Gojo Trash

23 // The bags under my eyes are brought to you by Satoru Gojo

[sixxels-deactivated20260420-dea]

please be mine ! ~ s.gojo

wc: 4.7k || art creds: @/do0hwa

summary ~ satoru gojo, frat boy fuck up and shameless heartbreaker, has his whole world flipped when he notices the prettiest girl in his social studies class. suddenly ditching his hookups and wild ways, he devotes himself entirely to her, proving, loudly, obnoxiously, and wholeheartedly, that even an untouchable asshole can fall in love. (fluff)

satoru gojo was the kind of guy you heard about in whispers before you ever saw him in person, like a myth given a six foot four body, tussled white hair and a dangerously poisonous grin.

you probably knew his name before you even set foot on campus, i mean, everyone did.

he was the kinda frat boy everyone and their mothers would warn you about. pretty much a walking red flag who still, somehow, had half the university drooling at the foot of his expensive sneakers.

people lost their minds gossiping about him, while guys wanted to be him and girls wanted to be with him, he had everyone either obsessing or plotting his demise. with all that attention comes a wicked ego, and satoru was not one to shy away from admitting he thought he was the best thing to ever happen to this university. he was an intensive, arrogant, entitled dick in every sense of the meaning.

his reputation was built off of hot, messy nights and really shitty decisions.

he’d stumble out of one girl’s dorm room at 2.a.m, only to crash a sorority mixer at 3.

he’d hook up with someone’s best friend on friday, then text that same girl’s roommate on saturday.

he didn’t discriminate, either.

freshmen, seniors, sorority girls, athletes, even a teaching assistant once, if the rumors were true.

he had a type, sure, but it was less about looks and more about who was available and willing to let him flash that cocky grin in their direction.

and when he wasn’t fucking half the campus population? he was talking shit, running his mouth. satoru lived to mind fuck anyone who crossed his path.

he’d clap back at professors mid-lecture, throw casual digging insults at his teammates during practice, or lean out of the frat house windows yelling down at passersby just to get a rise out of them.

gojo wasn't one to settle, he was loud, fast paced, and too full of himself to really slow down and appreciate anything.

so, it was no surprise that when he strutted into your social studies lecture, ten minutes late with sunglasses on and a protein shake in hand, no one batted an eye. it was just gojo being gojo, after all.

you, though, you were new to the spectacle.

you'd slipped into the back row that day with your notebook neatly open and your pen poised in your hand. you weren’t the kind of person who drew in any unwanted attention, no. you came to class, you took pretty notes, then you went home. simple! your outlook on life was nice and quiet, very orderly, and completely filled with the a sense of calm people envied.

the complete opposite of the flashy guy who's just strolled in.

gojo didn’t notice you, because why would he? he was too busy propping his feet up on the desk in front of him, whispering some crude joke to the guy next to him, and grinning when the professor sighed like she wanted to strangle him.

but then, halfway through the lecture, he caught something out of the corner of his eye.

you.

and he swears he almost choked on his spit.

you were leaning prettily over your notebook with your hair falling in your face as you scribbled cliff notes, as if the lecture he'd decided wasn't worth his attention really mattered to you. your pen tapped lightly against the page when you paused to think. and then, you looked up. only for a second. but your eyes lifted toward the projector screen, the light catching your face just right.

and this time it was gojo's brain being mind fucked.

what the fuck?

how had he never seen you before? he knew everyone, or at least knew of them. but you? you looked like you belonged in another world entirely. you were drop dead gorgeous, so incredibly soft, far too perfect for this mundane lecture he'd despised since joining this class.

you weren’t looking at him. you didn’t laugh when he cracked a piss funny joke under his breath. you didn’t whisper to the girl next to you about whatever scandal he got himself into recently. you didn’t even glance his way.

that was new.

very new.

and for the first time in maybe forever, gojo felt... thrown off?

he kept sneaking glances the rest of the lecture, his sunglasses sliding down his nose so he could actually see you better. every time you tucked your hair behind your ear or chewed on your pen cap, his chest tightened up and pounded harder.

he leaned over to whisper something to nanami who sat next to him, "nanamin, that girl... oh my god, she is the prettiest person i've ever fucking seen."

