vanhoe

[vanshoe]

[gojosconsort]

mdni. young!satoru gojo as your baby daddy.

young!dad satoru who literally forgot how to breathe when they put his daughter in his arms for the first time. just stared at her tiny face for like five minutes straight before going "babe... babe we actually made a whole person. look at her fingers. they're so small. why are they so small."

young!dad satoru who facetimed you in a complete panic at 2 am because he couldn't figure out if the diaper tabs went in the front or back, and you could hear your daughter just chilling in the background while he had a full meltdown over pampers.

young!dad satoru who walks into lectures looking absolutely wrecked—coffee stains on his hoodie, hair a mess, eyes bloodshot—but won't shut up about how his baby smiled at him that morning. his study group is so tired of seeing his camera roll but he doesn't care.

young!dad satoru who does all his problem sets with your daughter passed out on his chest because she screams bloody murder if he puts her down. he's gotten weirdly good at typing one-handed and his notes are a mess but he's managing.

young!dad satoru who gets this look when you're feeding the baby—like he's trying not to stare but failing miserably. later he'll pull you close and mumble something about how unfair it is that you're even hotter now, hands sliding over your hips and pulling you closer.

young!dad satoru who you find knocked out in the nursery at night, baby girl sprawled on his bare chest, his hand covering her entire back. they're both snoring and drooling and it's the cutest thing you've ever seen.

young!dad satoru who corners you in the kitchen when the baby finally goes down for a nap, backing you against the counter with that grin that got you into this situation in the first place. kisses you like he's starving, hands greedy, whispering "got maybe twenty minutes, wanna..?"

young!dad satoru who stopped going out completely and doesn't even miss it. his boys invite him to parties and he's like "nah i'm good" because he'd rather be home watching his daughter discover her own feet or making you laugh while you're all exhausted on the couch.

young!dad satoru who talks to the baby when he thinks you're asleep. promising he's gonna figure this out, gonna make it work, gonna give you both everything. sometimes his voice cracks and you pretend you don't hear because you know he needs these moments.

[vanshoe]

so cute omg

[wacuoms]

[sixxels-deactivated20260420-dea]

my girlfriend gets so, depressed. ~ g.suguru

suguru x emotionally struggling reader

based on 'girlfriend' - TV girl and this ask || art creds: @/_3aem || angst, comfort. ts been sitting in my drafts for ages

you used to hum when you brushed your teeth. that’s what suguru remembers most. that and how your hair would glow against the morning light when you sat on the kitchen counter, cross-legged, sipping your coffee and teasing him for looking so serious at 8am.

now you don’t even come out of your room until noon, if at all. the house smells stale lately, like untouched blankets and dead flowers, and he’s started keeping the window open just to pretend the air is flowing through.

he watches you sleep a lot these days. not in a creepy way, he just doesn’t know what else to do. you curl up small, shoulders tight with anxiety even in dreams, and your hands twitch like you’re fighting something invisible. he wants to reach out, to touch your face, but he’s scared of waking you. scared of the look you’ll give him, blank, exhausted, that tiny flicker of guilt that always follows when you realize you’ve spent another day doing nothing.

you weren’t always like this. he knows that’s cliché, but it’s true. there was a time when you laughed at everything, loud and unfiltered, the kind of laugh that made people turn to look. you were messy and impulsive and beautiful in all the ways that made suguru’s calm exterior crack. he liked how you never seemed scared of feeling too much.

now you barely feel anything at all.

he tries, though. god, he tries. he makes you breakfast even though you never eat it, brings home flowers that wilt in their vase untouched, cracks jokes that bounce off the walls and fall flat on their face. he plays music while he cleans, hoping you’ll hum along like you used to, but the only sound is the quiet shuffle of his socks on the floor.

sometimes he catches himself staring at you, wondering if you even know he’s still here. wondering if maybe that’s the problem, that you’re too deep inside yourself to see the world outside anymore.

at night, when he lies awake, he can feel the distance between you in inches. you face the wall, and he stares at the ceiling, counting the breaths you take just to make sure you’re still there. he’s scared to sleep first, scared you’ll stop breathing if he does. he doesn’t tell you that, of course. he just stays awake and memorizes the rhythm of your inhale and exhale until the sun bleeds through the blinds.

you used to talk in metaphors. “if i was a season, i’d be spring,” you said once, sitting in the passenger seat with your feet on the dash. “because everything feels new, but it’s still cold.” he thought that was beautiful at the time. now he thinks maybe you were trying to tell him something, that the cold never really left you, that it just waited until the world went quiet enough for it to settle in.

you’ve stopped wearing color. suguru noticed that first. your closet used to be a mess of prints, cute shirts, and hoodies you’d steal from him, but now it’s just greys and blacks, folded too neatly. it’s like you’re trying to disappear, piece by piece.

when he mentions it, you just shrug and say you "don’t feel like dressing up anymore." he nods, even though it breaks his heart. because he gets it. because there was a time when he felt the same way, when even existing felt like dragging a body made of cement through every hour.

"honey, i know how this feels. i wish you'd just talk to me..."

"theres nothing to talk about, suguru."

that’s the thing that hurts the most. he knows how it feels. and he hates that knowing doesn’t make him any better at helping.

he calls in sick more often now. stays home to make sure you’re not spending the entire day staring at the ceiling. he coaxes you into the shower, sits outside the bathroom door while you’re in there, just listening for movement. when you finally step out, wrapped in a towel, he smiles and says, “see? small steps.” you nod but your eyes are empty, "hmm." and he has to look away because it kills him to see you like that.

sometimes you cry out of nowhere. you’ll be sitting on the couch, staring at nothing, and then suddenly your shoulders shake and your breath catches and it’s like something inside you finally cracked. he doesn’t ask why. he just holds you, lets you ruin his shirt with tears, whispers that it’s okay, that you’re safe, that you’re allowed to feel whatever this is. he says it like a mantra, even when he’s not sure he believes it himself.

and when you finally stop, you always say the same thing. “i’m sorry.”

he hates that word now. sorry.

you don’t owe him apologies for hurting. you don’t owe anyone that. but he knows you can’t help it. the guilt is just another thing depression gives you for free.

he starts writing little notes. leaves them on your nightstand, on the bathroom mirror, inside your book. things like, “you’re still here. that’s enough.” or “i love you, even when you think the worlds against you.” he never knows if you read them, but sometimes he finds them folded in your pocket or tucked under your pillow, so maybe you do. maybe that’s something.

he wishes he could tell you that it’s not your fault, that he doesn’t blame you for the way things are. but he also can’t lie, he’s tired... he misses you. he misses you so fucking much, he misses himself too. the house used to feel like home, now it just feels like a waiting room.

one night, after you’ve been asleep for hours, he goes outside for a smoke. the air’s cold enough to bite. he leans against the railing and stares at the stars, wondering if they look any different when you’re sad. he thinks about calling his old therapist, but the thought of explaining what’s going on feels impossible. how do you say “the girl i love is drowning and i can’t swim anymore” without sounding pathetic?

he stays out there for a while, the glow of his cigarette the only light. when he comes back inside, you’re standing in the doorway, eyes half-open, wearing one of his shirts. you look small, fragile.

“couldn’t sleep?” you ask. your voice is soft, raw.

“yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “just needed some air.”

you nod, like you understand. then, after a pause, “i’m sorry.”

he steps closer, reaches out, rests a hand on your cheek. “stop saying that,” he whispers.

you lean into his touch. for the first time in a long while, you don’t pull away. he feels something shift in the air, a tiny crack in the glass between you.

“i don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you say, voice shaking. “i can’t feel anything, and i hate it. i hate that you’re trying so hard and i can’t even—”

“hey,” he interrupts gently. “you don’t have to fix it right now.”

“but i want to,” you say, and that’s when he feels the sting in his throat, the tears pressing hot behind his eyes. because that’s the first time in months you’ve said you wanted anything.

he pulls you into his chest, wraps his arms around you like he can hold you together by sheer force. your face buries against his neck, your breath trembling against his skin. he closes his eyes and breathes you in, shampoo, salt, the faint scent of smoke from outside. it feels human. alive.

“you’re still you,” he says quietly. “even when it doesn’t feel like it. you’re still my baby, my girl.”

you don’t answer, but your hand grips the back of his shirt, and that’s enough.

the next morning, the light hits different. you’re still quiet, but when he makes coffee, you take a sip. he doesn’t comment, just watches as you sit at the table, staring into the mug like it’s something sacred. there’s a small crease between your brows, but your shoulders are less tense.

later, he finds you standing by the window, sunlight on your face. you’re wearing a pale blue sweater he hasn’t seen in months. you turn to look at him, and for a split second, your lips twitch upward. it’s not a full smile, but it’s something.

“hey,” you say softly. “thanks for staying.”

he crosses the room, presses a kiss to your temple. “always.”

and that’s it. no dramatic ending, no miraculous recovery. just two people, still trying. the air feels lighter somehow. the silence between you doesn’t hurt as much. maybe tomorrow you’ll laugh again, or maybe you won’t, but for now, you’re here, and he’s here, and that’s enough.

when night comes, he finds you already in bed, curled up on your side. he slides in next to you, close enough that your backs touch. it’s small, but it’s connection. you reach back, grab his hand, and hold it. he squeezes once, firm and steady, like a promise.

and for the first time in a long time, he sleeps before you do.

aww im gonna kms

i wrote this inbetween writing show off and it helped me keep it poignant and angsty lowkey

[vanshoe]

i get so sad knowing i have no friends in college. like i rarely cry but when i do i just snap and can’t stop and i feel like it’s coming 💔 i try so hard to make friends but it never works out

[vanshoe]

sighhh it always feels like i’m the second choice for everything and now i’m here crying like an idiotic for a guy who i though had the slightest interest in me and im too embarrassed to tell anyone on the fact

[vanshoe]

and when i said if u still have feelings for ur ex don’t lead me on and tell me because im not that desperate and he said no but he’s trying to text like everything is normal and as if he didn’t ask for space. now he texts more after i minimize my texting because in a sense he called me overbea

[vanshoe]

sigh i’m crying . i just feel so humiliated and stupid on the fact i gave a big part of myself to a guy only for him to tell me he’s gonna meet up with his ex next week sigh and him to basically call me overbearing and that he needs space despite him initiating all the hangouts always and every single thing was because he wanted to do it . i’m inexperienced so i never felt comfortable initiating it but its different when he did but through text he’s making it sound like it was me mostly and now i just feel so stupid

[vanshoe]

had my first sexual experience ever with this guy i’ve been talking to for months yesterday and he kept asking me if i was comfortable 😖#he needed me so badly tho and kept moaning in my ear and allat GEHSJWJWKQOWOIWJKDOEOE AHSHSJJS WE were dryhumpng at first but then he pulled my underwear to the side STOPPPPP AND HIS BOXERS DOWN STSGSHDJ I CANT BELIEVE MYSELF guy WE ARE UP

[vanshoe]

nvm he needs to DIE(jk kind of) he literally messaged me today after hanging out the entire day that we’ve been taking things too fast and next week his ex is visiting and he has mixed emotions. he’s 8 years older than me so i just feel like a stupid desperate girl i’m so sad but i don’t wanna cry. he told me he’s scared i will stop talking to him but he literally took my virginity and all my firsts just to tell me this. why me sigh . m

[vanshoe]

had my first sexual experience ever with this guy i’ve been talking to for months yesterday and he kept asking me if i was comfortable 😖#he needed me so badly tho and kept moaning in my ear and allat GEHSJWJWKQOWOIWJKDOEOE AHSHSJJS WE were dryhumpng at first but then he pulled my underwear to the side STOPPPPP AND HIS BOXERS DOWN STSGSHDJ I CANT BELIEVE MYSELF guy WE ARE UP

[to00fu]

doodle

[gojoest]

► MDNI, established relationship, f!reader (she/her), unprotected sex, creampie, satoru fucks you while he’s on call with his mother, my god is he a menace, wc: 1.4k, not proofread

the worst timing for a son to get a call from his mother is while he’s in the middle of fucking his girlfriend. surely, nobody in the right mind would pick up. most would certainly agree that the smartest move is to let it ring until it goes to voicemail and return the call at a later time when one is done having sex.

satoru, however, doesn’t see why the two should be mutually exclusive.

the call might be an urgency, but nothing is ever urgent enough to make him stop fucking you. in fact, there’s no force in the world that can make him pull out once he’s already in, not even if the fire alarm was blaring because the building was burning down. even then, he would carry you out safely in a catcher hug with your legs wrapped around his waist and his cock still inside you. pulling out is not an option, your pussy is serious business.

so if he can do that, why wouldn’t he do this?

besides, he figures, it’s a good warm-up — after all, he’s about to introduce you to her for the first time tonight, so you might as well get familiar with his mother’s voice; hence why he puts the phone on speaker and sets it down on the couch.

“what time are you bringing your girlfriend to us?” — his mother’s voice echoes from the other end of the line.

to say you were embarrassed would be an understatement. never in your life did you imagine that the first time you’d hear your future mother-in-law’s voice would be in a situation like this — butt naked, thighs draped over her son’s bare lap, casually riding his cock on the couch in the middle of the day.

stupid satoru! jerk satoru! — that’s what you want to yell, but all you manage are a few weak punches to his chest, biting your lip to keep any unwanted sounds from slipping out and trying to get off his lap; the latter proving completely useless as he effortlessly pulls you right back into place, the movement itself resulting in his length stabbing into you even deeper, drawing an involuntary shudder from your body.

the look on his face says ‘don’t even think about it, baby’ and the way his grip deliberately tightens around your thighs only reinforces his unspoken warning.

“hmm”, satoru hums. one hand shifts from your thigh to your clit, his thumb rubbing it in circular motion, the rest of his fingers splay across the lower of your abdomen, his pinky brushing just below your navel. he’s grinning proudly as if he can feel the tip of his cock there under the flesh coating your belly.

“dunno, mom, can be anytime now that we’re coming”, he finally drawls, his voice strained as he tries to swallow back a grunt from your vaginal muscles contracting around his cock with each little tease he’s very much on purpose forcing on you right now.

with both hands clamped over your mouth now and eyes squeezed shut, you internally pray this call ends before one of you gives up and lets it all out. sadly, that one is most likely you, because your menace of a boyfriend is maintaining a pace that will let only him last. and with his thumb stimulating your clit on top of being balls deep inside you? it’s obvious you’re at a serious disadvantage here.

“oh? so you’re not backing out? looks like she’s really the one”, his mother says with a chuckle, completely unaware of what’s unfolding on the other side of the line, “since you’re finally bringing her home”

satoru lets out a snort — not because his mom said anything funny, but because he needed an excuse to exhale a moan. and a snort was the perfect cover.

“oh yeah”, he hums and then pauses, his mouth hangs open as he bucks his hips against you from below in three quick successions just to watch your tits bounce in front of his face. “she’s the one”, he adds with a shit eating grin, “we’re definitely coming”

“finally”, his mother swoons. “i can’t believe i’ve lived to see the day you’re finally bringing a girl home. she must be very special”, she adds. “i don’t know what she likes to eat, but i got a little carried away and made all kinds of dishes. hopefully she’ll like at least one of them”

“don’t worry mom, she’s got a big appetite”, satoru replies teasingly, his hand giving the soft flesh of your thigh a playful squeeze. “she’s into big, hearty meals — definitely not one into small portions. you gotta serve it all up or she’ll leave the table hungry and craving more”, he adds, mischief curling in his voice. “you know, she likes to be filled to the brim”

your fingers dig into his sides at his mocking words, but he grins through it and has the audacity to continue with “she’s passionate”

“about food?” his mother asks.

“yeah”, he laughs. “about food. really passionate”

you think you can finally breathe now that he seems to be busy talking to his mom and pulls his fingers away from your clit, but as it turns out he only did so in order to grab your ass cheeks inside his palms, completely unfazed by the ongoing conversation, lifting you up just a notch then slamming you back on his cock the least you expect it,

one, two, three, four, five times—

…all whilst thrusting up in sync, hard and unyieldingly into you, watching his length peek out then disappear right back between your folds to fill the wet space of your pussy, making your toes twitch and curl as your cunt spasms around his cock with each stroke. at this point, he’s fucking you hard and deep while you arch your back and bite your lips in mute ecstasy, the feeling taking literally all of your self-control to not scream as he brings you closer and closer on the grinding girth of his cock. just when you think you can’t stand it any longer, you see his jaw clench and hear him draw a breath, feel his body shudder and his cock swell inside you, and that’s when you let it go too. throwing your head back, you press your lips together, concentrating on not making any sound as you feel pleasure roll down your body wave after wave until it rings through your pussy. one of his hands reaches for your mouth, his thumb sealing your lips shut as he floods you, filling you with spurt after spurt of his own load…

—until your breaths cut off with a gasp of overwhelming pleasure, compelling your eyes to snap open and meet his as you both come down from your high.

“ough—” you breathe out in unison before reality kicks back in and both of your heads snap toward the phone beside you.

“satoru?” — there is a hint of concern in his mother’s voice. “what are those sounds? are you alright, son?”

now you’re not quite sure what exactly she heard. was it the sound of skin against skin born from his son’s cock slamming into your pussy? or was she referring to the breathless noises you both couldn’t quite hold back in the end? or — worst case — both?

satoru takes a few deep breaths, trying his best to steady his voice before responding.

