worst. client. ever.
pairing: musician!gojo satoru x graphic designer fem!reader
tw: cursing, slightly suggestive at the end, way fluffier than my usual stuff
about: gojo satoru is the worst kind of client. picky, micromanages everything you do, arrogant, the list goes on…eventually you lose your temper and quit. it doesn't end in the way you expect.
a/n: i started this drabble fully intending to turn it into hate fucking, but then gojo went rogue and decided to be sweet. what can i say, i can't control the six eyes.
"satoru, i swear to god, i'm about to quit!" your exasperated voice causes a couple at the table next to you to turn their heads. the cafe you're in is one of those overpriced establishments your client insists on meeting at. the kind of place that's trendy online, with over-the-top decor, gourmet coffee, and cutesy pastries. they even have a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. ugh.
gojo satoru, the white-haired guitarist whose album cover you've been trying to design for the past ten months, doesn't seem phased. he's dressed like he just got out of a show: tight black pants, ripped black t-shirt, silver piercings in his eyebrow, bottom lip, and both ears, and a pair of sunglasses to top it all off. if he wasn't so fucking insufferable, you'd say he's pretty hot.
"i don't want an ugly album cover," he whines and it takes a monumental effort for you to not tear your hair out.
"i've sent you dozens of thumbnails at this point and you've paid a lot of money in extra revision fees. you have to make a decision because i can't keep doing this."
his sky blue eyes flick to yours from over top his sunglasses and he gives you a big, lopsided grin.
"come on," he says, "i'm your most famous client. you don't want to dump me. plus, i pretty much pay for that cute little apartment you live in."
you grit your teeth and shove yourself away from the table. "i'm done," you say. "keep everything i've already made so you can give it to the next poor designer you decide to torture."
you grab your phone and wallet, and you're turning to leave when his fingers wrap around your wrist. you whirl around and glare at him until he lets go, hands in the air.
"i'm sorry," he insists. "don't go. sit back down. i'll even pay for your cinnamon roll."
you spin on your heel and storm out of the cafe, cursing his name under your breath the whole way.
***
a couple weeks pass and you don't hear from him, which is a huge relief. you've managed to make back the income you lost by taking on a few more level-headed clients. you vow never to work with people like gojo satoru again, no matter how hot they are or the amount of money they want to throw your way.
you finally feel like you can breathe again. no more infuriatingly vague emails like "could you make it pop more?" and "idk i'm just not vibing with it." no more ridiculous requests like "could you move this text one millimeter to the left?"
pretty soon, you're too busy to even think about him, until one evening when you get a knock on the door.
you can't say you're terribly surprised when you find him standing on your doorstep. your most toxic clients alwayscome crawling back, but there's something extra pathetic about satoru. maybe it's the way his usually perfect hair is disheveled, as if he's been running his fingers through it in agitation. maybe it's the bags under his eyes or the small, wounded pout he's giving you. whatever it is, it's kinda glorious.
you arch a brow while you take in the sight of him.
"okay, i might have been difficult on purpose," he starts. when you don't say anything back, he continues. "i don't think the album covers you designed for me are ugly." your brow arches further and satoru huffs. "are you really going to make me admit it out loud?"
"yes," you say.
"ugh, fine. i think you're cute and i was purposefully being a pain in the ass just so i could keep working with you. happy?"
your lips quirk up. "yes. now get in here, idiot, and make it up to me."











