. No details. No confirmation. It wasn’t like you were expecting Geto to flood your notifications—he didn’t seem like the type—but still, there was an odd weight to the silence. Like something unsaid was hanging in the air, waiting.
Your phone, face down on your desk, was an itch you couldn’t scratch. Every so often, between emails and reports, you found yourself flipping it over, just to check.
No new messages. No notifications. Just the same boring reality of your corporate grind.
You sighed, refocusing on your laptop screen.
Work first, overanalyzing later.
୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧
By the time the workday finally dragged itself to a close, you were exhausted.
The kind of exhaustion that settled behind your eyes, heavy and dull.
You trudged back to your apartment, shedding your coat as soon as you stepped through the door, kicking off your shoes like they were the final obstacle standing between you and sweet relief.
Your phone buzzed as you collapsed onto the couch. For a fleeting second, your stomach twisted in anticipation—only for it to immediately unravel when you saw the name on the screen.
Gojo.
You exhaled through your nose, a half-smile tugging at your lips as you answered.
“What, do y’have a sixth sense for when I get home?”
“Obviously,” Gojo said, his voice light with amusement. “I told you, I’m always watching.”
“Gross.”
“You’re gross.”
This was routine by now—Gojo calling you at random times throughout the week, sometimes to tell you about his day, sometimes just to be annoying. You never really minded.
“So,” he drawled, “how’s the thrilling life of a corporate drone? Please, tell me in excruciating detail about your latest battle with Excel.”
“Oh, you know, just living the dream,” you said, stretching your legs out. “Emails. Meetings. Staring at spreadsheets until my vision blurs.”
“Riveting.”
“You know it.”
He chuckled. “Well, you got a busy week ahead, or what?”
The question was casual, barely even a thought, but before you could think better of it, you answered honestly.
“Not really. Just work. Oh, uh—actually, I’m meeting up with Geto sometime this week.”
Silence.
“…Gojo?”
A sharp inhale on the other end. Then, suddenly—
“This guy’s working in the shadows.”
You blinked. “Huh?”
“Oh my god.” His tone was deadly serious, but you could practically hear the grin behind it. “I had no idea…He’s been playing the long game. Years of silence, and now—bam. He’s got you exactly where he wants you.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“I knew it. I knew he was too smooth, too strategic—”
“Gojo, stop.”
“—waiting, biding his time, and then when I least expect it, he makes his move.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “This is why I don’t tell you things. There are no moves being made.”
Gojo laughed, full and delighted, like this was the funniest thing to happen all week. You could imagine him now—probably stretched out on his couch—taking up too much space, grinning like an idiot.
“In all seriousness, though,” he said, still sounding far too amused, “what’s up with that? Since when do you and Geto make plans?”
You hesitated, your fingers tightening around your phone. “I don’t know. He just texted me out of nowhere. Said he was 'working in my area now' and wanted to catch up.”
A pause. Barely a second, but you caught it.
Then—Gojo sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. “Oof. Wow.”
You frowned. “What?”
“Nah, nothing. It’s just—you ever watch a nature documentary?”
You blinked. “Huh?”
“You know, like, those ones where the predator stalks its prey for ages before it finally pounces?”
“…Gojo.”
He let out a long, dramatic sigh. “It’s just crazy. I always thought Geto was a patient guy, but this? This is another level. He’s been lurking in the tall grass for years, and now that the timing is right? Bam. He strikes.”
You groaned. “Oh my god.”
“No, no, I respect it,” he continued, completely ignoring you. “It’s a slow-burn strategy. Like, why rush when you can let the tension marinate, y’know?”
“There’s no tension. Or—ew—marinating. Why are you like this? ”
“Mm.” He made a noncommittal noise. “You sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Because I dunno,” he mused, “feels like a little tension. Maybe a tiny bit. A smidge. A sprinkle.”
“Gojo.”
“There was definitely a little spark back in university,” he said, far too casually.
You scoffed. “Huh? No, there wasn’t. We barely even spoke.”
Gojo let out an incredulous laugh. “Were we even in the same room? You two had vibes.”
“You’re such a liar.”
“I’m an eyewitness, actually,” he corrected, as if that made it any better. “And what I ‘eye-witnessed’ was undeniable tension.”
“You 'eye-witnessed' nothing.” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “This is why I don’t tell you things.”
“I think it’s great, honestly,” he continued, undeterred.
“You guys should totally bond. Maybe do one of those, I dunno, deep and meaningful heart-to-hearts. Oh! Maybe a romantic little dinner. Candlelight. Soft music. He reaches across the table to hold your hand—”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“No, wait! Wait, what are you wearing?”