nanami glanced up at who he was talking about and was clearly a little taken aback as well, but agreed promptly nonetheless.

you weren’t loud or dressed to turn any heads, you weren’t doing anything at all to stand out. and yet, he couldn’t make himself stop staring even if he tried.

the second class ended, you packed up quickly and slipped out before he could catch you, but that didn’t matter.

because now he was head over heels obsessed with a girl he didn't even know the name of.

later that night, while the frat house was pulsing with music and sweaty bodies crushed together on the dance floor, gojo sat sprawled across his couch with a beer in hand.

girls passed by, some throwing him flirty smiles, one even trying to perch herself in his lap. normally, that would have been the highlight of his night. but instead, his mind kept circling back to the image of you in that back row seat.

who the hell were you? some perfect slice of heaven he couldn't stop dreaming about, that's who.

by midnight, he was leaning over to sukuna half-drunk and mumbling, muttering, “bro, i saw the prettiest girl in lecture today. like, actually aphrodite. i think i’m in love with her.”

sukuna laughed in his face, obviously, then told him he was full of shit.

but gojo really wasn’t joking.

the way you looked so unbothered by him, so wrapped up in your own little world, so untouchably kind without even saying a word, gojo was absolutely star struck.

and for the first time in his ridiculous life, he finally took a deeper look at himself and saw a problem with his overall personality.

he wanted more than just a night with you. he wanted you to actually see him for what he was. which, to anyone's standard, wasn't anything worth wanting, admittedly. he figured if he just stuck by you long enough, made a good first impression, the rumours wouldn't catch up to you, and he could rebuild his own image in your eyes.

~

the next time he knew he would see you, he didn’t waste a second.

he showed up to lecture early, (which was unheard of) and sat down before the professor even arrived. that way, he would already in the room when you walked in, slouched casually in the back row like he hadn’t been waiting there for fifteen minutes just to see you again.

you plopped down into the same seat, pulling out your notebook like always. and before you could even click your pen, there he was leaning one long arm across the desk between you.

“hey, pretty girl.” he drawled, you could tell he was trying to be nonchalant, but eyes stayed sharp on your face. “i’m satoru.”

you blinked at him, surprised that someone like him had even spoken to you. “hi.”

“hi?” his grin widened. “that’s it? no ‘oh my god, you’re the satoru gojo?'” as soon as it left his mouth he internally strangled himself.

yikes... i'm embarrassing.

you raised an eyebrow, a little confused. "is that... not a normal reaction?”

he laughed, loud enough to draw looks from a few rows ahead. you turned back to your notebook, a slight blush of embarrassment brushing your cheeks as you fiddled with your pen.

he felt his throat close up at a lack of words to say to you, like you'd struck him so hard with your allure he couldn't bark out an insensitive comment if he tried.

this was getting hard... you weren’t impressed, like, at all. not in the way everyone else was. you weren’t leaning toward him, or batting your lashes, or asking for his number before he even offered it. you were being polite although still a little cautious, maybe even amused, but not smitten.

gojo lived for attention. but yours? yours he had to earn, apparently.

so after that, he stuck to you like glue.

if you were in class, he was next to you, pretending to take notes while actually doodling dumb cartoons in the margins and sliding them your way.

if you loitered around in the long hallways after classes, he was suddenly at your side, cracking jokes and asking what you were doing later, and if he could tag along.

if you went to the library, somehow he was there too, manspreading out across from you and loudly declaring he was there to “study” while actually just distracting you until you gave in and laughed at his ridiculous brain rot jokes.

he followed you like a lost puppy, and it was becoming a well known thing around campus that gojo was being bitched by a girl no one knew.

the girls he used to text at 1.a.m stopped hearing from him. his name faded from gossip about who hooked up with who last weekend. even his brothers were suspicious, watching as the guy who used to thrive on sex and spirits suddenly spent his time orbiting one person.

“you’ve got a weirdly big crush on her,” choso muttered one night, exhaling smoke as he leaned back on the old raggedy couch. the party raged around them with the heavy bass vibrating through the walls, but gojo wasn’t on the dance floor. he was laid out beside choso, drink untouched, talking about you.

“not weird,” gojo argued, though his grin betrayed him. “just… very invested.”

“bro, you haven’t gotten laid in like... a month?"