“i’m fine, mom”, he says at last. “just, uh.. doing a little stretching before i hit the gym”

he’s not exactly lying — just conveniently leaving out the part where you are the one being stretched.

“but i think i heard another voice too? was that your girlfriend with you? oh my, are you two warming up together?”

satoru snorts. “yeah, she’s stretching too”, he says, barely suppressing a laugh as he feels your teeth sink into the crook of his shoulder, a not-so-subtle warning to say no more and hang up.

extra:

“what?” satoru looks up at you with that infuriatingly smug innocence as you slip off his lap and tug your panties back on, legs still a little unsteady. “you said you were nervous about meeting my mom, so i figured this might loosen you up a bit”

“loosen up?” you glare at him. “are you crazy? how am i supposed to sit across from her and look her in the eyes after this?”

“come on, it’s not like she saw us”

“hah”, you scoff, “i bet you wouldn’t have stopped even if she had”

“well, you’d win that bet”

[cupidstrace]

Satoru finds out his sister (reader) and Suguru are together

A/N: inspired by that one sue and darrin episode from The Middle hehe

Satoru's always been a bit worried for you.

It’s not like you’re bad looking or anything (although he tells you you’re ugly quite often).

You’re his sister – so of course you’re not ugly, considering how handsome, mature, sophisticated, sultry, seductive, and most of all humble, he is. Doesn’t stop him from knowing you could never pull a guy to save your life.

He remembers having to console you in high school as you wailed throughout the night about yet another failed relationship, another guy that laughed in your face or dated you just to joke about it or cheated just because he could. Some sort of toxic neverending cycle you had subscribed yourself to, one that persisted into your college years and never quite left.

So imagine his surprise when he visits your apartment – only to see his own best friend, cuddling you beneath a blanket on the couch.

You wake with a startle to the most distressed shriek you’ve ever heard in your life, followed by the slam of a takeout box on the counter and steps storming toward where you lay on Suguru's chest. The man beneath you just grumbles. One eye peeking open, halfheartedly, to check who’s making all the fuss.

“Fuck no,” Satoru screeches, snatching a pillow and launching it at Suguru’s head. “No way. Absolutely not.”

You jolt when you realize it’s Satoru. Wrap the throw blanket in a burrito around yourself, sit up on the couch. Revealing Suguru’s bare, toned chest, muscles rippling and contracting as he raises his upper body just enough to catch the pillow and place it gently on the carpeted floor.

“Satoru,” you caution, wincing at his enraged look, “You don’t understand–”

“Go to your room,” he blurts out, eyes wide.

God. He knew he’d have to protect you from the assholes at college parties. He never thought he’d have to protect you from his own best friend.

“This is my apartment. You can’t tell me to–”

“GO TO YOUR ROOM.”

Silence.

Then you bristle, get up, and storm down the hallway. Slamming the door to your room with a bang! that echoes throughout the stillness of the house.

With you gone, Satoru focuses his attention on Suguru – who’s still barely awake, blinking out the drowsiness with a languid attitude. Uncaring of the fact that his best friend walked in on him and the guy’s sister cuddling naked beneath a blanket.

“What are you doing?” Satoru hisses. “Are you insane??”

Suguru stands with a yawn and stretches, letting his bits fly free. And Satoru doesn’t even look away. Too stunned and angry and confused to even bother looking down. “Wha– is this ‘cause you feel sorry for her?”

“No. I like her.”

“Is this ‘cause I peed in your Mountain Dew bottle when we were seven?”

“That was you?”

“Well– I..” Satoru pauses, frozen in place, before glaring at Suguru with renewed animosity. “You are not allowed. You are not allowed to date my sister, I forbid it!”

Suguru tilts his head, shaggy hair falling over his eyes. He raises a hand to sweep the tresses back, biceps bulging, and Satoru rears up like a cornered cat assessing a potential threat. Another yawn, then Suguru responds. “..I really like her.”

“Just– you– UGH. FINE.”

“You’ll let me date her?”

Satoru flares up.

He can’t even imagine the idea of allowing that.

You and Suguru?

Hell no.

Sure, he’s Satoru’s best friend, and sure, he’s a good guy, but he’s also..

also..

uh..

Suguru’s an asshole!

Yeah.

He’s no good.

God forbid Satoru allows this and ends up having to call Suguru his brother-in-law – he’d rather choke on his own dick first.

Suguru cocks a brow, rubs his eyes, and then repeats the question. “..you’ll let me date her?–”

“No way, José,” Satoru spits. “I’m gonna date your mom. Ha-ha!”

“Excuse me?”

Satoru stalks forward, enunciating every word with a pointed jab that tells Suguru he’s coming up with a threat on the spot. “I’m gonna date your mom, and then I’m gonna marry her, and then I’ll be your stepdad, and then I will forbid you from dating my sister!”

“Satoru. We–”

“Name ONE THING you see in her. ONE.”

“Well, she–”

Satoru almost pukes. Covers his ears and squats down in distress.

“I don’t wanna hear it, EUGH.”

Suguru blinks, calm as ever. Like this is just another Tuesday.

There’s a long, awful silence. Then Satoru points a shaky finger up, without looking. “..put some pants on before I call my parents and tell them I caught you two doing the nasty.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“Dramatic? DRAMATIC? My best friend is balls out butt naked” – and at this, Satoru shoots to his feet – “in my sister’s apartment! This isn’t drama, it’s a crime scene!”

Suguru laughs, grabbing his shirt from the back of the couch and slipping it on. “Relax. We’re adults, Satoru.”

Satoru stands there for a beat, chest heaving. Then he groans and drags a hand down his face.

“God damn it. I should’ve just let her date the guy that thought tongues were growing on his hands.”

@besidesjustmyamour, @chocalycake, @crude-saint, @myselkie, @junkuna, @satorupi, @eirasera, @bistrocatxx, @xonyoka, @j3llyc4kes, @angelscriptures

[kthologue]

don't look at me like that — gojo satoru

synopsis. gojo can’t live without your affection.

contents. hurt/comfort, fluff, ooc, teenage gojo is an idiot, lovesick!gojo, in which he calls you clingy and immediately regrets it, slight crack

notes. can you tell seeing men pathetically grovel is one of my favorite things?... also, sorry to suguru stans out there.

“I don’t like that they’ve been sending you on so many missions,” you murmur, threading your fingers through your boyfriend’s silver locs. His hair has grown longer, a piece of evidence of just how little time he’s had to himself. To you. Yaga had been working him and Suguru like weapons instead of people, and it gnawed at you more each day.

Satoru flashes that signature smile of his, his shield of nonchalance. “Yeah, well. We’re the strongest, after all.”

His cerulean eyes meet yours, and you swear you see the whole endless sky inside them. And yet the softness there makes your chest ache. He looks at you like you’re gravity, the only thing tethering him to earth.

You lean in, press a quick kiss to his nose. He crinkles it but doesn’t push you away. The faint blush that paints his cheeks makes you laugh despite the heaviness in your chest. For a fleeting moment, it feels like the world is simple.

“Alright, lovebirds.” Suguru’s voice cuts sharp through the quiet, pulling you back down. He’s leaning against the lounge doorway, arms folded. “If we want to make it to Sendai by nightfall, we should head out.”

Satoru groans like a petulant child.

You acknowledge Suguru with a hum, then steal one last kiss from Satoru’s lips. This one is slow enough to linger, but quick enough to hurt when you pull away. Sliding off his lap, you try to keep your smile from faltering.

You leave them to their strategy, shutting the door softly behind you.

It’s only when you’re halfway down the hall that you realize Satoru’s sunglasses are still tucked into your uniform pocket. You’d stolen them earlier, teasing him, and forgot to give them back. Smiling faintly at your own carelessness, you turn back toward the lounge.

But the moment your hand touches the doorknob, their voices stop you cold.

“I don’t know how you do it, Satoru.” Suguru’s tone is edged with something mocking. Or curious. Maybe even both.

“Do what?”

“Spend all your time with [Name]. Between missions and her, do you even breathe? I figured the great Gojo Satoru would want freedom. To… explore.”

Satoru laughs under his breath, a tired sound. “I do what I like.”

“Really?” Suguru chuckles. “Couldn’t be me. Dating around is easier. No ties or expectations. You’re not stuck orbiting the same person day after day. Doesn’t it drive you crazy?”

You wait for Satoru’s defense, for the warmth he always shows you to blaze through the door. For him to say you’re not a weight, but his anchor. For him to fight for you, even in words.

But it never comes.

“I guess she can be clingy,” he admits, voice quieter. “But… I like her that way.”

Clingy. The word slams into you, hollowing your chest. Suddenly you feel small and disposable-- like a burden tolerated. The word echoes, bouncing sharp inside your skull until it’s all you hear.

Your breath stutters. The sunglasses slip from your hand, forgotten.

The silence that follows is heavy. Maybe they know you’re standing there. Maybe they don’t.

It doesn’t matter much anymore.

You turn and run before the dam in your chest breaks.

Gojo notices that something was off the moment he steps back onto campus.

He’s exhausted, having not slept a wink from the mission, but the thought of seeing you is enough to put a spring in his step. Normally, you’d be waiting, practically bouncing on your toes with a smile so wide it knocked the wind out of him more than any curse could. You’d scold him for being reckless, pepper his face with kisses, and then tuck yourself against his chest like you belonged there, because you did.

But today was different.

You’re there waiting in the courtyard, but you don’t move toward him.

Instead, you stand with your hands clasped neatly in front of you, your eyes unreadable. When his gaze lights up at the sight of you, when his arms begin to open as if to gather you in, you don’t take a step.

“Welcome back, Gojo,” you say softly. It is tamed and polite as if you were greeting a colleague and not your boyfriend. Your Satoru.

Gojo. Not Satoru. Not ’Toru. Not even an affectionate idiot. Just Gojo.

And it hits him like a gut punch. His grin falters, confusion flashing across his features.

“...That’s it?” he asks, half-laughing. He tries to brush it off, and hide the sudden weight pressing against his ribs. “No ‘I missed you’? Not even a kiss to make Suguru gag? You’re slipping, sweetheart.”

You offer a small smile, but it looks too brittle to be true. “I’m glad you’re safe. You should get some rest.”

And before he can think of what to say, you turn and leave.

He watches every step you take in confusion. You don’t seem to walk in anger—just a painful silence that gnaws at him.

Yet somehow, that silence is so much worse.

He can’t shake it.

That night, Gojo lies awake, staring at the ceiling with his hands folded behind his head. He can hear Suguru snoring from their shared wall, but sleep refuses to come for him. His mind is stuck on you. The way your voice had lost its warmth. The way your eyes had slid right past him, flat and unreadable, as though he wasn’t the center of your world anymore.

It’s a look he’s never received from you before—not even when you were annoyed, not even when he’d teased you to the point of snapping. You’ve always burned bright, always given him your fire, whether it was laughter or anger or love. But now that spark was gone and the emptiness you left behind terrified him more than any curse ever had.

The idea of you becoming a stranger digs its claws into him. He pictures it vividly: you walking past him in the halls without stopping, without even brushing his hand. Your voice reduced to polite acknowledgments and your smile given freely to someone else instead of him. He’s never been good at imagining a future, but this seemed to be a nightmare he can’t wake up from.

He swallows hard, throat dry. He’d rather you spit venom at him. He’d rather you look at him with the same disdain you reserve for curses than give him this quiet, suffocating indifference. At least if you were angry, it would mean he still mattered enough to spark that fire in you. Heavens, he even thinks you look hot when you’re furious with him—jaw set, eyes blazing. He’d take that over this hollow nothingness any day.

Gojo presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, teeth gritted, as if he could block out the memory of your cold tone. But of course, it only makes it louder.

And then he remembers. Exactly what he said.

“I suppose [Name] can be clingy, but I quite like her.”

The words replay in his head, mocking him. How casual, how dismissive he’d sounded as he reduced you to some habit he’d grown used to rather than the gravity tethering him to the ground. His stomach twists violently.

“God,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face, his voice raw. “I’m such an idiot.”

The words echo in the silence of the room, but they aren’t enough. Not even close.

Because what terrifies him most is the possibility that his charm, his apologies, his desperate little tricks may not be enough to pull you back to him. That you’ll decide you don’t need Gojo Satoru at all. And if that were to happen–

He doesn’t even know who he is without you.

The next morning, he’s already camped outside your door. He’s got food in hand, sunglasses hanging uselessly from his shirt collar, and a grin stretched across his face that hides the fact he hasn’t slept.

The moment you open the door, still rubbing sleep from your eyes, he bursts out, “Good morning! Guess what? I brought breakfast. And—”

You blink at him, unimpressed. “I already ate.”

The words cut sharper than a blade. You walk past him without another glance, and for once Gojo is speechless.

But not for long.

He springs after you, long legs easily keeping pace. “Okay, fine, but I also got you the dango you like. Handmade. By me. It took me all night, and I nearly burned down the kitchen. I might’ve cried a little, not gonna lie. Don’t make my suffering meaningless, babe.”

You don’t even look at him.

Gojo staggers back as if struck. Then, ever dramatic, he clutches his chest and staggers forward again. “Cold shoulder, huh? Okay. I deserve that. But please—don’t ignore me. Yell at me, throw something, tell me to shut up. Just… don’t go quiet. I can’t take it.”

You don’t respond and Gojo feels a part of his soul wither away.

The next few days, he turns groveling into an art form.

He leaves flowers on your desk. Little apology notes scrawled in his messy handwriting tucked into your uniform pockets:

“You’re not clingy. You’re everything I have ever dreamed of. I literally can’t function without you.”

“I’m the dumbest genius alive. Please don’t dump me.”

“If I say something stupid again, you have full permission to curse me into oblivion.”

He even tries ambushing you in the common lounge, sprawling dramatically across your lap. “Forgive me already,” he whines loud enough for everyone to hear. “If you don’t, I’ll have no choice but to waste away right here. Imagine it—Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer, killed not by a curse but by his girlfriend’s silence. Imagine the scandal it would cause”

You raise a brow and shift your legs. He yelps as he tumbles to the floor, but when you stand to leave, he just grins up at you from where he’s sprawled.

“Still worth it if I get to be close to you,” he says softly.

And despite yourself, your chest aches.

It finally comes to a head on the training field.

You’re finishing drills when his shadow falls across you. He looks different in the moonlight, you note. The cocky mask stripped away, desperation bleeding through every line of him.

“Please,” he blurts out before you can turn away. His voice cracks, raw and unguarded. “Don’t shut me out like this. I know I hurt you. I know I said something thoughtless and cruel, and I’ll regret it for the rest of my life. But you need to know that you’re not a burden. You’re not clingy. You’re the reason I even want to come back from missions. You’re the only person who makes me feel like I’m not just… a weapon.”

Your heart twists painfully.

“You made me feel small,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “Like I was just tolerated.”

He flinches like the words physically strike him. “No. God, no. You’re not tolerated. You’re everything. You’re the only thing in this stupid world I don’t want to let go of. If I have to spend every day proving it to you, I will. Just… don’t give up on me. Please.”

And for once, there’s no grin, no bravado. It is not the cocky Gojo Satoru standing in front of you, but just Satoru. The boy who’s terrified of losing the only person who makes him feel human.

Silence hangs heavy. You study him and his clenched fists. You look at his trembling shoulders and the way his eyes are begging you to believe him.

Finally, you sigh. Slowly, you reach out and brush your fingers against his. “You’d better mean every word.”

He catches your hand instantly, like a drowning man grabbing a lifeline. He presses frantic kisses to your knuckles, your wrist, your palm. His voice is hoarse when he speaks between them. “I mean it. I swear it. I’ll never take you for granted again. I can’t lose you.”

And when you finally let him pull you into a kiss. It is deep and desperate. You can feel his relief in the way he trembles, in how tightly he clings, as though you might vanish if he lets go.

This time, when you whisper his name, it isn’t Gojo. It’s Satoru.

And that’s enough to make him believe he still has a chance to be worthy of you.

[saerins]

─── 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒, 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘, 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒

+ itoshi sae x f!reader | wc 7.1k | content: fluff, making out, college!au, mentions of insecurity, only very brief angst !!, alcohol, slight jealousy

notes: this was supposed to be lengthier and in smau format but i suck at that so here it is in fic format :’) i know i know, i write sae way too much </3

summary: you have a crush on sae. for a long time now. and he’s always known that. he just wants to see how long you can hold out.

HIGH SCHOOL: 2ND YEAR

itoshi sae knows you like him.

you’re really obvious it’s pathetic, really. once during recess, he’d wanted to go back to the classroom to get some shut eye because soccer was way too draining lately, and guess who he saw slipping a little love note into his locker?

of course you. you and your little pink heart-shaped post-it that read i think you’re cute and i really really like you. because it was valentines and you were one of the many to send him little scribbles of confessions.

even now, when you sit just a couple of rows in front of him, he catches you looking behind at him, and sae purposely doesn’t look at you, doesn’t let you know he knows you’re staring. he’s not really sure why. maybe he feels bad if he exposes you or something.

throughout the rest of your sophomore year in high school, he continues to observe as you so subtly (not really) try to be friends with him. you always try to get picked to be in the same group as him for projects (which never works out), you try to sit next to him in lecture halls (but his friends cockblock you always), and during phys ed classes you try so hard with soccer but you’re really quite bad at it.

maybe it’s sae not being able to continue observing your failures that he throws you a bone.