You froze. “What the fuck?”
“For the meetup, duh.” He sounded way too amused. “Gotta dress for the occasion.”
You groaned so loudly it was nearly a scream, and Gojo lost it, laughing so hard you heard something clatter in the background.
“God, you make this too easy,” he wheezed.
“You’re the worst.”
You were going to regret telling him about this forever.
Before you could dwell on it too much, Gojo spoke again. “Well, I, for one, fully support this development. As long as you keep me updated.”
You snorted. “Yeah, because that’ll happen.”
“Hey! I have a right to know if my best friend is being seduced by my other best friend.”
“No one is being seduced—god are you even capable of shutting your mouth?”
“Just saying,” he said lightly, and you could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “If you show up to our next reunion looking all starry-eyed, I’ll know exactly who to blame.”
You scoffed. “And if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll know Suguru’s lost his touch.”
You groaned, pushing your face into a pillow as Gojo laughed through the speaker. He was ridiculous.
You ended the call with an exasperated sigh, tossing your phone onto the other side of the couch like it had personally wronged you.
Silence settled over your apartment, but your mind was anything but quiet.
Gojo was just messing with you—he always did. But still, his words lingered, replaying in your head like a song you couldn’t shake.
“Feels like a little tension”—“There was definitely a little spark back in university”
Ridiculous.
There was no tension. Not back then. Not now.
…Right?
You scoffed aloud, as if that would somehow erase the warmth you felt spread across your cheeks.
Good thing Gojo hadn’t FaceTimed you—he’d never let you live it down.
The man had a sixth sense for embarrassment, and your flushed face would’ve been prime ammunition.
୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧
*2 Years Prior: Campus Library — 11:46pm*
The study room was too small for the three of you—Gojo made sure of that. He sprawled in his chair, long limbs kicked out beneath the table, tapping a pencil against his textbook like he was drumming a countdown to his own inevitable failure.
The midterm was tomorrow, and judging by his groaning, he had barely started reviewing.
"I don't get why we even need to know this crap," Gojo whined, head rolling back against the chair. "I could fail this test and still be smarter than half the students here."
Across from him, Geto turned a page in his notebook, pen gliding smoothly over his notes. "Then fail," he murmured, voice steady, unbothered. "See how that works out for you."
Gojo huffed, but Geto wasn’t paying much attention to him anymore.
His gaze had flickered across the table a few times now, to you.
Your elbow rested against the desk, cheek propped in your palm, eyes flicking between your notes and the thick textbook at your side. The tip of your pen hovered between your lips, an unconscious habit that surfaced whenever you were deep in thought. A line appeared between your brows—concentration. Frustration.
Geto let his pen roll between his fingers, movements slow, measured.
The numbers on your page hadn’t changed in minutes. His eyes traced the faint tap of your index finger repeatedly tapped your cheek, the subtle way your grip on the pen tightened and loosened, like your thoughts were trying to work themselves out through movement.
He tapped his own pen lightly against the table near your textbook, breaking your trance. "You’re stuck on that problem."
Your head lifted, blinking. "Huh?"
The side of his mouth curled, almost imperceptibly. "You’ve been staring at the same equation for five minutes."
A quiet pause. Then you huffed, setting your pen down and leaning back slightly in your chair. "It's impossible. I’ve tried solving it three different ways, and none of them work."
Geto exhaled, shifting his chair closer. The scrape of wood against tile was barely noticeable beneath Gojo's continued dramatics. "Here. Let me see."
His arm brushed against yours—barely, just enough for him to notice the warmth of your skin through your sleeve. You smelled like warm vanilla and old books, a mix of whatever candle you always burned in your dorm and the ever-present scent of study sessions in the library.
After a moment, your brows lifted, expectant, seemingly waiting for an explanation.
His gaze flickered to your lips, still caught between your teeth, before dropping to the numbers scrawled across the paper. With a smooth movement, he picked up your pen, turning it between his fingers once before tapping against the right equation.
“Here,” he murmured, the weight of his voice settling between you. “You skipped a step.”
Your breath hitched—so faint he almost missed it. Almost.
He kept his voice level as he pointed to the equation. "Your mistake is here. You're missing a step between these two lines."
You sighed, running a hand through your hair. "Seriously? Ugh, that’s so stupid. I should’ve caught that."
"You're tired." He said it plainly, matter-of-fact. "That’s all."
Another pause. You tilted your head slightly, watching him – Like you wanted to say something.
Then Gojo launched a crumpled paper ball at Geto’s head.