“so? i don’t need to. she’s got my full attention.”

“right,” choso echoed flatly, passing him the joint.

gojo didn’t even smoke it. just twirled it between his fingers, staring into the crowd like he could manifest you appearing there even though he knew you’d never set foot in a place like this.

because that was the thing, he learned quickly you weren’t a party girl. you’d wrinkle your nose when he invited you to a rager, politely decline with a smile that never felt judgmental, just firm. you told him you preferred nights in, maybe a movie or book before bed.

at first, it drove him insane. he wanted you here, pressed into his side on the couch while the music pulsed and the drinks flowed.

he wanted to show you off, parade you through the crowd like proof he’d actually bagged a 'real girl' as his friends liked to put it. but he also didn’t want to push you.

so instead, he stayed sober at parties, sinking into the couch with choso or nanami and rambling about you.

how your laugh had slipped out in class that day when he whispered something dumb under his breath.

how your handwriting was neat enough to write on architecture pieces.

how you always brought an extra granola bar and offered it to him sweetly like kindness was your second language.

“i wish she liked this shit,” he admitted one night, watching the door like maybe you’d magically walk through it. “like, imagine her sitting here with us. i’d never leave the couch.”

“you already never leave the couch,” choso pointed out.

“yeah, but if she was here, it’d be romantic.”

nanami groaned. “you’re gross.”

none of them had ever seen gojo like this. he wasn’t chasing anyone else or flashing his usual cocky smirk at every girl who crossed his path.

his phone, once a graveyard of unanswered texts from hookups, was now filled with drafts to you. memes he wanted to send, dumb thoughts he thought might make you laugh, questions about class he didn’t actually need answers to.

and you, well, you thought he was just being friendly.

when he plopped down next to you in the cafeteria, stealing fries off your tray and launching into some dramatic story about how his friend yuji nearly set the kitchen on fire, you laughed and rolled your eyes. when he followed you to the bookstore, carrying your bag without you needing to ask and tossing commentary at every shelf you paused at, you shook your head but didn’t shoo him away.

"ooo, yr' into romance, huh? spicy." he teased, ruffling your hair from his much taller stature.

you'd just smile in response and elbow him in the ribs before moving onto the next shelf.

"shuddup."

when he texted you at 1.a.m with a picture of his half finished essay and a caption like 'this is actually so fucking bad. please help me?' you sent back a laughing emoji and told him you'd help him tommorow after class.

to you, he was becoming a friend. an annoying, persistent, weirdly charming friend, but a friend all the same.

to him, though, you were everything but just a companion.

he'd carefully made sure not to let any sort of mean comment slip past his lips, no display of rude and selfish gojo around you, that's for sure. he'd rather cut his hand off then be anything but kind to you.

now, it'd been two months since satoru's crush had developed.

a whole two months of him ignoring every girl who still tried to flirt with him, brushing them off with that distracted smile only guys who aren't interested in you flash.

two months of him waiting outside your classes just to walk you home, two months of him sitting at frat parties with choso, whining about how badly he wanted you to see him the way he saw you.

every day he grew more certain, and every night, more restless.

he wanted you.

he wanted you badly, and not for a night, not for a quick month-long relationship, no. he wanted you for-ever.

and gojo satoru, the frat boy slag who'd never before cared about someone quite as much as you, was willing to wait as long as it took for you to realise that he was in love with you.

~

by the time the second month bled into the third, everyone around him was sick of hearing your name.

like, really sick.

“bro, you literally said her name four times in the last five minutes,” itadori groaned, dropping his controller when gojo steamrolled him in mario kart for the twentieth time. “i get it, she has cute handwriting. just shut up.”

“you don’t understand,” gojo fired back, grinning like an idiot. “it’s not just cute, it’s like… symmetrically pleasing and shit.”

megumi sighed from the other end of the couch. “you sound like a weird stalker.”

“weird! why does everyone keep saying that. i'm not weird, i’m in love,” gojo corrected, then flopped backwards so his head hung off the couch, hair brushing the floor. “and none of you support me. such fake fucking assholes.”

he was getting seriously unbearable. his brothers started taking bets on when he’d crack and either confess to you, or just combust from sheer pining. even sukuna, who usually wanted nothing to do with other people’s lives, snapped one night when gojo showed up at his door for the fifth time in a week, ranting about how you’d smiled at him in class.