“you need to bend your knees a little more.”

frozen stiff from the unexpected company, you awkwardly try to bend your knees further, all while staring at the ground. if sae was nice, he’d laugh and joke around with you, asking why you seemed so scared of him. but he’s not, so he only sighs and stands beside you while you try.

after a few more seconds, sae understands you don’t really understand so he moves to push down on your thigh, and by then you really freeze up, falling flat on your ass in front of him.

sae wants to laugh now, really, because it’s amusing how nervous you are. for no good reason too.

the next time sae talks to you, it’s during lunch time when he queues up behind you. on purpose. he doesn’t even usually eat from this stall, but seeing you there makes him want to mess with you a little. he purposely stands a little too close, makes himself prone to an accidental bump.

which does happen. because you’re just like that.

“oh, sor—” you stop midway as if realising it’s sae immediately dissolves you of any obliged apologies. “sorry,” you force out before whipping your attention back in front. the both of you don’t talk in that moment and sae can’t help but feel a little disappointed.

but sae continues to help you during phys ed classes, and you still try to get assigned to be his group mate. nothing groundbreaking happens during sophomore year of high school because nothing is born out of it.

nothing, except maybe a tiny bit of sae’s inexplicable emotions for you.

HIGH SCHOOL: SENIOR YEAR

sae thinks maybe you went to a shrine over the holidays. how else would he explain you finally getting partnered with him on a project? and to top it off, it’s a two-person team for the entire year.

you get him all to yourself.

the moment the teacher calls your name after his, it’s like sae can practically see your tail wagging. you manage to compose yourself when you catch him staring at you though.

it’s a little cute, if he’s being honest.

“so, what do you think our project should be about?” your voice wavers a little when you speak to him. is he that intimidating?

sae wonders what if he tries to be a dick during this project. would you be obedient or would you actually bite back?

he tries to find out.

sae shrugs and acts disinterested, staring out the window of the second floor of the library where you’d both agreed to meet to work on it together. “don’t know, don’t care, think you could handle it for us? i’ve got too many soccer trainings, too tired.”

for a split second, you’re taken aback—he sees you sitting upright a little more, blinking twice at him because surely that’s not what you imagined your crush to behave like. not when he has straight As and is almost the top of your cohort.

and for a while, sae thinks you might actually be the former; obediently listening to him, making sure he’s happy. but then you furrow your brows and clench your fists and go “itoshi sae, who do you think you are” and oh, oh, you’re not the former, you’re the latter and you’d actually kill him if he was a dick. fuck.

somehow his hands instinctively come up in surrender and his mouth opens, “i was just kidding.”

it’s almost comical how your expression softens up immediately and you laugh, and sae keeps staring at you because you actually have a really nice smile. he never really noticed it before. and when the two of you actually get started on the project, sae finds himself observing you more than actually contributing.

yeah, you’re really quite pretty.

“any plans for the summer?”

it’s now almost july and summer break is around the corner, and to be honest sae’s kind of bummed about it. it’s beyond him why not seeing you would make him disappointed, but he’s not going to try and pursue the reason. he has his training camps to worry about.

“soccer. you?”

“mmm, a short trip with my parents.”

usually sae would leave it at that, but he asks about you, and he sees that tail wagging again. “where?”

“just gonna go to hokkaido,” you tell him. and you look like you’re anticipating him to ask more, but sae’s stuck. he doesn’t really know what to ask. he’s not exactly curious as to what you’d be doing there.

so you take matters into your own hand when you swiftly grab his phone from the table, key in your number and call yourself from his phone before putting it right back. sae watches you the whole time, wondering when exactly you’d gotten this bold.

“there, now you can’t escape me even over summer break.”

and he doesn’t. because you text him about your trip when you’re there, you send him pictures of the scenery and of the food you’re eating and you’re really inconsiderate because you send him that shit when he’s stuck in soccer bootcamp with twenty-four sweaty guys who’s none the better than him.

sae can end it by all means, just by not responding to you, but for the first time, talking to someone isn’t really a pain, and he thinks you’re kind of funny and the stickers you send are kind of cute so he’ll let this continue. even if by continue he means sending mediocre, lacklustre responses that just barely manages to keep the conversation going.

(in sae’s mind at eighteen, sending replies like okay and i see are considered acceptable and subjectively considered effort.)

when summer break finally ends and it’s early september, sae finally sees you again while he walks to school. he walks a little faster just to catch up to you before he adjusts his pace, acts like it’s coincidence that he’s right beside you.

and somehow he’s made it a routine; to memorise what bus you get off of and catch you on the way to school. even if he sees you in classes and even after classes in the library.

you’re acting a little less like he’s on a podium and more like normal friends and he kind of likes that. he likes being able to see you unfiltered when you gossip, likes seeing you laugh at stupid lame jokes, likes the way you hang close to him whenever you’re beside him.

okay maybe like is a little stretching it, he doesn’t mind being able to tolerate it. or maybe he’s just in denial, whatever.

winter comes and it’s somehow the time when more girls try to talk to him, mainly because somehow the school decides to hold a winter event this year; it’s going to be held near the edge of the city, where the biggest skating rink is.

by his guess, most girls are looking for a guy to have a skating date with.

in the library during your usual meetup for the school project, sae gets more than a couple visitors trying to get him for that same reason. you eye everyone that approaches the table, and sae can’t help but notice how he actually likes when you’re pouty. maybe it’s his twisted thinking that jealousy means you’re still into him.

“itoshi-kun, i was thinking whether you wanted to go to the winter event together?” another girl from your class, mizuno, asks him, and sae is tired of it, frankly. but he doesn’t show it. he only looks at you, and you look back at him because he doesn’t usually stare for this long.

then, he looks at mizuno and rejects her.

“sorry, can’t, i’m going with y/n.”

(you get home that day being completely flustered and completely happy.)

on the day of the event, sae keeps his word. he goes with you, sticks beside you the entire time. his friends snap pictures of the two of you and you always look so embarrassed. maybe you’re just not used to all of this attention. but that’s fine, it’s cute.

one thing he learns about you is that you can be real clumsy sometimes. like now, when you get so excited over your watermelon slushie that you somehow spill it all over your jacket and clothes.

sae ends up giving you his puffy winter jacket while he braves the cold with whatever he has left. that’s fine, he’s strong. besides, getting to watch you wear his jacket the entire time feels like a bonus somehow.

he thinks by now you should confess already, but you don’t. you’re happy to stay in this bubble with him right now, whichever phase the two of you are at. so is he. it feels kind of nice.

feels especially nice when you hang onto him for dear life in the skating rink even though neither of you are moving. sae’s aware that people are staring holes into both of you but it’s strange how much he doesn’t mind when it’s with you. that’s why he holds his hands out, lets you take them, makes himself pull you along. he finds himself wishing neither of you were wearing gloves so he could feel how soft your hands are.

by the end of the day, everyone takes it that the both of you are together, even though the both of you are too avoidant to talk about it.

“hey, sae? thanks for today,” you say later that night when everything is done and you’d had the giddiest experience with sae. he’s walking you home and he doesn’t even know why; it’s a mystery to him why he keeps himself close whenever he can.

“it’s fine, i was the one who told people i was going with you, so.”

when he gets you to your front porch, you don’t go in immediately, standing right there with your back facing him, and sae wonders what’s going through your head. if only he could see the expression on your face right now, maybe he’d know.

you let him; because you turn around, giving him a big smile before you take a step forward and press a chaste kiss on his cheek, immediately turning on your heel and running into your house.

neither of you say bye, both of you are just a little too stunned to speak. sae stands out there in the cold for a little while longer, his face and ears red—he’s not even sure whether it’s from the weather or from you—but even when he starts to leave, you’re still slumped at your front door, covering your face in embarrassment, knees too weak to stand up.

there’s only one more quarter left until you graduate and sae and you both act like nothing happened that day. you still gossip unfiltered and he still listens but acts like he doesn’t.

except now instead of sitting across from you, he opts to sit directly beside you. sometimes sits a little too close just so your arms will brush against each other. sae also lets you keep his puffy jacket because you said you liked it.

you wear it throughout winter.

when graduation comes around and it’s time for sae to choose his university, he can’t help but take a peek at your screen. a smile comes to his face when he sees your first choice is the same as his. you’re smart too, he doesn’t doubt you’ll get in.

“itoshi sae, you can smile?”

sae immediately turns it into a frown. “guess not.”

you take your words back. “hey, i’m just kidding! it’s just rare… that’s all.”

so you notice him a lot then?

sure, you might not have seen him smile a lot. but that’s fine. from what sae knows, you have the entirety of your university years to possibly catch it.

UNIVERSITY: FRESHMAN YEAR

of course you enter the same university as itoshi sae. it’s not on purpose, but you’re glad you both made it here anyway.

at least knowing one friendly face is better than none.

to be honest, you’re not really sure where you and sae stand. he’s never said anything about that kiss, but he also doesn’t stay away from you. can you take that as a positive thing?

if anything, he’s even closer.

somehow, his dorms and yours are practically next door. when you open your bathroom window, you can look right into his. it happened once, by accident, and you’d caught him, shirtless with just a white towel hanging around his neck, hair damp as he brushes his teeth, the droplets of water on his abs looking very inviting.

but then he caught you staring and you’ve shut your bathroom window ever since. thankfully, he never mentions it.

being in university and staying in campus meant that you were both hanging out much more informally. and you’d think that two people at the age of nineteen who’d known each other for three years would be less awkward than this but it’s you and sae and somehow there’s always an element of awkwardness.

it’s halfway into your freshman year and you’d just watched the first match that sae’s playing for the university team. you’re a little starstruck, honestly. to think that the guy you’ve always had a crush on is this good at soccer.

he’s amazing. you’re feeling like a potato sack.

“hey, you know him right?” hime gushes.

your friends are with you, so it’s natural they ask.

mira on your left sighs, “guess we have no shot with him since he’s with y/n all the time,” she says, nudging you in the elbow.

you’re starting to regret bringing them here with all the teasing. you’re also regretting coming here yourself because you see several girls running to him asking for a picture together. some of which you recognise, some of which are the popular girls.

sae doesn’t stop them from snapping what they can, but he also doesn’t stop for them at all. instead, he saunters over to you, hime and mira wordlessly disappearing to the side.

“gimme that,” sae says, gesturing to the phone in your hand. you obey, of course, and he smirks, then he snaps a selfie with you before tossing your phone back and walking off.

the pairs of eyes on you make you half-embarrassed yet half-proud. even with this many fangirls, sae chooses to come to you.

that night sae asks you to send him the picture.

yeah, maybe you can take that as a positive thing.

freshman year after that is generally uneventful. you and sae are both trying to find your footing, with him preoccupied mostly with soccer trainings while you’re drowning in assignments and projects that have nothing to do with him.

but you still see him in the mornings sometimes, when you walk past your common room and he’s in his, and you wave at him when he’s alone so you’re not so shy, and he nods in acknowledgement before he just walks away.

one night while you’re burning the midnight oil trying to cram some accounting knowledge into your brain, you get a text from sae.

wanna get supper?

both of you end up at one of the supper spots outside of school, a little cosy shop that sells boba and ramen even after midnight.

“why’d you wanna get supper?”

sae shrugs, taking a sip of his plain water. “just bored, couldn’t sleep.”

“isn’t this soccer season? you can’t even eat anything in here, it’s definitely not passable for your diet.”

he sighs, leaning back against his chair. “so? quit whining and start eating your shit already.”

if it was some other guy you’d be rolling your eyes and storming off. but it’s sae and you know him and he thinks he’s talking normally like this. besides, when you catch his eyes flicker up to lock with yours you get a little dizzy inside.

“what’re you up so late for anyway?”

sae’s fingers are drumming lightly against the surface of the metal table, teal eyes diligently observing as you bring the strands of noodle to your lips. “told you, i couldn’t sleep.”

you find that strange; he’s always been able to sleep, no problem. and he’s strict about his eight hour sleep schedule. what could be getting to the great itoshi sae?

(sae’s lying through his teeth; having his bedroom right across from yours means he can see when your lights aren’t out. sue him for being a little concerned.)

“so, heard you and the team are going on a soccer trip somewhere in europe,” you bring up. you’d heard it from your friends, strangely, instead of sae himself.

he nods. “yeah, just a select few,” he tells you, “only if we win the tournament though, then the team’ll officially invite us over.”

so-called team you heard about is real madrid, and you’d be crazy to think that sae couldn’t help your university team win on his own.

“guess i won’t be seeing you around when you go,” you mumble idly, not completely aware of what you’re basically saying.

sae is adept at reading in between the lines, but he doesn’t probe you on it. he’s not sure he wants to. he doesn’t know what this is. do you still like him? does he like you too? all these feelings are new; sae doesn’t know what to do with it.

so he keeps it to himself. for now.

he doesn’t really do a good job at following through with it though, because on the day of the tournament finals, he looks at you and winks right as he orchestrates that winning goal for his team, and you’re left wondering if you’re imagining things.

UNIVERSITY: SOPHOMORE YEAR

the final part of your freshman year went and gone, and it didn’t go exactly how you imagined it to be. you didn’t expect to hear from sae at all when he went on his trip after that tournament.

but you did.

he replied you whenever he had the time. told you anything you asked for. even called you when you had a mini meltdown because of finals.

to be frank, you don’t know what the both of you are anymore. you’re cursing yourself for being too scared to ask.

“hey y/n, have you seen hime anywhere?”

it’s oliver asking, captain of the university’s soccer team and also hime’s current situationship. he’d started hitting her up since that first time sae played and brought attention to you and the people around you.

“yeah, she’s by the pool with mira.”

oliver leaves as soon as you tell him, and you stand awkwardly at the corner of the living room, by the full panel of glass windows, wondering if you should just go home. you’d only came because hime and mira both said you needed to experience a party at least once this year but now you’re surrounded by people making out and drunkards slipping into the pool that it makes you regret giving this a shot at all.

especially since sae’s not going to be back till tomorrow, garnering as much interest as he did during his time in spain. you really have no reason to be here.

“hey there, pretty.”

startled, you find a familiar face up close in your personal space, his finger twirling your hair. you’d recognise that head of blonde and pink anywhere.

“oh, you’re ryusei shido right? you’re on the soccer team with sae,” you think out loud, and he nods, and you can see his blonde lashes so closely it’s making you flustered.

“mhm, fwhat’s a pretty girl like you doing all alone in a corner? seems like a shame,” he comments, though he doesn’t even give you a chance to answer. the next thing you know, shido drags you into a drinking game with hime and mira (which is why your first instinct wasn’t to run off, if you could trust anyone it’s your best friends). although, shido is getting annoyingly close and you can’t decide if you’re nervous or annoyed.

and the heavens surely love you when they let shido draw the card that corresponds to a dare, and they love testing your boundaries when some guy called otoya dares him to kiss you.

but no, you know that the heavens really do love you when someone yanks shido’s hair back and pulls him away from your face, taking his spot in between the both of you in the bid for proximity that you don’t mind because it’s itoshi sae.

“sae, what’re you doing here? i thought you wouldn’t be back till tomorrow,” you ask, a little shell-shocked but you still notice he’s discerning frown and how there’s barely any space between the two of you.

he looks at you, tilting his head, “what? my girl’s not happy to see me here?”

you don’t respond. half because you think you’re dreaming and fuck—really, did he just call you his girl?

“eh? i don’t recall you having a girlfriend?” shido leers, a hand on the spot of his head where sae had pulled on earlier.

“yeah, besides, shido still has to do the dare.” otoya sounds bored more than anything, but the guy beside him, karasu, if you remember correctly, is smirking.

sae sighs, and you feel like you must’ve crossed the boundary to another dimension when you feel sae’s lips on yours, and you think you’re in limbo when you feel his hand on your neck, pulling you close. his tongue pries your lips apart and people are whistling while shido’s behind him saying get a fucking room or i’ll beat off to this.

when the object of your affection finally pulls away, you’re met with the same pair of unbothered teal eyes, the pair that immediately turns to face otoya. “there, did it for him. now move on.”

you’re beginning to thank alcohol for its existence when almost everyone obeys wordlessly, moving on to some other guy’s turn. you really can’t remember who sits on shido’s right when all you can think of is that itoshi sae, your longtime high school crush, actually kissed you.

that’s enough to warrant the question, right? the question of what sae takes you for?

the inner debate sparks long into the night, even when sae walks you back to your apartment, the both of you side by side in silence.

“sae, what was that?”

he plays coy. “what was what?”

you’re only a little tipsy, so you can still tolerate his avoidance. “you confuse me a lot, you know that?”

sae doesn’t take the bait. “oh, i see.”

“you were jealous.” he was. he really was. you can tell; he was sour to shido the entire night. he stuck close to you too, sometimes your fingers brushed against each other’s.

“so what if i was?”

this one is new. sae’s actually admitting it. and usually you’d chicken out but you can see your apartment coming into view and you don’t want to let this go.