"Hey! If you two are done whispering sweet nothings over math problems, can someone help me before I actually fail this test?"
Gojo’s paper ball bounced off Geto’s head and landed on the desk with an unceremonious plop.
Geto barely reacted, only sighing through his nose like he’d already resigned himself to Gojo’s antics long before this moment. He passed you the highlighter you had been reaching for, his fingers grazing yours—just barely, just long enough that it wasn’t entirely accidental.
You hesitated, lips parting slightly, but whatever thought had been forming was cut short when Gojo's loud voice interrupted you.
"*Phew,* Finally! I was starting to think you two were gonna start privatizing your study notes.”
You rolled your eyes, shifting in your seat. “Have you ever made your own notes? Ever? Once?”
Gojo scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “Don’t need to. You are both so lovely I don't need them.”
Shaking your head, you refocused on your notes, tapping your pencil against the paper before absently bringing it between your lips again. It was muscle memory at this point—something you did when you were getting deep in thought, when you were stuck.
Geto noticed immediately.
His gaze flickered down, almost involuntarily, catching on the slight indentation the pencil made against your lower lip.
For just a second, his fingers stilled where they had been idly rolling his pen, the movement betraying the momentary shift in his focus.
He looked away, back at his own notes—but too late. You had caught the lapse, the flicker of hesitation, and the way his fingers flexed slightly against the spiral binding of his notebook before resuming their casual twirl.
But it appeared as if you hadn’t realized the reason behind his hesitation.
Geto cleared his throat, voice still effortlessly smooth but quieter now. “Fine. Let’s make sure you don’t completely bomb this.”
Gojo immediately perked up. “Thank god. I was losing hope, honestly.”
Neither of you responded.
Geto twirled his pen between his fingers again—slow, thoughtful. His eyes drifted back to you, studying, considering. Then—his voice, quiet yet deliberate—
“You do that a lot y'know”
Your brows knitted slightly. “Do what?”
“The pencil,” he said, tilting his chin toward you. “You chew on it when you’re focused.”
But Geto wasn’t paying attention to him. His eyes didn’t even flinch—He was still watching you, something unreadable flickering behind his dark eyes, like he was committing the detail to memory.
“Didn’t realize you paid that much attention,” you muttered, sounding unaffected by his gaze.
“Yeah?” His lips curved, the ghost of a smirk. “Guess I just notice things.”
୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧
Back in the present, you exhaled sharply, shaking off Gojo’s previous teasing as you always did after your phone calls.
Your phone sat beside you, its dark screen reflecting your face—lips pressed together, brows drawn, eyes still distant, lingering somewhere between then and now.
You scoffed under your breath. A little spark? Yeah, okay.
If Gojo had been trying to get under your skin, he’d succeeded. But not in the way he probably thought.
You thought about it some more—what he had said on the phone—there had been no spark—not the way he meant, anyway.
It was just... familiarity. That quiet, unspoken understanding that came with years of late-night study sessions, shared snacks from vending machines, and the kind of silence that never felt uncomfortable. Geto’s attentiveness and willingness to help was just who he is, it did not mean anything more than that.
If there had ever been anything more, wouldn’t you have noticed?
Your gaze dropped to the phone resting in your lap, thumb grazing the edge of the screen before you realized you had already picked it up. With a quiet sigh, you leaned back against the couch, unlocking it without a second thought.
The message thread with Geto blinked up at you.
His last message was still there. Still waiting. Still unanswered.
"Geto: I know a place. I’ll send you the details later this week."
Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitating for only a second.
Then, finally—
You: So, when’s this catch-up happening?
The message sent before you could overthink it.
With a yawn, you pushed yourself off the couch, stretching your arms overhead before trudging toward your bedroom. The day had been long, and the weight of it was finally settling over you, making your limbs heavy.
Flicking off the light, you slid under the covers, the warmth of your blankets pulling you in almost instantly. You sank into the mattress, letting out a slow breath as your eyes fluttered shut.
Sleep came quickly, tugging at the edges of your consciousness.
Then—just as you were about to slip under completely…
Your phone buzzed against the nightstand.
Your eyes cracked open, pulse skipping despite yourself.
For a moment, you didn’t move. Didn’t reach for it.
But eventually, you did.
a/n — I hope you guys like this. as always lmk your thoughts <3
taglist ⸺ @killak9mi; @nikilig; @pinkhoneydrop; @armfloaties; @sat-hoe-ru; @you-transfix-me; @kaqua; @rriwyu; @erenspersonalwh0re; @dishs0pe
**please note: if your name is striked out, that means I was unable to tag you, please check your settings if you'd like to be tagged**