“jesus christ,” sukuna growled, tossing a pillow at his face. “just ask her out already before i sew your mouth shut.”

but asking you out wasn’t that simple.

gojo had never been nervous about that kind of thing before. usually, if he wanted someone, he got them almost immediately.

shit, he didn’t even have to try. one smile, one joke, and girls were climbing into his lap like hungry caterpillars to a big juicy leaf.

rejection wasn’t really in the realm of possibility when it came to chicks like that.

but you weren’t like them, fortunately and unfortunately.

you were so careful with how you conducted yourself, even someone as shallow as him noticed it in the way you took your time answering him sometimes, like you were weighing up his words for some secret meaning. you always tilted your head when he told a story, like you were trying to figure out what was true and what was exaggeration. you'd always politely ignored the flirty comments he sometimes let slip, as if you didn’t want to encourage him.

you didn’t trust him, not fully, at least. and why would you? his reputation clung to him like a bad, hazy smoke.

you’d probably heard the stories about how he slept around, how he treated people, especially women, like toys. how he broke seas of red hearts without a second thought. perhaps you thought you’d be just another notch in his bedpost if you gave him a chance.

the thing was, you weren’t wrong. if this had been a year ago, maybe even a few months ago, that would’ve been exactly what he wanted. but now? now he wanted something sustainable in his since now, fucked up life.

so for the weeks after coming to terms with his truest feelings of being head over heels in love with you, he walked you to your cute little apartment every single day without fail, made you laugh until you covered your mouth to hide your pretty smile, never let you carry anything, bought you coffee.

he turned down girls left right and center, letting their numbers rot unread in his phone. yet he lingered on your texts, typing and deleting responses just to make sure they came out right so you wouldn't overthink like he knew you did.

but still, the words “will you go out with me” stuck like cement in his throat, never to be uttered without an entree of vomit.

until one friday afternoon.

the two of you had stayed late in the schools library, your notes spread across the wooden table while he pretended to study but really just doodled little caricatures of you on his paper.

the sun dipped low through the stained glass windows, painting everything an intoxicating gold. you pushed your books into your bag and stretched, your sweater slipping down your chest enough to expose your collarbone, and gojo nearly lost his mind.

"fuck.." he'd groan.

"hm? did you say something?" you asked sweetly, fidgeting with your sleeve.

god.. he had to do it. he couldn’t drag this out anymore. collarbones were driving him up the wall, for gods sake.

“hey,” he blurted out. you glanced up at him with your eyebrows raised, and he rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly uncharacteristically awkward. “so, uh… i’ve been thinking.”

“hmm, that's rare,” you teased, zipping up your bag.

“ha ha. real funny. but no, seriously.” he leaned forward, trying to mask how fast his heart was beating. “i really like you, y/n.”

you froze in your place. your hands stilled on your bag, and your eyes darted quickly up to his.

“uh?..”

“no, wait, don’t give me that voice,” he rushed, holding up a hand. “the one that’s like ‘you’re full of shit, satoru.’ i’m not. i really really mean it.”

you sighed, and for a moment, he thought you might laugh in his face. please, please don't laugh in my face!

but instead, you murmur, “you have a pretty bad reputation with girls, you know.”

hm.. “yeah... i know.” his grin faltered, replaced by a nervous tick of the lip. “but, y/n, look." he breathes out to steady himself. "i swear, you're not like those stupid flings, okay? genuinely i.. i really like you.”

you pause again, searching his eyes for any hint of deceit. "i don't know, toru..."

“look... i know i was abit of, well... a whore. but please believe me. ever since i met you, y/n... i've stopped all of that shit.”

he sounded so cliche, you didn't know whether to laugh or sob of embarrassment.

“i haven’t touched anyone else since i met you. i don’t even look at anyone else—" he pleads. he saw your distrusting face and started to panic more than before. "—i think about you when i wake up, when i go to bed, every dumb second in between. i’m not good at this whole… sincerity thing, but i’m trying, okay? because you’re worth it.”

okay, that was a bit better. you're a little shocked at his admission.