“what am i to you, sae?” you manage to choke it out a few feet away from the door, and sae stops in his tracks, hands in his pocket and teal eyes looking heavenward.

you’re beginning to regret your decision to ask; you’re not sure if his indecision is a good or bad thing. nothing seems to be simple when it comes to itoshi sae.

but he does nothing to appease your confusion when he steps in front of you, his body pressed flush against yours as he presses another kiss to your lips, and you think this one is special because it’s not done in the name of a dare or in front of anyone else. this kiss is for you and you alone and sae is doing this on purpose.

when he pulls back, you see him furrow his brows and you can tell that maybe he’s just as confused as you are.

“when i managed to get an earlier slot for my flight, all i could think about was how excited i was to see you.”

is this… a confession? you’re even more confused now that you don’t even know what to say.

to be honest, so is sae, which is why he swallows the lump in his throat and relegates to his apartment, “goodnight.”

things after that change just a little.

you’d decided to go with the flow, just because you really don’t want to sabotage whatever friendship you and sae had left, although most of the time, sae is the one toeing the line. even though he doesn’t outright tell you anything regarding his feelings.

but you think you figured him out.

sae asks you out whenever you’re both free, and not for shit like studying or errands, but for movies and dinner and he drives you around in his car and looks at you like you’re the only girl he sees. his eyes don’t wander when he’s with you, and he lets you wear even more of his jackets. it’s also evolved to his jerseys and his beloved windbreakers. you have one of each in your own closet and he never seems to ask for them back anymore. he also lets you wear his rings, puts them on your fingers randomly.

both of you still go for parties, especially when it’s one of the soccer guys who are throwing it, because they practically force sae to go and they know you’re the key to convincing him.

most of the time the two of you just laze on the couch, drinking and talking about nothing at all, and he idly plays with your fingers when he’s tipsy, something you never tell him because you like it, because you don’t want him to feel self-conscious and stop. he also smells your hair after he sends you home and hugs you before he retreats to his place, and you wonder if he’s fully sober when he does that.

you resign to getting your answer some other time, because you don’t want anything to ruin this, if this is just an illusion. yeah, you’d talking feelings some other time.

UNIVERSITY: JUNIOR YEAR

you really had no right to be, but you are. try as you might, you can’t stop yourself from feeling the way you do. especially not when she’s sitting so so close to him, when her hand brushes his fingers.

she’s just his project partner, nothing more, but something irks you about the way she can get so close to him so quickly when it took you much longer. but then you hear from shido that kaori is rin and sae’s childhood friend, so maybe that’s why they’re so damn close.

apparently, she’d gotten back to japan after ten years abroad. with great timing too, right when you thought you and sae could amount to something.

“you know, i could help you make him jealous if you wanna,” shido whispers in your ear one time when he catches you staring at them. “we’ll make him feel how you feel, m’kay?”

and while that’s tempting, you shake your head. it’s unreasonable for you to take it out on him that way, not when he hasn’t actually done anything that proves he’s just leading you on.

lately sae’s been so busy around kaori that you’re just thinking too much. you’re wondering if he’s slowly replacing you. he still talks to you over text, but you barely hang out like you did before. you still spot him through the windows, but he’s always too tired to notice you. even his texts are getting slower.

“hey, you okay?”

trust it to hime to notice your personal dilemma. you’re not really surprised though, because she’s been watching you moping for the last few weeks. she now has oliver wrapped fully around her finger, with him sticking around her all the time, which is a surprise considering his reputation.

but hime will take your side, you know this, and maybe that’s why you play it off. you don’t want her to hate sae because of a momentary feeling, so you tell her you’re just sick and you’ll go back home.

the moment you get back to your apartment, you see sae waiting out on the front, car ready while he leans against the hood, waiting.

and you might’ve asked if he was waiting for kaori, but then he looks up and sees you and smirks and that’s all you need to know that he’s not. he was waiting for you, and now he’s opening the passenger side door and telling you to “get in, stupid.”

that’s how sae is with you, impromptu and surprisingly sweet. he drives you to the pier, a cute spot right next to an amusement park where he’d gotten you some candy floss before the both of you just sits on the hood of his car, enjoying the scenery.

“why’d you suddenly bring me here?”

sae lies down, the sun hitting his face in all the right places. he’s gorgeous, you realise for what seems like the thousandth time since you’d known him.

“oliver told me you’d been a little mopey lately,” sae says, and you’re already embarrassed. “sorry if i’ve been busy lately.”

you mirror his position, lying down next to him, and it feels oddly nice like this. you’re not sure if it’s the situation or the person.

“it’s okay, i heard that kaori’s your old friend right? you guys must have a lot to catch up on.” it doesn’t stop you from feeling jealous, but it’ll pass. you hope.

sae chuckles before he turns to you, and you turn to face him too, “you’re jealous.” he smirks, and you’re reminded of the same thing you told him that first night he kissed you.

“shut up, sae.”

he laughs because you’re being pouty, and because maybe it feels a little nice to know you can feel it too. just then, he mirrors what you did way back in high school, reaching across you for your phone. except he doesn’t key in anything—he opens up your camera and takes a picture of the two of you like this, sae looking naturally handsome and better than you because you’re stunned he’s doing this, eyes wide and expression puzzled.

“what’s that for?”

sae’s still fiddling on your phone as you ask, and then he passes it back to you. he’d set it as your phone’s wallpaper.

“to remind you that you’re the one i like, idiot.”

and even though you and sae aren’t physically too close in the wallpaper, you think maybe it’s enough to tide your feelings through for now. he doesn’t ask you for anything else after that, just leaves his confession at that and sends you home before saying he has to finish up his project, aka going to find kaori.

it’s fine by you though, because now you know where sae’s head’s at, even though he never explicitly asked you anything. you’re sure he knows how you feel too, especially since you’d been the one to kiss him first that day a few years back.

but how apt for you to go to sleep early and be woken up by dozens of messages blowing up your phone, the majority of them attaching pictures at a certain party.

still pictures of sae locking lips with kaori, and you feel your heart sinking.

sae’s message comes through just as you’re scrolling through your phone.

meet me at my place? not what it looks like, i promise.

and maybe it’s because you feel like you know sae well enough that you’re not even panicking. you respond within seconds.

sure, see you!

you take the liberty of going next door, entering when one of the other guys who lives there clumsily walks in drunk. it’s easy enough to find sae’s room, you recognise it from across your own room too well. and maybe it’s a slight invasion of privacy but you can’t help but turn your attention to his desk.

his room is all neat with the occasional laundry thrown on the corner of the room, trophies and medals on the bookshelf by the table. but what catches your eye is the little pink heart-shaped post-it note that looks all too familiar.

your handwriting fills the piece of paper.

i think you’re cute and i really really like you

you could cringe right now from how cringe you were being back then. but then you realise, sae kept this? did he keep this knowing it was from you? you hear the door opening downstairs and jump back a little, accidentally pressing on his keyboard while trying to place your note back in its position, and the screensaver that greets you renders you speechless.

it’s the picture sae took of the both of you at the bleachers of his first match.

someone closes the laptop before you can think any more, and you’re greeted with sae right next to you, cheeks flushed—either from alcohol or embarrassment. you can’t really tell, but judging from the lack of alcohol stench, you’d like to bet it’s the latter.

“you have me as your wallpaper?”

sae clicks his tongue, annoyed he didn’t get there in time for you not to see that. “who else would i put there?”

you bite your tongue to stop yourself from instinctively saying kaori out of spite. guess you’re still a little groggy from being woken up in the middle of the night.

“about earlier,” sae begins, not really sure how to continue.

“you mean the pics going around of you and kaori kissing?” you’re not even mad, you’re sure there’s an explanation—that’s how much you feel you know itoshi sae. he’s not the type to bother with leading someone on; if anything, he’s probably the type to immediately cut things off if he wasn’t interested and so far, he’s always been thinking of you.

sae sighs, rubbing his temple before taking a seat on his bed. “that was fucking stupid,” he grumbles, eyes closed. “she was way too tipsy and getting all up in my face and before i knew it she just—” his eyes are open now, briefly looking at you before looking away, hiding behind the sides of his soft locks, “she kissed me. i was stunned for a little so…”

you snicker a little, because sae looks so different from how he usually looks—aloof, ignorant, arrogant. now he looks like a puppy who’s been kicked to the side and you can’t help but notice the difference.

“sae… why are you telling me this?”

screw his indecisiveness, if it was in the first place. you want his answer now, up straight. and sae seems to know what you’re thinking because he chuckles, relieved because he can read your tone—you’re not angry, not upset, you trust him somehow and it’s only because despite what you think, you know him better than anyone else.

“fuck off, y/n, you already know,” and he says this affectionately because you can feel the tenderness in the way he says your name, in the way he invites you into his arms—the way he pulls you close and lets you sit facing him on his lap. “you gonna be my girlfriend now or what?”

your lips are so so close and you’re both holding back so so much. “mmm i don’t know, itoshi sae, what if i wanna see you beg me for it?”

“god, i hate you,” he says, without meaning it. it’s the first time you’re actually feeling how strong he is, because he lifts you up from the back of your thighs and throws you on his bed as he hovers over you, a little squeal leaving your lips at the unexpected gesture. “hm, kinda like that sound you make.”

he’s saying it so monotonously that you’re embarrassed. “shut up, sae, before i leave.”

“that’s cute, you think you’d actually leave me,” he teases, and you curse yourself for finding that slight condescending tone of his hot. “but hey, really, be my girlfriend.”

“you asking me that after kissing another girl?” you act shocked, acutely aware of how his fingers are all intertwining with yours, your hands on either side of your head, sae pinning you down. if anyone walked in now, they’d get the wrong idea of what you two are doing. for sure. but you try to act unbothered, you don’t want to boost his ego even more.

sae leans down to press his forehead against yours, and you’re hoping your heart doesn’t leap out of your chest because he’d definitely feel it. “shit timing, i know. but you’re the only one i want, so.”

he’s pretty shit at talking emotions, you realise. and then you realise that this only works because you’re equally good at reading his. despite his reluctance to talk emotions, he shows you how special you are, constantly.

many girls want him, but you’re the one he spends most of his time with. you’re the one with his actual clothes in your closet and his rings on your fingers. you’re the one sae kisses and willingly so, the only one who’s on his wallpaper reminding him of what he’ll have each time he comes home.

“i told kaori i liked you and no one else too,” sae continues explaining, though he really doesn’t need to. you listen anyway. “she got mad and stormed off but shit, i don’t care. only care about you.”

and he’s pretty forthcoming with his feelings when he wants to be and that’s enough for you. you squeeze his fingers lightly and smile at him.

you don’t have to hear any more to know.

“i love you too, itoshi sae.”

the way he marks you that night lets you in on everything you need to know.

UNIVERSITY: SENIOR YEAR

six years.

it’s been six years since you’d first had a crush on itoshi sae. and now you’re his girlfriend, always in the front row for every match and the object of most of his fangirls’ hatred. that’s okay though, none of that matters.

whenever you come back home to your (shared) apartment now, it’s like all your worries melt away into the void, and sae reminds you just how much you mean. even if his pet names are less than swoon-worthy at times.

“you really need to stop posting shit like this,” you deadpan, showing sae your phone screen. it’s a picture of you asleep in the morning, drooling on his bare shoulder.

sae blinks, acting coy like he always does. “what? it’s cute.”

“you’re insufferable, itoshi.”

sae ignores that, switching the subject. “hey, you have any goals for your twenties?”

you hum, pondering. “well, i guess if i could do what i want, i’d travel the world,” you pause, sitting up on the sofa and looking at him. “why?”

it’s the last year of university, and the both of you are finishing your degrees, with the possibility that sae might be getting a contract with one of the overseas clubs. you’re not really sure; there’s a few of them who’ve expressed interest, but you’d always let sae think through it on his own.

does his question have something to do with that?

“was thinking i wanted to take you along if you wanted to come with,” sae half explains, because he’s bad with details like that. he continues when he spots your confusion, “if you wanted to explore wherever i decided to go.”

oh, he means he wants to take you along to wherever he decided to go. you’re flattered, honestly.

“you mean, the itoshi sae wants to bring me wherever he goes, huh?” sae is already turning red, sensing your big head. “you offering to be my sugar daddy too?”

sae sighs. “you’re so stupid, i swear,” he complains, his words lacking any bite because he’s rubbing circles onto your arms. “you said you found some remote jobs right? thought we could make use of that and just go wherever together.”

after six years, you finally see sae trying to plan a future where the both of you are together. he loves soccer, but he loves you too, and you’re not the kind of person who’d make him choose, so you appreciate his compromises instead.

“itoshi sae, i’ll follow you wherever you go.”

he presses a hasty kiss on your lips, “good, ‘cause i plan on keeping you forever.”

you grin, pulling him down to you and kissing him even deeper, “i’ll hold you to your words, then.”

sae smiles against your lips. because he knows he got lucky with you, lucky you were there at the right moment, slipping your love letter into his locker. lucky you continued to like him, lucky you knew how to put him in his place whenever. lucky you’re you and you love him.

maybe he’s always liked you, even back in freshman year of high school when he realised how kind you are, how gentle you could be. you looked pretty in the sun that day, when he first saw you trying out soccer in the yard and falling flat on your ass. you didn’t notice him back then but he noticed you, not that you knew. sae didn’t try anything because he was sure it’d fail. but who knew all it took for his mind to change was a simple nudge from you?

he’s pretty sure that you’re his human manifestation of a forever.

“when the time comes, just say yes.”

[vanshoe]

so cute we crode

[sixeyesonathiel]

your highness has no idea

pairing — childhood bsf satoru x fem reader

synopsis : gojo satoru has always been a little ridiculous when it comes to you. that’s what happens when you grow up with someone who once wrote “i wanna be a princess when i grow up” in the second grade yearbook and never quite stopped deserving the crown. twenty years later, he’s still finding new ways to treat you like royalty—carrying your bags, buying you candy, pretending it’s all just friendly devotion. but the truth is, satoru’s been yours longer than he’s willing to admit… and it’s starting to get a little too hard to hide.

tags -> slice of life-ish, mutual pining, childhood friends to lovers, misunderstanding but it’s soft and stupid, first kiss, white rose symbolism, fluff, YEARNER SATORU, oblivious idiots in love, princess treatment, satoru-centric, lighthearted with feelings, emotional constipation, love confessions, happy ending, art not mine—will credit as soon as i find source!

wc — 10.3k | gen. masterlist | read on ao3?

a/n: this was supposed to be a short, silly fic about satoru being down bad and giving you princess treatment because of something you wrote in a second grade yearbook. but then i blacked out and woke up 10.3k words later, emotionally compromised and surrounded by strawberry candy wrappers. so yeah. i hope you enjoy this soft, dumb, painfully slow-burning love story between two idiots who’ve clearly been married since they were seven. as always, reblogs and comments are deeply appreciated and returned with a consensual kiss on the forehead 😽🌹

satoru's brain operates on a frequency that should probably concern medical professionals. right now, that frequency is completely hijacked by the sight of you sprawled across his couch, ankles crossed, unwrapping a piece of strawberry candy with the kind of focused concentration most people reserve for defusing bombs. you hum something tuneless under your breath, fingers working the wrapper with methodical precision, and he thinks this might be how people spontaneously combust.

the thing is, he's been in love with you since the second grade, which makes him both devoted and completely unhinged. it started with a yearbook—those flimsy little books where seven-year-olds write their life plans in crayon. you'd written “i wanna be a princess when i grow up” in that careful, looping handwriting, tongue poking out in concentration like it always does when you're thinking hard. when you asked what he wanted to be, he'd scribbled “astronaut” because it was the only job he could think of that might get him to the moon fast enough to bring you back a rock that sparkled like the tiaras in your disney movies.

twenty years later, he's still trying to make good on that promise, just in different ways.

“satoru, you're staring,” you say without looking up from your candy wrapper, voice carrying that familiar note of fond exasperation. your lips curve into the smallest smile as you speak, and his pulse does something acrobatic against his ribs.

“i'm appreciating,” he corrects, settling into the opposite end of the couch with deliberately casual movements. his hair catches the afternoon light streaming through the window—those impossible pale strands that seem to drink in sunlight and reflect it back like spun moonbeams, never quite behaving despite his half-hearted attempts to tame them each morning. the light makes them appear almost translucent at the edges, ethereal in a way that's always made strangers do double-takes on the street. “there's a difference.”

you finally look at him properly, lifting your gaze from the candy wrapper, and he gets to see the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you're trying not to smile. it's the same expression you've had since childhood—that particular combination of amusement and affection that you've never quite learned to hide. the sight of it makes his chest feel too small for his heart, like someone's trying to stuff an ocean into a teacup. “appreciating what, exactly?”

“your dedication to proper candy unwrapping technique.” he gestures toward your hands with exaggerated seriousness, watching the way you smooth out each wrinkle with your fingertips. “very thorough. very princess-like.”

there it is—that little snort-laugh that means he's being ridiculous but you're charmed anyway. your head tilts back slightly with the sound, exposing the graceful line of your throat, and you ball up the wrapper with unnecessary force before throwing it at his face. he catches it with reflexes that are definitely overkill for crumpled plastic, his hand moving faster than thought, fingers closing around the small projectile before it can make contact. “you're so weird.”

weird doesn't begin to cover it. he's the kind of weird that keeps mental notes about how you like your coffee (too much sugar, splash of vanilla creamer, stirred exactly twelve times counterclockwise), the way you scrunch your nose when you're thinking hard about something, how you always steal his hoodies but pretend it's accidental even though you've been doing it for fifteen years. the kind of weird that's been carrying a torch so long he's surprised it hasn't burned his hands off.

“weird in a charming way though, right?” he asks, leaning forward slightly. his eyes—those unsettling ice-chip irises that seem to shift between arctic blue and pale silver depending on his mood—fix on your face with an intensity that would probably make anyone else uncomfortable. but you've been looking into those eyes for two decades, watching them go from bright and mischievous in childhood to something deeper, more complex now. something that holds secrets he's never quite brave enough to voice.

“weird in a… uniquely satoru way,” you concede, and the fondness in your voice makes his stomach flip. you've moved on to the next candy, and he watches the precise way you smooth out the wrapper again, fold it into a tiny perfect square like you're performing surgery. these are the moments that undo him completely—not the big gestures or dramatic declarations, just you existing in his space like you belong there. like maybe you always have.

his phone buzzes against the coffee table, vibrating insistently, but he ignores it. nothing's more important than this: you humming off-key under your breath, the late afternoon sun painting everything golden and soft, the way you've unconsciously tucked your feet under his thigh for warmth. your toes wiggle slightly against his leg, and he has to concentrate on not shivering at the casual contact. domestic bliss wrapped up in strawberry candy and the scent of your shampoo—something floral and sweet that he's never been able to identify but would recognize anywhere.

“remember when we used to do this in elementary school?” you ask suddenly, holding up the neatly folded wrapper between your thumb and forefinger. the paper catches the light, creating tiny rainbows at the creases. “you'd always try to make yours into origami cranes.”

“key word being ‘try,’” he says, but he's smiling at the memory, the corners of his mouth lifting despite himself. his hair falls across his forehead as he tilts his head, those pale strands shifting like seafoam. you sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor, patient as anything while he struggled with paper folds, your small hands guiding his through the steps over and over again. telling him it was okay that his cranes looked more like abstract art, that they were beautiful in their own way. you'd been doing that his whole life—making his failures feel like victories just by witnessing them with that soft, encouraging smile.

“i still have some of them,” you admit, ducking your head slightly as if embarrassed by the confession. your fingers twist the new wrapper, creating small accordion folds. “in my apartment.”

his heart does something complicated against his ribs, a stuttering rhythm that makes him wonder if cardiac episodes can be triggered by pure affection. “the terrible cranes?”

“the terrible cranes.” you pop the candy into your mouth, and he tracks the movement without meaning to, watches the way your lips close around the sweet treat, the slight movement of your throat as you swallow. when you catch him staring, a faint blush creeps up your neck. “they're in my memory box with all the other important stuff.”

important stuff. he files that away with all the other small revelations you drop without realizing their weight, adds it to the mental catalog he's been building for years. you keep his terrible origami. you think their childhood memories are important enough to preserve in a special box. you're sitting in his living room like it's yours too, feet tucked against his leg like the contact is natural, necessary even.

“what else is in there?” he asks, genuinely curious but also desperate to keep you talking, to hear more about the pieces of your shared history you've deemed worth saving.

you consider this, working the candy around in your mouth thoughtfully. “lots of things. movie ticket stubs from our first pg-13 movie—remember how we snuck into that theater in eighth grade? your mom's chocolate chip cookie recipe that you wrote out for me in high school because i wanted to learn how to bake. that polaroid from senior prom where you're making bunny ears behind my head.”

each item hits him like a small revelation. he remembers all of it—remembers the way you'd grabbed his hand in the dark theater during the scary parts, how you'd insisted on writing out the recipe even though you'd never shown any interest in baking before, the way you'd laughed so hard at his bunny ears that you'd snorted and immediately turned red with embarrassment.

“you kept the recipe?” his voice comes out softer than intended, almost wondering.

“of course i kept the recipe. your handwriting was so bad i could barely read it, but i kept it anyway.” you grin at him, that bright, uninhibited smile that makes his chest feel too tight. “still can't make cookies worth a damn, but i have the recipe.”

“i could teach you,” he offers without thinking, then immediately wants to take it back because it sounds too much like a date, too much like something more than friends would do together.

but you just nod enthusiastically, bouncing slightly on the couch. “yes! we should definitely do that. i've been wanting to learn forever, but every time i try on my own they come out like hockey pucks.”

the casual way you accept his offer, like spending an afternoon in the kitchen together is the most natural thing in the world, makes his pulse skip. he can already picture it—you in his kitchen, flour in your hair, probably getting more ingredients on yourself than in the bowl. him standing behind you, hands covering yours as he shows you how to fold in the chocolate chips, trying not to think about how perfectly you'd fit against his chest.

“satoru?” you're looking at him with that slightly concerned expression that means he's been quiet too long, lost in his own head again. your brow furrows in that particular way it does when you're trying to read his mood. “you okay?”

“yeah,” he says, and his voice comes out rougher than intended, scratchy around the edges. he clears his throat, runs a hand through his hair in a gesture that's become automatic over the years. “just thinking.”

“dangerous,” you tease, but there's something softer in your eyes now, something that makes him wonder if you can see right through him. if maybe you've always been able to see through him, and he's been the only one pretending otherwise.

the afternoon stretches out, lazy and warm, filled with the comfortable silence of two people who've known each other long enough that conversation isn't always necessary. you've finished your candy and are now absently braiding the hem of your shirt, fingers working the fabric with the same methodical precision you'd used on the wrapper. he thinks about how easy it would be to just say it. to tell you that he's been yours since before he knew what that meant, that every day feels like borrowed time because surely someone this good, this bright, this perfectly imperfect can't actually want to spend her free time with someone like him.

instead, he reaches for the tv remote and pretends his hands aren't shaking. pretends he doesn't notice the way you watch him move, doesn't see the little frown that crosses your face when he turns away from you to focus on the screen.

the opening credits of some mindless sitcom fill the silence, but he's not really watching. he's thinking about memory boxes and terrible origami cranes and the way you said “important stuff” like it meant something. like maybe he means something.

like maybe twenty years of almosts might finally be leading somewhere.

the farmer's market on saturday morning is your idea, which means satoru trails behind you like a devoted shadow, carrying your reusable bags and pretending he's not cataloguing every smile you give to the vendors. you're wearing that sundress he likes—the one with tiny cherries printed on cream-colored fabric that makes your skin look like it's been kissed by sunlight—and he's having what can only be described as a religious experience watching you examine peaches with scientific precision.

the dress hits just above your knees, swaying gently as you move from stall to stall, and he has to actively work to keep his eyes from following the movement. the morning sun catches in your hair, highlighting strands he's never noticed before, and when you lean over to smell a particularly promising piece of fruit, he has to look away before he does something stupid like stare at the graceful curve of your neck.

“these are perfect,” you announce, holding up a peach that's blushed pink and gold, soft to the touch but not too yielding. your fingers cradle it carefully, thumb brushing over the fuzzy skin with reverence. “smell.”

you thrust the peach toward his face with the enthusiasm of someone who's discovered buried treasure, and he dutifully inhales, though mostly what he's registering is your proximity and the way your hair smells like vanilla and something uniquely you. something he's never been able to identify but would recognize in a crowded room. “smells good,” he manages, and you beam like he's just solved world hunger.

your whole face lights up with the compliment, eyes crinkling at the corners, and he thinks distantly that he'd probably agree with anything you said if it meant seeing that expression again. you could tell him the peach smelled like old socks and he'd nod along just to keep you smiling.

“right? we're definitely making cobbler this week.” you're already moving toward the vendor, pulling crumpled bills from the small purse slung across your body, but the words stop him cold.

we. the casual assumption that he'll be there, that his kitchen is your kitchen, that making cobbler together is just what you do. his chest goes tight with affection so intense it borders on medical emergency. you don't even question whether he'll want to spend his sunday afternoon elbow-deep in flour and fruit—you just assume, with the easy confidence of someone who's never had to doubt their welcome in his space.

“whatever you want, your highness,” he says, the pet name slipping out before he can stop it. it's been happening more frequently lately, that old childhood nickname finding its way into casual conversation. you've been ‘your highness’ in his head for so long that sometimes it escapes into real conversation, and every time it does, you get this look—half amused, half something else he can't quite read but desperately wants to understand.

“you and that nickname,” you mutter, but you're smiling as you hand the vendor your money, counting out bills with careful precision. your cheeks are slightly pink, though whether from the compliment or the morning sun, he can't tell. “i swear you're never gonna let me grow up.”

if only you knew. he's acutely aware of how grown up you are, how you've traded pigtails for soft waves that catch the light and crayon drawings for the kind of smile that could probably power a small city. he's noticed every single change, catalogued every new freckle and laugh line, the way your voice has gotten slightly deeper, more melodious. somehow he's fallen deeper with each transformation, like he's been in love with every version of you that's ever existed.

“excuse me,” the peach vendor says as she hands you your change, coins clinking softly in your palm, “you two are just the cutest couple. how long have you been together?”

satoru's brain short-circuits so completely he's surprised smoke doesn't start pouring from his ears. his mouth opens and closes without sound, and he can feel heat creeping up his neck, probably turning his face an unflattering shade of red. you laugh—that bright, surprised sound that makes his stomach flip—and shake your head quickly, hands fluttering in denial.

“oh, we're not—we're just friends,” you say, but there's something in your voice, a slight hesitation before the word ‘friends’ that makes his pulse stutter.

just friends. the words hit him somewhere behind his sternum, not quite pain but not quite relief either. the vendor looks embarrassed, starts apologizing profusely, but you wave her off with easy grace while satoru stands there wondering if his internal combustion is visible from the outside. his hands tighten on the straps of your bags, knuckles probably white with the effort of appearing normal.

“happens all the time,” you tell him as you walk away, weaving between other shoppers with practiced ease, and there's something in your voice he can't identify. something almost… wistful? “people always think we're dating.”

“yeah,” he says, aiming for casual and landing somewhere in the vicinity of strained. his throat feels tight, words coming out rougher than intended. “weird, right?”

you glance at him sideways, and for a second he thinks you might say something else. your lips part slightly, like you're considering it, but then you just shrug and move toward the flower stand, leaving him to follow and contemplate the particular torture of being mistaken for your boyfriend by strangers when he'd give anything for it to be true.

the flower stand is a riot of color and fragrance, buckets of blooms arranged in careful rows. the vendor is a tiny elderly woman with silver hair pinned back in a neat bun, and she takes one look at them approaching and immediately starts gushing about her roses, hands gesturing enthusiastically toward a display of pink blooms that smell like summer and promises.

“for your girlfriend?” she asks satoru with a conspiratorial wink, gesturing to the roses with the confidence of someone who's been in the matchmaking business for decades.

“just friends,” you say again, quicker this time, the words tumbling out before satoru can even process the question. he tries not to read too much into the way your smile falters slightly, the way your shoulders tense almost imperceptibly.

but the woman is persistent, pressing a single white rose into his palm with another wink that suggests she knows something they don't. the flower is perfect—petals like silk, stem thornless and smooth. “sometimes the best love stories start with friendship, young man. trust me, i've been selling flowers for forty years. i know these things.”

satoru stares down at the rose, its petals soft as silk between his fingers and impossibly white, like fresh snow or clean linen or every perfect thing he's ever tried to find words for. when he looks up, you're already walking toward the next stall, shoulders tense in a way that makes him want to chase after you and demand to know what you're thinking. what you're feeling. whether the flower vendor's words affected you the same way they affected him.

instead, he pays for the rose without arguing about the price, tucking it carefully into one of the bags where it won't get crushed, and follows because that's what he's always done. followed you, waited for you, hoped that someday you'd turn around and see him the way he sees you.

the way he's always seen you.

“satoru, come on,” you call over your shoulder, already three stalls ahead, and he realizes he's been standing there longer than he thought, lost in his own head again. you're holding up a small jar of honey, sunlight catching the golden liquid inside. “they have lavender honey. remember how much you liked it at that restaurant last month?”

you remember. of course you remember. you remember every small preference, every casual comment, every little thing that most people would forget within minutes. it's one of the things he loves most about you—the way you pay attention, the way you care enough to file away the smallest details about the people you love.

he jogs to catch up, bags bouncing against his side, and finds you already chatting with the honey vendor about different varieties and flavor profiles. you're animated when you talk about food, hands gesturing as you describe the restaurant where he'd first tried lavender honey, and he finds himself falling in love with you all over again just watching you exist in the world.

“we'll take two jars,” you're saying, already reaching for your wallet, but he stops you with a gentle hand on your wrist.

“i've got it,” he says, pulling out his own money before you can protest. your skin is warm under his fingers, and he has to resist the urge to let his thumb trace across your pulse point.

“you don't have to—”

“i want to.” and he does. wants to buy you honey and flowers and anything else that makes you smile like that. wants to be the reason for that soft, pleased expression that's currently gracing your features.

you let him pay, but not without rolling your eyes in fond exasperation. “you spoil me.”

“good,” he says simply, accepting the jars from the vendor and tucking them carefully into the bag with the rose. “you deserve to be spoiled.”

the words slip out before he can stop them, too honest, too revealing, and he watches your expression shift into something he can't quite read. you duck your head, hair falling forward to hide your face, but not before he catches the faint blush creeping across your cheeks.

“come on, your royal highness,” you say, bumping his shoulder with yours, and the casual contact makes his heart stutter. “let's go home and make that cobbler.”

home. you said home, not his place or his apartment, but home. like it's yours too. like maybe it always has been.

maybe it always has been.

back at his apartment, you're quiet in a way that sets his nerves on edge. you've been friends long enough that he can read your moods like weather patterns—the slight tension in your shoulders that means you're thinking too hard about something, the way you're biting the inside of your cheek that suggests internal debate. right now there's definitely a storm brewing behind your eyes, thoughts churning in a way that makes him want to reach out and smooth the furrow between your brows.

you're sitting on his kitchen counter, legs swinging in a restless rhythm, heels occasionally bumping against the cabinet below. he's putting away the morning's purchases with probably unnecessary focus, arranging the peaches in a bowl like they're precious artifacts, trying to ignore the way your silence is making his skin feel too tight.

“satoru,” you say finally, and something in your tone makes him turn around immediately, abandoning his careful arrangement of fruit.

“yeah?”

you're fidgeting with the stem of the white rose he bought, twirling it between your fingers like you're trying to solve a particularly complex equation. the petals have opened slightly since this morning, revealing deeper layers of ivory and cream, and in the afternoon light streaming through his kitchen window, it looks almost ethereal in your hands.

“can i ask you something?” your voice is smaller than usual, uncertain in a way that makes his chest tighten with immediate concern.

his heart starts doing that thing where it forgets how to beat properly, rhythm stuttering against his ribs. “always.”

“do you ever think…” you pause, take a breath that seems to require effort, start again. “sometimes i wonder if i'm reading too much into things. like maybe i think someone likes me and it's all just in my head.”

the bottom drops out of his world.

someone. you think someone likes you, which means there's someone you're paying attention to, someone who's maybe been giving you signs that you're trying to interpret. his brain immediately starts cycling through every male friend you have, every coworker you've mentioned in passing, that guy from your yoga class who definitely stares at you too much and makes comments about your form that seem less than professional.

the rose trembles slightly in your hands, and he realizes you're nervous. actually nervous about asking him this, which means whoever it is matters to you. matters enough that you're seeking advice, validation, reassurance that you're not imagining things.

“like who?” he asks, and his voice comes out strangled, like he's being slowly crushed by invisible hands. like all the air has been sucked out of the room and replaced with something thinner, harder to breathe.

you look up at him, and there's something vulnerable in your expression that makes his chest ache. something raw and uncertain that he wants to protect, even as it's currently destroying him from the inside out. “never mind. it's stupid.”

“it's not stupid,” he says quickly, moving closer without really meaning to, drawn by the magnetic pull that's existed between you since childhood. “whoever it is would be crazy not to like you.”

wrong thing to say. he knows it immediately because your face does something complicated, cycling through disappointment and resignation before settling on a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. that careful, practiced smile you use when you're trying to hide how you really feel.

“you have to say that. you're my best friend.”

best friend. there it is again, that careful designation that feels more like a cage every time you say it. he wants to grab you by the shoulders and tell you that he's been crazy about you since before he knew what crazy about someone meant, that every day he doesn't tell you feels like a small betrayal of everything you've ever meant to each other.

instead, he says, “i don't have to say anything. i say it because it's true.”

and it is true. brutally, completely true. whoever this mystery person is, they'd have to be blind and stupid not to see how incredible you are. not to notice the way you light up a room just by entering it, the way you remember everyone's favorite coffee order and check in on people when they're having bad days and laugh so hard at terrible jokes that you snort a little, which only makes you more endearing.

you're quiet for a long moment, still twirling the rose, and he can practically see the thoughts churning behind your eyes like storm clouds gathering on the horizon. when you finally speak, your voice is small in a way that makes him want to wrap you up and protect you from whatever's making you doubt yourself.

“sometimes i think i make up feelings where they don't exist,” you say, barely above a whisper. “like maybe i want something to be there so badly that i convince myself it is.”

and oh. oh, you're talking about him, aren't you? you're sitting here in his kitchen, talking about reading too much into things, about wanting feelings that might not exist, and he's too much of a coward to realize you're talking about him. the signs are all there—the way you've been looking at him lately, softer and more lingering than usual. the casual touches that seem to happen more frequently. the way you said “home” earlier like you meant it.

except what if you're not? what if there really is someone else, someone who's been giving you mixed signals while satoru's been pining from the sidelines like an idiot? what if he's the one reading too much into things, projecting his own desperate hopes onto innocent moments of friendship?

“you're not stupid,” he says finally, because it's the only safe thing he can think of, the only response that won't reveal everything. “if you think someone likes you, there's probably a good reason.”

you slide down from the counter, rose still in hand, and for a second you're standing close enough that he can count your eyelashes, see the tiny flecks of gold in your eyes that he's memorized over years of study. close enough that if he just leaned down a little, if he was brave enough to close the distance...

“maybe,” you say, but you sound doubtful. disappointed in a way that makes him want to take back everything he just said. “or maybe i'm just really good at lying to myself.”

you're moving toward the living room, and he follows because he always follows, brain spinning through every conversation you've had recently, every look, every moment that might have been a sign he was too scared to read properly. you settle onto the couch like you're planning to stay for a while, curling up in the corner with your legs tucked beneath you, and he takes his usual spot on the opposite end, careful to maintain the precise distance that says ‘best friend’ instead of ‘hopelessly in love with you.’

the white rose ends up in a glass of water on his coffee table, petals catching the light from his windows, and you're staring at it with an expression he can't quite read. contemplative, maybe. wistful.

“this person,” he starts carefully, hating himself for asking but needing to know, “how long have you been thinking about them?”

you give him a look that's equal parts amused and exasperated, head tilting in that way it does when you think he's being particularly dense. “are we really doing this?”

“doing what?”

“the thing where you help me analyze my pathetic love life like we're in high school.” you're picking at the throw pillow in your lap, fingers worrying at a loose thread. “sitting around dissecting every interaction and trying to figure out what it all means.”

pathetic love life. as if you could ever have anything pathetic about you. as if whoever this mysterious person is doesn't realize they're the luckiest person alive just to be on your radar. just to have you thinking about them, analyzing their behavior, wondering if they feel the same way.

“i'm being a good friend,” he protests, though the words taste bitter in his mouth. bitter like the coffee you drink when you're stressed, bitter like the medicine you have to swallow when something's wrong.

“you're being nosy.”

“can't i be both?”

you laugh despite yourself, and the sound goes straight to his chest like it always does, warming him from the inside out. “fine. but you can't make fun of me.”

“when have i ever made fun of you?”

“constantly. it's like your primary form of communication.” but you're smiling now, some of the tension leaving your shoulders, and he counts it as a victory.

you’re not wrong. teasing you has always been safer than the alternative, easier than letting you see how seriously, completely, utterly gone he is for you. easier than admitting that every joke is just a way of buying more time in your presence, every playful insult a cover for the compliments he really wants to give.

“i promise to be nice,” he says, crossing his heart with exaggerated solemnity, and you snort at the theatrical gesture.

“i'll believe it when i see it.”

you're quiet for a moment, picking at the throw pillow, and he can see you working up the courage to say whatever it is you're thinking. your teeth worry at your bottom lip in a gesture he recognizes from childhood—you used to do the same thing before spelling tests and soccer tryouts and the first day of school each year.

when you finally speak, your voice is so soft he has to strain to hear it, has to lean forward slightly to catch every word.

“it's been a long time,” you admit, not looking at him. “like, a really long time. since we were kids, maybe.”

since we were kids.

since. we. were. kids.

his heart stops beating entirely, just quits on him right there in his living room, because unless you had some secret elementary school boyfriend he doesn't know about, unless there's some childhood friend he's completely forgotten about...

you're talking about him.

you've been thinking about him.

since you were kids.

“oh,” he says, because his vocabulary has apparently shrunk to single syllables, because every word in the english language has suddenly abandoned him when he needs them most.

“see?” you say quickly, finally looking up at him with eyes that are bright with what might be tears. “i told you it was stupid. forget i said anything.”

“no,” he says, too loud, and you startle slightly at the volume. “no, it's not stupid. it's...”

it's everything. it's his every prayer answered, every birthday wish granted, every star he's ever wished on coming true all at once. it's twenty years of hoping and waiting and pretending to be content with friendship finally, finally meaning something.

“it's what?” you ask, and there's something hopeful in your voice that makes his chest feel like it might crack open, like his heart might actually burst from the sheer force of what he's feeling.

he opens his mouth to tell you, to finally, finally say what he's been carrying around for twenty years, and then he panics. because what if he's wrong? what if you're talking about someone else after all? what if he says everything and ruins the most important friendship of his life? what if you look at him with disgust or pity or worse, that careful politeness you use with people who make you uncomfortable?

“it's brave,” he says instead, taking the coward's way out, watching the light in your eyes dim slightly. “whoever it is would be lucky to have you thinking about them.”

your face falls so subtly he almost misses it, just a slight dimming of the light in your eyes, a barely perceptible tightening around the corners of your mouth. but he's been studying your expressions for twenty years, cataloguing every micro-expression, and he knows he's fucked up. knows he's missed something crucial, said the wrong thing, let fear win when courage was what the moment required.

“right,” you say, and your voice is carefully neutral, scrubbed clean of the hope that had been there moments before. “lucky them.”

you're pulling away from him, not physically but emotionally, retreating behind the walls that friendship has never required before. building barriers in real time, and he's sitting there like an idiot, watching it happen, knowing he caused it but not knowing how to fix it without potentially making everything worse.

the rose on the coffee table seems to mock him with its perfect white petals, a symbol of something he was too scared to claim when he had the chance. when you were sitting right there, telling him everything he's ever wanted to hear, and he was too much of a coward to hear it properly.

too much of a coward to take the leap that might have changed everything.

you leave not long after that, claiming an early morning tomorrow and some excuse about laundry that you both know is bullshit. the way you gather your things—phone sliding into your palm with deliberate precision, keys jingling once before being muffled in your grip, that little cross-body bag with its worn leather strap that you always adjust twice before leaving—feels like watching his entire future pack itself away in slow motion.

satoru's throat constricts as he tracks each movement, his vision tunneling on the careful way you avoid his gaze. there's something devastating about the ordinary nature of your departure, the way catastrophe can masquerade as routine. you're folding in on yourself, shoulders curved inward like you're protecting something fragile in your chest, and he knows with sickening clarity that he put that defensive hunch there.

“text me when you get home safe,” he says, one hand automatically reaching up to rake through his hair—those moonspun strands that never learned proper behavior, always catching and scattering light like captured starfall. the words scrape against his vocal cords like sandpaper. it's what he always says, has been saying since you got your first car at sixteen and his anxiety about your well-being became a living thing with teeth and claws.

“always do,” you reply, your fingers worrying at the delicate chain of your necklace—that thin silver thing that catches at your throat when you swallow nervously. your voice carries the hollow ring of obligation rather than affection. you still won't look at him directly, your gaze fixed somewhere around his left shoulder where his sweater pulls slightly across his collarbone, and the absence of eye contact feels like a physical ache behind his sternum.

the click of his door closing echoes through the apartment with the finality of a coffin lid. satoru stands there for a full minute, staring at the wood grain, before the magnitude of his cowardice hits him like a freight train carrying twenty years' worth of missed opportunities.

the apartment transforms in your absence, walls stretching impossibly wide, ceilings vaulting into cathedral heights that make him feel ant-small and infinitely alone. the couch still holds the impression of your body, cushions dented where you'd curled your legs beneath you, and he finds himself gravitating toward that spot like a moth to flame. when he sits down, the lingering warmth of your presence soaks through his jeans, and he has to press his palms against his eyes to keep from doing something pathetic like burying his face in the throw pillow you'd been hugging.

the white rose sits on his coffee table like an accusation, its petals pristine and mocking. sometimes the best love stories start with friendship, the vendor had said, and satoru had been too much of a fool to recognize the universe handing him a script.

his phone buzzes against the glass surface: home safe. thanks for today.

the message glows on his screen, twelve words that somehow contain multitudes of disappointment. he can picture you typing it, thumb hesitating over each letter, probably tucked into your favorite corner of your couch with that oversized cardigan pulled tight around your shoulders, rewriting it three times before settling on something safely neutral. you used to add heart emojis to these check-ins, little digital affirmations that he'd treasured more than he had any right to. their absence now feels like a door slamming shut.

he types: anytime. sleep well. his thumb hovers over the send button for thirty seconds, jaw working silently as he wars with himself.

then deletes it. tries: we should talk about what happened. his teeth catch his lower lip, worrying at the skin until it stings.

deletes that too. his fingers hover over the keyboard, shoulders hunched forward in defeat, cycling through seventeen different responses that range from desperate to devastated. i love you gets typed and erased four times, each deletion making his chest cavity feel emptier. please come back so i can fix this makes it halfway before he chickens out, his hand scrubbing down his face hard enough to leave red marks. i've been yours since we were seven and i'm sorry i'm too scared to be brave never even makes it past his mental rough draft.

finally, he settles on: anytime. sleep well.

the delivered notification appears, and then... nothing. no immediate response, no typing indicator, no late-night follow-up like you sometimes send when you can't sleep. just radio silence that stretches into the night like a chasm.

satoru spends the next six hours staring at his ceiling, replaying every microsecond of your conversation with the obsessive precision of a crime scene investigator. his hair fans across the pillow in ethereal wisps, those pale strands seeming to glow with their own inner light against the dark fabric, like captured lightning or the first frost of winter given form. the way your voice had gone soft and vulnerable when you said since we were kids. the hope that had flickered in your eyes—those beautiful eyes he'd never been brave enough to hold contact with for more than stolen moments—before he'd snuffed it out with his cowardice. the careful way you'd reconstructed your walls in real time, brick by brick, your shoulders drawing inward and your hands clasping tightly in your lap until you were safely barricaded behind the familiar boundaries of friendship.*. the hope that had flickered in your eyes before he'd snuffed it out with his cowardice. the careful way you'd reconstructed your walls in real time, brick by brick, until you were safely barricaded behind the familiar boundaries of friendship.

since we were kids. the phrase loops in his mind like a broken record, each repetition driving the knife of realization deeper into his chest. unless you'd harbored some secret elementary school crush he'd never known about—which, given that you'd been attached at the hip since kindergarten, seemed unlikely—there was only one person you could have been referring to.

him.

you'd been talking about him.

and he'd been so paralyzed by the possibility of being wrong that he'd missed the moment entirely, let it slip through his fingers like water through a broken dam.

by the time dawn creeps through his blinds, painting everything in shades of regret and determination, he's made a decision that will either save his life or end it completely. the resolution sits in his chest like a live wire, sparking against his ribs every time he breathes. he's going to tell you everything. twenty years of accumulated feelings, every birthday wish spent on your happiness, every star he's wished on while thinking of your smile. all of it.

the thought terrifies him so completely that he has to grip the edge of his mattress to keep from floating away on a tide of panic.

sunday afternoon arrives with the punctuality of a church bell, and with it comes the familiar sound of your key in his lock. you'd exchanged spare keys sophomore year of college, a practical decision born of too many instances of locked-out roommates and forgotten textbooks. what had started as convenience had evolved into something more significant—the quiet intimacy of belonging in each other's spaces, of being trusted with unrestricted access to the small, private corners of each other's lives.

now, listening to that key turn, satoru's heart hammers against his ribs like it's trying to break free and run away before his mouth can ruin everything permanently.

“hey,” you say as you appear in his doorway, and the single syllable carries the weight of exhaustion that makes his chest constrict with guilt. there are shadows under your eyes that weren't there yesterday, and your smile—when it finally appears—lacks its usual wattage.

“hey yourself,” he manages, his voice cracking slightly on the second word.

you move through his space with less than your usual confidence, the easy familiarity replaced by something more cautious. instead of immediately claiming your usual spot on the far end of the couch—the corner you'd long ago designated as yours, complete with the throw pillow you'd brought from your own apartment and the way you always tucked your feet up under you—you hover near the armchair, fingers worrying at the strap of your bag.

the careful distance you're maintaining might as well be measured in miles rather than feet. it's like watching you interact with a stranger's apartment, all politeness and uncertainty where there used to be ownership and ease. the sight of it breaks something fundamental in satoru's chest, some load-bearing beam of his emotional architecture crumbling under the weight of what his cowardice has cost them.

“about yesterday,” he starts, the words tumbling out before he can lose his nerve entirely.

“we don't have to talk about it,” you interrupt quickly, finally settling into the armchair but perched on its edge like you're ready to flee at the first sign of discomfort. your hands clasp in your lap, knuckles white with tension. “i was being weird, and awkward, and i made things uncomfortable. we can just pretend it never happened and go back to normal.”

but normal is what got them here in the first place—twenty years of careful boundaries and unspoken feelings and the kind of willful blindness that masquerades as friendship when it's really just elaborate emotional self-harm.

“you weren't being weird,” he says firmly, rising from the couch to face you properly. the movement is too quick, driven by urgency rather than grace, and you startle slightly at the sudden change in his position. “i was being an idiot.”

something flickers across your expression—surprise, maybe, or the faintest spark of hope quickly tampered down. “satoru—”

“just let me say this, okay?” the words come out rougher than intended, scraped raw by a sleepless night and the weight of everything he's been carrying. “before i lose my nerve completely and spend another twenty years being a coward.”

you go very still, and he can see the exact moment you decide to let him speak. your shoulders settle back against the chair, hands unclasping to grip the armrests instead, and you give him a small nod that somehow contains multitudes of permission and trepidation.

the silence that follows feels crystalline, fragile enough that the wrong word might shatter everything beyond repair. satoru runs his hand through his hair—those pale strands that never quite cooperate, that catch light like spun moonbeams even in the dim afternoon glow filtering through his blinds. the gesture is pure nervous energy, fingers combing through the silky mess as if he might find courage tangled somewhere in the roots.

“when you were talking yesterday,” he begins, then stops, takes a breath that tastes like terror and determination in equal measure. “about thinking someone liked you since you were kids...”

he watches your face carefully, cataloguing every micro-expression. the way your lips part slightly, the flutter of your eyelashes as you blink too fast, the barely perceptible forward lean of your body like you're drawn toward his words despite yourself.

“you were talking about me, weren't you?”

the question hangs in the air between them, loaded with twenty years of almosts and maybes and the kind of hope that feels dangerous to voice. your breath catches—a sharp, barely audible intake that he might have missed if he weren't paying attention with the focused intensity of a man whose entire future hangs in the balance.

“satoru—” you start, but he's already moving, dropping to his knees in front of your chair with the graceless desperation of someone who's finally found the courage to stop running from the thing that matters most.

his hands hover just above your knees, not quite touching but close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating through the soft cotton of your sundress—a different one today, this one scattered with tiny daisies that make him think of childhood summers and innocence and all the ways you've been beautiful to him across the years.

“because if you were,” he continues, words spilling out in a rush now that the dam has finally burst, “then i need you to know that you weren't reading too much into anything. you weren't making up feelings that don't exist or convincing yourself of something that wasn't there.”

your eyes are wide, pupils dilated in a way that makes the familiar color seem deeper, more infinite. he can see his own reflection in them, distorted and desperate and more honest than he's ever been in his life.

“i've been crazy about you since the second grade,” he confesses, the words scraping against his throat like they're made of glass. “since you wrote that you wanted to be a princess in our yearbook and i decided right then and there that i was going to spend the rest of my life making sure you felt like one.”

the admission settles between them like a living thing, breathing and vital and impossible to take back. your hands tighten on the armrests, knuckles going white again, but this time it looks less like tension and more like anchoring—like you're holding on to keep from floating away on the enormity of what he's just revealed.

“every door i've ever opened for you,” he continues, momentum carrying him forward now that he's started, “every time i've carried your bags or bought you flowers or called you ‘your highness’—it wasn't just being a good friend. it was never just friendship.”

his voice cracks on the last word, twenty years of careful pretense finally crumbling under the weight of truth. “it's all been because you're my princess. you've always been my princess, and i've been too much of a coward to tell you.”

silence stretches between them, heavy and loaded with possibility. satoru can hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, can feel the subtle tremor in his hands where they still hover near your knees. you're staring at him with an expression he can't quite read, cycling through what looks like shock and disbelief and something that might be the beginning of joy before it gets tampered down by uncertainty.

he's never felt more exposed in his life, kneeling here in his own living room with his heart splayed open like a roadmap to twenty years of devotion. the vulnerability is excruciating, every nerve ending raw and oversensitive, waiting for you to either pull him back from the brink or push him over the edge entirely.

“you,” you say finally, and your voice comes out barely above a whisper, thick with something that might be tears or laughter or both. “you complete and utter idiot.”

the words hit him like a physical blow, driving the air from his lungs in a sharp exhale. his heart, which had been hammering with nervous hope, stutters and nearly stops entirely. this is it, then. the moment where twenty years of friendship dies on the altar of his feelings, where he learns what it costs to love someone who can't love you back.

“look, if you don't feel the same way—” he starts, already beginning the retreat, already starting to build the walls that will let him survive the aftermath of this spectacular emotional implosion.

“of course i feel the same way!” you explode, suddenly on your feet, the force of your movement sending him rocking back on his heels. your hands are gesturing wildly now, cutting through the air with the sharp precision of someone who's been holding back way too much for way too long. “i've been in love with you since we were kids, you absolute disaster of a human being!”

the words slam into him with the force of a freight train, reorganizing his entire understanding of reality in the space between one heartbeat and the next. of course i feel the same way. the phrase echoes in his skull, bouncing off the walls of his mind like a pinball machine gone haywire.

“you have?” he asks, and his voice comes out small and wondering, like he's afraid that speaking too loudly might break whatever spell has made this moment possible.

“yes!” you're pacing now, three quick steps to the window and back, your sundress swirling around your legs with each sharp turn. “why do you think i've been hanging around your apartment every weekend for the past fifteen years? why do you think i never date anyone seriously? because i've been waiting for you to figure it out!”

he's scrambling to his feet now, desperate to close the distance between you but afraid to move too fast, like you're some wild thing that might bolt if he makes the wrong move. “you've been waiting for me?”

“forever,” you say, and now you're definitely crying, tears streaming down your cheeks while you laugh with what sounds like relief and frustration and twenty years of pent-up emotion finally finding release. “i've been waiting forever, and you just—yesterday when i was trying to tell you, you just—”

“i panicked,” he admits, finally closing the space between you in two quick strides. his hands come up to frame your face, thumbs brushing away the tears with a gentleness that belies the tremor in his fingers. “i thought maybe you were talking about someone else, and i couldn't handle it if you were.”

your skin is soft under his palms, warm and real and perfect, and he can't quite believe he's allowed to touch you like this. that you're letting him catch your tears, that you're leaning into his touch instead of pulling away.

“someone else,” you repeat, shaking your head with enough force to send your hair flying. “as if there could ever be someone else. as if anyone else could even compare to you.”

the words hit him like salvation, like every prayer he's ever whispered to the dark finally being answered. “really?”

“really,” you confirm, and then you're rising up on your toes, hands fisting in the front of his shirt to pull him down toward you. “now stop being an idiot and kiss me before i lose my mind completely.”

he doesn't need to be told twice.

their lips meet in the middle of something that's been building for twenty years, soft and desperate and perfect in a way that makes his brain go completely offline. you taste like the strawberry lip balm you've been using since high school, sweet and familiar and right in a way that makes him wonder how he's survived this long without kissing you.

your mouth is warm and yielding under his, and when you sigh against his lips—this tiny, breathy sound of contentment—he thinks he might actually die from the sheer overwhelming rightness of it all. his hands slide from your face into your hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as he deepens the kiss, pouring twenty years of accumulated longing into the connection between your mouths.

when you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together like you can't bear to be more than an inch away from each other. your hands are still fisted in his shirt, holding him close, and he can feel the rapid flutter of your pulse where his thumbs rest against your throat.

“holy shit,” you breathe, and the profanity sounds like a prayer falling from your kiss-swollen lips.

“yeah,” he agrees, voice rough with emotion and the lingering effects of the best kiss of his entire life. “holy shit.”

you laugh, the sound bright and bubbling and infectious, and he finds himself grinning back at you with an expression that probably makes him look completely unhinged. he doesn't care. he's just kissed his best friend, his princess, the love of his entire life, and she kissed him back, and if that's not worth looking a little crazy over, then nothing is.

“so,” you say, and he can hear the smile in your voice even with his eyes closed, can feel it in the way your lips curve against his when you speak. “what now, your highness?”

the nickname—his own endearment turned back on him with teasing affection—makes him groan and drop his head to your shoulder in mock defeat. “you're never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“absolutely not,” you confirm cheerfully, arms winding around his neck to hold him close. “i've got twenty years of princess jokes stored up, and now that i know you meant them...”

“i meant every single one,” he says, pulling back to look at you properly. your hair is messed up from his hands, lipstick smudged in a way that probably matches his own mouth, and you're looking at him like he hung the moon and stars just for you. like he's something precious and beloved and yours. “i meant all of it.”

“good,” you say, going up on your toes to kiss him again, soft and sweet and lingering. “because i've got twenty years of being your princess to catch up on.”

this time when you kiss, it's slower, more exploratory. a conversation conducted in the language of lips and tongues and shared breath, twenty years of friendship providing the foundation for something deeper and more complex. he maps the shape of your mouth with the dedication of a cartographer, memorizing every curve and hollow, the way you taste like strawberries and forever and every dream he's ever had.

your hands slide up into his hair, fingers combing through the pale strands that have been catching light and hearts since childhood, and he thinks distantly that he's never going to get tired of this. of touching you, of being allowed to touch you, of the way you melt against him like you were made to fit in his arms.

when you break apart this time, it's with the reluctant awareness that you still have things to talk about, logistics to work out, twenty years of carefully maintained boundaries to navigate in this brave new world where you're allowed to love each other out loud.

“we should probably talk about what this means,” you say, though you make no move to step out of his arms. if anything, you settle more firmly against him, like you're claiming your space in his embrace.

“it means i'm yours,” he says without hesitation, the words coming as easily as breathing now that he's allowed to say them. “if you'll have me. it means i've been yours since we were seven years old and you asked me to be your friend, and i'm never letting you go again.”

your eyes go soft and liquid at his declaration, and he watches you blink back fresh tears with the tender fascination of someone who's finally been given permission to witness your every emotion.

“i've been yours too,” you whisper, voice thick with feeling. “for so long that i can't remember what it felt like before.”

“then it's simple,” he says, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your temple, breathing in the familiar scent of your shampoo and the new, intoxicating knowledge that he's allowed to do this now. “we stop pretending otherwise.”

you laugh, the sound muffled against his chest where you've pressed your face. “you make it sound so easy.”

“isn't it?” he asks, genuine curiosity coloring his voice. “we already do everything else together. we already know each other's worst habits and biggest fears and what makes each other laugh until we can't breathe. now we just get to add kissing to the list.”

“and other things,” you add, pulling back to look at him with an expression that's equal parts innocent and suggestive, and he feels heat pool low in his stomach at the implication.

“other things,” he agrees, voice dropping to something rougher, more intimate. “lots of other things. twenty years' worth of other things.”

you shiver slightly at the promise in his voice, and he files that reaction away for future reference, cataloguing it alongside every other response he plans to learn by heart.

“so what's first?” you ask, settling more comfortably in his arms like you're planning to stay there for the foreseeable future.

“first,” he says, pressing another kiss to your hair because he can, because you're his now and he's allowed, “we order way too much chinese food and eat it on the couch while we figure out how to tell people that we're finally together.”

“people are going to say they saw it coming,” you predict, tilting your head back to look at him. “we're going to get so many ‘about time’ comments.”

“let them,” he says, grinning down at you with unrepentant joy. “they can say whatever they want. i'm just happy i don't have to pretend anymore that i'm not completely gone for you.”

“completely gone,” you repeat, testing the phrase like you're tasting wine. “i like that. makes it sound properly dramatic and ridiculous.”

“it is dramatic and ridiculous,” he confirms. “twenty years of pining? that's shakespearean levels of absurd.”

“but worth it,” you say, and it's not a question.

“absolutely worth it,” he agrees, sealing the promise with another kiss that tastes like strawberries and new beginnings and happily ever after.

later, when you're curled up together on his couch—your couch now, he supposes, since everything that's his has always been yours anyway—sharing lo mein and sweet and sour chicken while some forgettable movie plays in the background, he thinks about that second-grade yearbook tucked away in his bedroom closet.

about seven-year-old you writing about being a princess in careful, looping handwriting, tongue poking out in concentration. about seven-year-old him deciding that if you wanted to be a princess, then he'd find a way to make it happen, even if it meant becoming an astronaut just to bring you back moon rocks that sparkled like the tiaras in your disney movies.

mission accomplished, he thinks, pressing a kiss to the top of your head where it rests against his shoulder. though the seven-year-old version of himself probably never imagined it would involve quite this much kissing.

not that he's complaining.

“satoru?” your voice is sleepy, muffled against his shirt where you've pressed your face into the curve of his neck.

“mm?”

“next time just tell me you love me from the start, okay? save us both some time.”

he laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest and making you smile against his skin. “deal, princess. though for the record, i do love you. have always loved you. will always love you.”

“i love you too,” you mumble, words slurring slightly with approaching sleep. “my ridiculous, dramatic, completely wonderful disaster of a man.”

“your disaster,” he corrects softly, fingers combing through your hair with reverent gentleness. “always yours.”

you hum contentedly, settling more firmly against him, and he thinks this might be what happily ever after feels like. strawberry lip balm and sunday afternoons and the girl of his dreams finally, finally in his arms where she belongs, where she's always belonged, where she'll stay for as long as he has breath in his body to keep her there.

yeah, he could definitely get used to this.

the white rose from yesterday's market sits on the coffee table beside their empty takeout containers, petals still pristine and perfect in their small glass of water. a symbol of new beginnings and answered prayers and the kind of love story that starts with friendship and ends with forever.

sometimes the best love stories start with friendship, the vendor had said, and as satoru drifts off to sleep with you warm and safe and his in his arms, he thinks she might have been the smartest person he's ever met.

taglist: @raendarkfaerie @thisuserisnotfunctioningproperly

[tteokdoroki]

🍥 THE FIRST TIME I LAID EYES ON YOU  ✩ yuuji itadori.

description ✩ before that day, you thought that you knew everything there was to know about the infamous yuuji itadori. you thought that he was cocky, that he was full of himself, that he was a fuck boy - but after that day, after meeting him, you realise how wrong you truly were. 5.4K

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 allergen advice ⋆ fluff ⋆ eighteen plus only ⋆ characters are in their twenties, college au, meet cute, first meetings, friends to lovers, extreme slow burn, elements of insecurity, bad university experiences, group projects lmao, social awkwardness, part of the magnetic series but can be read as a standalone, loser & weird & female reader, popular & jock itadori. ── © tteokdoroki ╱ 2025.

store notes ⋆ wooo !! first fic after my break !! the first one-shot of the jock bf yuuji series which won the poll !! i wrote this ages ago n this au is so dear to me! i can't wait to write more! im kinda nervous.. but i hope you enjoy! please stay tuned for more. | magnetic masterlist.

before that fateful day, you’d never really met yuuji itadori. 

but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t know who he was. 

everybody and their mother was aware of jujutsu tech university’s all star jock. the captain of the school’s football team with dashing good looks, alluring brown eyes and a pleasantly higher than average GPA. yuuji was the picture perfect student, the kind you see photographed throughout those glossy college prospectuses they hand out to those seeking to further their high school education. 

on the field, the pink haired jock was brutish, a whirlwind force like that of a hurricane — bringing the wrath of hell on earth during each of his games. no one could stop him. no he could stand in his way. there was a reason why yuuji had risen so quickly through the ranks of his team to become captain before the end of his second year. the special scholarship and full ride he’d earned straight out of school was a testament to his value as a player too.  in all honesty, you’d have to be a major tool or top tier fool to not recognise the student’s strength.

everyone knew it, jujutsu tech university needed yuuji on their team. 

in his short time at the school, he’d taken them to nationals, brought home trophies and not to mention his very ability to break down a wall of men twice his weight class without a care in the world had solidified the team’s reputation as undefeatable. as a jock, itadori had to be big, brawny and bestial — and, combined with athleticism bestowed upon him by whatever gods there were, it was no wonder that yuuji itadori was popular amongst his peers too. 

as rumour had it, he was a good fuck. word on the street was that he was never seen with his arm around the same person twice. according to the whisperers.m, yuuji was a serial cheater — a party goer too busy for relationships, or a social climber dating a model or an actress from overseas so he could make it into the big leagues. 

no matter where you went, someone had something to say about the jock as if they knew him personally. but of course, all of that was just piping hot gossip, like freshly spilled tea. mistruths and misinformation fuelled by the student body’s inability to deal with their personal demons and monstrous bouts of green-eyed jealousy. because in reality, yuuji really was perfect, a well rounded human being. like most people, there was no denying that he had his flaws, but generally — he was kind, and well liked. even with all of the rumours  surrounding him. 

you’ve never really met yuuji itadori…but to you he was just another guy blending in with the sea of college boys you wanted nothing to do with, regardless of whether or not their reputations preceded them. you don’t know a single personal thing about him — just like the fact that he doesn’t know a single detail about you…and that doesn’t bother you. at least you try not to let it bother you. it’s not like college boys had taken an interest in you either. why would it be any different with the literal caption of the football team? 

the circles you run in are completely different, the paths you’re taking won’t ever align or cross. yuuji is popular, pretty and well liked and, believe it or not, you’re just…you. an awkward, twenty-something year-old girl just trying to keep her head down and get through the nightmarish hell that is your average university degree. luckily, you have your friends, varying degrees of misfits with some more outlandish and extroverted than you — they stand out where you blend in, retreating to the safety of shadows and sticking to the walls that you know best. 

university is hard, balancing socials with deadlines and relationships with your introvertedness and anxiety is exhausting, and not to mention — your flatmates back at your dorm are the weirdest, strangest group of people you’ve ever encountered. at least you have your own bathroom. 

you weren’t stupid, you were self-aware enough to know that you’d mix with yuuji itadori like oil mixed with water. the popular always come out on top. you know that he’d never go for someone like you, he’s too attractive, messes around too much, hasn’t had a proper partner since finishing school ( according to your friends ). even then, you remind yourself that you really don’t know itadori. 

the only time you’ve ever properly spoken to him is when you lent him a pen at the start of term. he’d showed up late to your shared class with a dead laptop, a tattered notebook and not an ounce of stationary. he was late and unprepared and your professor, who’d taken you two years to win over in tutorial ( mind you ), let him off the hook. now that had your guard up, miles high. to you, it made sense that a jock at the top of the social food chain was able to get away with an academic crime like the lack of punctuality. to you, a socially awkward, struggling student…

it wasn’t fair.  

it wasn’t fair. how soft spoken and kind yuuji sounded when he turned to you, chest heaving and sweat beading in his hair like, asking for a pen. 

‘hey… sorry to bother you, but do you by any chance have something i could write with? yanno…to borrow! until class is over?”

it wasn’t fair, how his gentle smile filled your tummy with the tiny flaps of butterfly wings when you nodded. how warm the golden skin of his fingers felt when they brushed yours and you passed him a pen. 

it was unfair… how in an ideal world this would be how you meet, fell in love or maybe even dated. but because you’re you, a girl so aloof and afraid to break out of her shell… it would never happened. yuuji itadori would never see you, know you for anything more than the girl in his class who lent him a pen. falling for the jock was completely out of the question for you, hardly an option, especially with your walls built so high and sturdy — glued together by slabs of cement to protect yourself from your harsh reality or perhaps your own insecurities. he was everything that you weren’t, everything you willed yourself to be. he was bright and brilliant and beloved where you were scared, shy and in the shadows. 

all you wanted was to make it through college. never in a million years would you end up together. fate wouldn’t allow it. if fate even existed. 

he would never really know you. 

you would never really know him. 

the real you or the real him. 

but little did you know, that was all about to change.

student halls are always the calmest on a sunday afternoon.

very few students can be spotted along the corridors or darting between different flats. the regular hustle and bustle lays dormant like a resting volcano after the explosion that is the saturday night high. the presence of drunk and rowdy residents in their early twenties is replaced by a comforting silence that sweeps through the halls like warm mist rolling over the surface of ice cold water, so quiet you could almost hear a pin drop. 

for most students the high morning sunshine filtering through half heartedly drawn curtains tastes like burning acid on their tongues, goading the bile that rises in their throats, acting like a villainous light behind their scrunched eyelids as they attempt to shrink back into the safety of darkness — a cure for their pounding headaches and awful hangovers. 

your flatmates are no better, locked away in their en-suites after the ruckus they caused last night. perhaps that’d teach them not to drink half their weight in cheap shots from the bar or smoke until their brains melt out of their ears but you have no doubt that they’ll be in the same state of drunken comatose next week. providing them with some grace ( though it’s not like they give any to you on a regular weekday ), you tiptoe your way to the kitchen at around 12:45PM for a light breakfast before you begin to tackle the heavy workload from your biomedical science modules — you want to get a head start before classes pick up again this week, not to mention the group project due in the next two. 

time alone in the kitchen gives you way too much time to think. any other time, you’d be too busy with worksheets and lab reports to dwell on thoughts beyond equations, perhaps even the noise from your flatmates gathered in the kitchen after a 6PM lecture provides you with a welcome distraction from your thoughts. but when you’re alone like this, with nothing but the sounds of sizzling eggs in a hand-me-down pan and the kettle boiling to your left — you have no choice but to think outside of your academic pursuits. 

you think that sometimes college is…lonely. 

a large portion of your day is spent with your nose between the pages of a text book with little time for your interests due to the nature of your course but… it’s not like you make the time. plenty of people are able to balance their academics with their friends, family and even loved ones. could it be that you’re using your studies as an excuse? turning yourself into a growing recluse because you’re too afraid of the consequences of letting loose. you hardly drink, even with the comfort blanket of your friends, parties aren’t your scene and the loud noises of many campus events freak you out. 

but part of you… small, yet so loud, feels like you’re missing out on what it’s truly like to experience college and it’s a difficult feeling to escape, when you’re alone with the sunshine on your skin on a sunday morning. 

no one has ever told you to work harder than you play, no one has ever put pressure on you to sacrifice parts of your youth to succeed. that nagging, aching feeling to be good at something, if not at people then at school, was always on you. in some ways, you envied that quality in others — the parts of their brains that let them live a little instead of focusing on failures that hadn’t even happened yet. you were jealous of your flatmates and their confidence, your friends and their extrovertedness, your peers and their social standing. 

you wish that you were someone else —

to your left, the electric kettle rattles with the force of its piping hot water accompanied by a soft click — signalling the end to its duties and pulling you from your own thoughts that boil over. carefully, you assemble a cup of herbal tea to calm the raging storm in your mind and help you to focus on the day of work ahead. you finish off your breakfast with the fried egg you’d made laid over a bed of microwavable rice and some pickled veggies your flatmates luckily hadn’t discovered on your shelf in the fridge. 

your tumbling inner turmoil slows to a simmer as you somehow manage to make it back to your bedroom whilst juggling your dishes and mug — breathing a sigh of relief when you’re able to set everything down on your desk without a single spillage. with a clearer head, you slide into your seat ready to busy yourself with biology books and detailed powerpoints on anatomy when there’s another derailment to your train of thought. 

a knock at the door. 

thinking it’s one of your hungover flatmates begging you for a lifeline ( some of your pain meds ), you ignore it in favour of booting up your laptop and logging on to the university’s learning portal. 

knock, knock, knock. 

the knuckles rasping against the door grow more impatient and feverish — almost as if the person on the other side is desperate for some kind of answer. just like you, your flatmates aren’t dying for your attention nor are you for theirs, so you can’t imagine who could possibly want to break down the entrance to your shared apartment at this time of day. 

knock, knock, knock. 

jumping up in irritation, you leave the confines of your bedroom once more and march up to the front door — swinging it open without a second thought, only to be met with a near-miss fist to the face. the sight is like a shock to your system, as if someone has thrown a bucket of ice water over you or zapped you with a literal taser. the world slows down and your wild eyes screw shut to brace for impact. 

except it never comes. 

the fist that had been flying towards you seemingly at the speed of light collides with the weight of the fire safe door just behind your shoulder, practically trapping you against its cool laminated wood surface. “oh my god,” the source of the fist says in an apologetic tone, voice smooth and timbre as it wafts through your ears. “i am so, so sorry. god…are you okay?” 

without looking, you nod vigorously and take a deep breath to calm your heaving chest — the adrenaline from almost being punched in the fucking face still rushing through you. “y-yeah, ‘m fine. thanks.” 

“i really am sorry, i must have been knocking so hard that i didn’t even notice you opening the door,” the voice doesn’t retreat, instead swooping closer and past the invisible bubble of your personal space in order to check you over for any signs of injury. instinctively, you curl in on yourself to become as small as possible but timidly look up — this time, meeting the eyes of the perpetrator. 

only then do you become hyper aware of the person before you, of the situation you’re in. pinned to the door in the entryway of your dorm by none other than yuuji itadori himself. he’s so close, close enough for you to catch a whiff of his earthy cologne and wisps of perspiration. he’s so close that you can see the dark, chocolaty flecks sprinkled like stardust in his hazel brown eyes — he’s so close that you feel like someone has shaken the sun from its heavens and placed it right on your doorstep. 

the yuuji itadori is standing in front of you right now and you have no idea why. 

swallowing thickly, you offer the campus jock a nervous smile. “s’okay, really.”

he seems somewhat satisfied with your answer, eyes as warm as freshly made hot cocoa dragging up and down the entirety of your form, before backing off entirely — having picked up on your nervousness. you wonder if itadori knows the effect he has on people when he’s that close or if he’s just oblivious to the socially acceptable boundaries of personal space. 

“good,” yuuji states firmly, nodding his head with bouncing pink locks in tow. now that he’s further away, you can almost admire him a little better. his signature red hoodie under the navy blue of his varsity jacket is tousled and his cheeks dusted with a pink soft enough to rival the spring blossoms outside — he looks like he ran here, straight from football practice. “ah, sorry to bother you but uhh… do you by any chance know if harumi sakuma might live here? we have a group project that we need to work on and —“ yuuji sheepishly rubs at the back of his neck as he talks, his gaze darting around the entryway the more he explains himself with the two of you standing there awkwardly. once they finally settle on you, relief floods yuuji’s warm brown eyes. “hey! i didn’t recognise you earlier but…i think i know you. nice pyjamas by the way.” 

you shrink under the pressure of the boy’s earnest stare, wrapping your arms around yourself in a weak attempt to hide your dorky sanrio pyjamas from him. you hadn’t the time to change nor were you expecting visitors. “a-are you sure?” comes your simple, inquisitive reply. people don’t really notice you on campus or know you outside of your tiny, little friend group. it’d be like finding a scientific organism outside of its evolutionary niche. so to have yuuji notice or even remember you… it’s weird… unbelievable, kind of.

“i’m positive,” cocking his head to the side innocently, itadori purses his lips thoughtfully. “we sometimes sit next to each other in professor ieri’s class, remember?” all you can do is blink slowly in response, heart racing behind within its calcium cage. itadori…he recognises you and taps his chin, explaining further. “you, uh, always write with those fancy pens, the gel ones that are super inky and smooth! you let me borrow one once. uhhh…moo-somethin’?”

you swear that your soul leaves your body the moment the pink haired jock recalls your first encounter — your world tilts on its axis and it feels like the ground is giving out under your feet. he remembers you. 

“muji,” you blurt out the pen’s name faster than your brain can catch up, stuck in a perpetual lag. “that’s the brand. muji.”

something changes in the awkward air fizzling between you both — when yuuji’s blank stare turns into a slow, sunshine-bright grin, you stand a little straighter and feel a little taller. like you can actually speak to him. 

“ah! right… i’ll have to get some then.” he muses encouragingly, as if to help you breeze through the rest of the conversation. 

you nod. “they’re pretty nice. though… i’m uh, i’m surprised you even remember that.” 

“‘course i would! how could i forget such a friendly gesture?” yuuji retorts, though there’s not a trace of malice in his tone. a gentle, playful smile coasts over his glossy plush lips making the jock appear almost offended, like you’d just accused  him of forgetting a long lost childhood friend. “why wouldn’t i remember?” 

that makes you think a little. did you just assume that because yuuji was popular, he posses the kind of human nature that appreciates the little things? did you categorise him into some preconceived notion? put him into a little check box labelled ‘superficial’? so far, itadori seemed like a good person who didn’t deserve your passing judgements — so you press your lips into a thin line, shrugging your shoulders instead.

“it was so long ago…”

it had been at the beginning of the semester, when the sporty super star had tapped you on the shoulder in the dark, begging with gorgeous brown puppy dog eyes to borrow a pen whilst your professor screened some boring physiology video for the class. 

“doesn’t matter, you still helped a guy out,” itadori hums with quiet appreciation — his golden eyes glitter in awe and for a moment, the world stops as if it’s just the two of you. again, a nervousness, or perhaps anxiety, crawls its way up your throat, filling the space between your heart and lungs and solidifies around the bones protecting them. yuuji makes you nervous and he knows it. he wouldn’t have stepped backwards and out of your space if he didn’t. “sorry, i’m getting sidetracked. harumi sakuma? does she live here? she’s my partner for the advanced physiology and anatomy project ‘n she’s been a no show.”

now that there’s a little distance between you — you feel like you can finally process actual thoughts instead of how handsome the jock up close. shrugging your shoulders apologetically, you crane your head in the right direction. “ah, well for starters she doesn’t live here,” you smile sheepishly, pointing down the hall. “she lives in 102. this…” then, you nod your head back to the gold-plated numbers nailed into the fire door behind you. “...is 103.”

“so wrong place and wrong girl. lucky i knocked here first, it means i actually get to thank you for lending me your pen and to introduce myself properly. the names yuuji itadori—“

“— i know who you are,” cutting yuuji off, you fiddle with the door handle behind you shyly, almost recreating his sentiment from earlier. “but it’s nice to meet you properly, itadori. i hope you find her.” 

“thanks, i’ll see you around.” yuuji says your name as he walks off, giving you a miniature salute. from your spot plastered against the door, you just about manage to catch his head of pink hair now knocking at 102 but quickly slam it shut just as theirs opens.

when you finally gather enough of your wits to scramble back into your apartment and then your bedroom, you melt in a sticky puddle of awe and amazement against your own personal and door. because you didn’t even think he knew who you were, let alone your name and now there’s a weird feeling in your tummy that you don’t recognise. 

butterflies.

the class that you share with yuuji is early on a thursday morning, the dreaded 9AM to round off the end of a long week.

usually, you would be able to sit through three hours of professor ieri’s laid back and drawn out teaching style without worry  — her lack of enthusiasm for class participation made it much more bearable and easier to take notes, so it’s not like you cared. but between your gruelling schedule of lectures and prep ahead of  time, you found yourself growing increasingly…anxious. 

you’d never really cared about how people perceived you when you lived a life in the shadows of others. at least until yuuji came along.

since your chance encounter with the jock last sunday, you couldn’t help but wonder if he remembered other small details about you too — like the way you wore your hair that one time or how you pick at your nail polish just before a test professor ieri hadn’t asked you to study for, or maybe even the way you start to pick at loose strings on your sleeves when class drags on for too long. 

now suddenly, the waking moments between sunday afternoon and that god-awful 9AM are spent worrying about what yuuji thinks of you — growing more and more apprehensive towards seeing him again. by now, you’ve probably checked his social media dozens of times, comparing and contrasting the lives that you lead and the persons you both put out for the world to see. itadori has thousands of followers across all years and courses on campus and his feed mainly consists of work out videos or promo for the jujutsu tech football team — each post drowned in comments of praise and admiration from his peers.

and you can’t even blame them, because if you were brave enough, you too would be screaming in the comment section about yuuji’s shirtless abs and flexing muscles and the sweat dripping off of them. 

you question whether or not the pink haired jock really knows any of these raving commentators, if they’re people he’s actually met or strangers he’s passed by. the very thought had been enough to deter you from following him anyway.

it’s 8:30AM when you arrive at the RCT Conservatory building for biological sciences and 8:35AM by the time you take your seat in the middle row of room 117. the lecture theatre is one of the smallest in the building, a little cramped and stuffy, and you usually leave the building feeling as though your allergies have worsened by a tenth-fold. but you like it here, with the age old carpets and the air that smells like an old woman’s home accompanied by under-tones of freshly baked milk bread. it’s more intimate, you think, the students in your class are able to bond more in this tight space even if it is within their close-knit clicks and pre-existing friendship groups.

despite class not beginning for another half hour, a few students sit inside chatting amongst themselves — already pulling out their supplies, stationary or laptops for note-taking. some of your peers you know from having been on the same course for the last three years, whilst others come from different courses with an option to take this class as a module. it’s like one big melting pot of kids in STEM.

shrugging off your backpack once you’re settled, you can’t help but notice a familiar head of rose pink hair at the front of the theatre. you then have the profound realisation that it’s yuuji who’s talking animatedly with professor ieri about whatever it may be…and he’s early, which can’t be a good sign. you wonder if he managed to figure out things with his project partner, but by the dejected look on his gorgeous face and the way in which he clenches the strap of his own backpack, you think things might have gone wrong. 

you’re not sure how long you sit there, staring at someone you hardly even know — suspended in time from where you’ve been setting up your desk, but again, you’re hit with realisation that you’ve never actually looked at itadori before. not like this and not in person. in reality, yuuji looks sort of.. mundane? his sense of fashion is popular but in no way does it reflect the stereotypical jock. his muscular frame is downed what looks to be a plush red hoodie and his varsity jacket, he wears wide leg denim jeans and a pair of beat up converse you’d think only the alternative kids would wear.

the way itadori probably stands out amongst his teammates is even more attractive to you. 

but the giggles of an animated group across the room, also admiring yuuji, rips you from your fantasy and thrusts you back into back into monotonous existence. you turn your attention to them and their conversation. “he’s so freaking hot,” one of them gushes, hardly holding back from kicking her feet and squealing in her place.

“like even when he’s doing nothing… how is he this hot?” another one chimes in, pointing 

“but did you see him play last friday? i swear i almost jumped onto the pitch and—“ 

you stop listening in from there, tuning out their excited, fangirl-like-whispers. and like an unsuspecting victim, you’re served with another harsh reminder that there is no world in which you and itadori yuuji could possibly end up together. it’s like a child playing make believe, a fictional fairytale and you’re embarrassed for even looking at him that way. 

you’d never stand a chance. 

you hardly know one another.

when you look back towards the front of the theatre, yuuji’s disappointed gaze turns towards you at the same time — immediately lighting up at the sight of you unpacking at your regular seat. he gives you a small wave, adjusting the strap of his bag before heading up to your row. instinctively, your eyes drop to the blank notebook before you, scribbling down today’s date to avoid the jock’s warm stare. how humiliating, he caught you looking.

the steps leading up to where you’re seated creak under the weight of yuuji’s footsteps. “good morning itadori!” you hear your classmates from earlier sing, undoubtedly batting their eyelashes up at him and waving sweetly. you resist the urge to gag or scoff.

“mornin’ guys! let’s have a great class!” he greets them back, ever so polite. “uhh, hey! is this seat taken?” your breath hitches at his nearness, a timid reply catching in the ridges of your throat. before you even have a chance to get the words out, the pink haired jock is slipping off his backpack and sliding into the chair closest to you. in the end, you settle on shaking your head silently and shuffle your belongings over so that there’s space for your newfound friend while the other students begin to filter in. 

a moment passes with a beat of quietness, awkwardness filling the space between you both. “s-so,” swallowing the hoarseness in the base of your throat, you will yourself to at least speak to yuuji. make conversation. “any news on your project partner? your chat with professor ieri didn’t look so good.”

sighing deeply through his nose as he unpacks his laptop, yuuji rubs the back of his neck while frustration becomes evident on his features. “i tried all week to get in touch with her, but it turns out she’s dropped out, had to move back home for a family emergency or somethin’ so now i’m working alone.” a frown pulls at the corners of his plush lips. “i feel for her, but this project is important for my grade and scholarship. i dunno how to balance the workload on my own.” 

yuuji turns his laptop on but it  fails to boot up. it’s dead. again. “ah crap, no battery,” he curses, his irritation building in unsteady stacks. “s-sorry to dump on you so early in the morning, by the way. this week has been rough.” 

while observing him, you had remained quiet this entire time — unsure of how to comfort your classmate…but out of a strange urge to help, you reach into your pencil case for a muji pen and pass it to yuuji, along with some paper. “it’s okay… here,” grateful, albeit wobbly smile he rewards you with should not be poking at the dormant butterflies in your tummy.  “you could… always be my partner. if you wanted…” 

as the class grows increasingly busier, someone briefly walks by seeking a handshake from the all-star player beside you but all the while, his focus remains entirely on you. overwhelmingly thankful. it’s like he’s looking past your walls into the depths of your soul,’really looking at you… in awe of your kindness. 

“r-really? you don’t… you don’t have a partner already do you?” 

“odd number in the class, proff said i could join a three or work on my own so i…” you trail off. “i chose to work alone. it’s easier for me. b-but! i don’t mind partnering up with you, especially since we both want a good grade?”

you can only imagine how important this one grade is to yuuji — you’ve heard that he has a lot to prove. it’s not every day that a sports star as young as him gets a scholarship into a top university to study paramedic science, a course extremely difficult to get into. not to mention completely left of the field of what jocks ‘stereotypically’ study. 

you share his fire for doing well. biomedical science isn’t easy either.

amidst it all, yuuji gets so excited he launches himself at  you with a fully blown hug, repeatedly thanking you with a level of enthusiasm too high for 8:55AM. heat burns beneath the surface of your skin and you flush at how casual he is with you already. how he smells so good. you back up shyly. “i promise i’ll be a good partner, we… we can meet between my practises — even after! whenever’s best for you!” he notices the pen in his hand again and apologises for nearly crushing you and it. “god, i’ll be careful with this, your pens are so nice, they seem expensive.” 

“you can keep it,” you say softly, calming your heart down. “the paper from muji is really good too… um, i have spare notebooks back at my dorm. you can have one while we work on our project, if you want.” 

“i’d like that a lot… thank you,” he whispers your name again. “here, let’s swap instagrams so we can uh.. arrange when to meet up ‘n stuff?” 

“ah! okay,” pulling out your respective phones and opening the social media platform’s designated app — yuuji hands you his phone to enter your handle and follows you right then and there: you accept his request and follow him back, nervous about how he might view your feed. 

as if to break the ice, itadori  sends you a dm and a science meme. “woah, your feed is super neat. you’re really organised, huh?” 

you just nod shyly. “yeah…” 

the conversation begins to die off there as both of you turn to the front of the lecture hall as class begins. 

however secretly, yuuji hasn’t taken his eyes off of you once, overwhelmed by your kindness, your shyness and softness. he finds himself excited to work on this project with you. to get to know his new partner a little bit more… because he’s only ever seen you around on campus, in passing and  between classes. 

but as you concentrate on taking your notes with your fancy pens, and neat writing, checking your laptop from time to time — eyes illuminated by its blue light, he realises.it’s the first time yuuji itadori has ever truly laid eyes on you.

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