“please,” he added, less panicky. “just one date. if i’m still the asshole everyone thinks i am, you can walk away. but give me the chance to prove i’m not.”

silence bended and stretched between the two of you like a rubber band, but finally, you exhaled. “okay, satoru.”

his head snapped up. “wait— really?"

“yes, you big dummy,” you joked, standing and slinging your bag over your shoulder.

gojo shot to his feet so fast his chair screeched against the floor. “you won’t regret this. i swear you won’t. best date of your life, promise.”

you shook your head, but there was the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at your lips.

and just like that, he was soaring.

he walked you home that evening practically buzzing out of his fair skin. every step felt too small for how big this moment was. he wanted to shout it off rooftops, text everyone in his contacts about how he'd bagged a first date, run a victory lap around campus.

instead, he saved it until he got back to the frat house.

the second he walked in, he threw his arms up like he’d just won a championship. “boys!” he bellowed, voice carrying over the tv. “she said yes!”

heads turned. groans and cheers erupted in equal measure. itadori nearly spit out his drink, megumi buried his face in his hands, and choso just muttered, “thank god” under his breath.

but gojo wasn’t done.

he bounded up the stairs two at a time and slammed open sukuna’s door. “she said yes!”

sukuna scowled from his desk, mid-study. “get out.”

“no, listen, she actually said yes! first date, it’s happening, i’m a taken man now, kiss bachelor gojo goodbye!”

a pillow hit him square in the face. “i don’t care.”

“you care a little,” gojo sang, ducking out before sukuna could throw something heavier.

then he bolted to the kitchen, where nanami was quietly making tea. he skidded in, nearly crashing into the counter, and declared, “nanamin, she said yes!”

the blonde didn’t even look up. “please stop yelling.”

“you don’t get it,” gojo insisted, grabbing him by the shoulders. “this is life-changing. history in the making. i’m officially off the market!"

“congratulations,” nanami deadpanned, prying his hands off. “now leave me alone.”

but nothing could dull his grin. not the groans, not the insults, not the pillows thrown at his face. because for the first time in his ridiculous, chaotic life, satoru gojo had something real to hold onto.

and it was you.

~

the night of your first date, gojo treated it like he was gearing up for war.

not the usual fuck boy “spray on half a can of cologne and call it a day” kind of prep. oh no, he actually cared this time.

he spent a full hour in front of the mirror, changing shirt five times, arguing with himself about whether a button-up was too try-hard or if a hoodie was too lazy. nanami, who had the misfortune of walking past his room, stopped dead in the doorway and just stared.

“what are you doing,” nanami asked flatly.

“bro, i told you already, i have a date."

“never seen you this stressed about getting ready for a dumb date.”

“fuck, do you even listen to me? you don’t get it. it’s the date. my first date with y/n.”

nanami sighed so hard it sounded painful. “oh yeah. god help that poor girl.”

but underneath the jokes and quips, gojo’s chest was tight with more nerves than he'd ever felt. his hands actually shook when he tied his sneakers. when had that ever happened before? he’d walked into hookups without a single thought, breezed through flings like they were nothing. but you weren’t a fling. you were a person he simply couldn’t afford to screw this up with.

he showed up right on time, knocking on your door with his heart hammering against his ribs. when you opened it, dressed prettily and glowing in a way that made him lose his breath, he forgot every dumb speech he’d rehearsed in the mirror.

“you look…” he swallowed, his usual smooth confidence tripping over itself. “holy shit. you look amazing.”

you flushed, ducking your head. “thanks, toru. you too.”

he grinned impossibly wide, and offered his muscular arm out like he was escorting you to a ball instead of just dinner.

the date wasn’t extravagant. gojo debated booking some over-the-top spot, something flashy to prove he was serious about all of this. but then he remembered what you’d told him.

you liked cozy, simple things. so he picked a quiet ramen place off campus, one with dim lights and big portions, where you could actually talk.

and talk you did.

at first, you were slightly guarded despite talking to him everyday for the past three months, shoulders tense and your answers a tad clipped. but gojo didn’t push. he knew that if he led, you'd follow right along after him.

he asked about your home life, your favorite everything, whether you liked digimon. he told you dumb stories about his frat, exaggerated his way through a tale about sukuna accidentally breaking a chair with one punch, and laughed at his own jokes just to see if it would make you laugh too.

just like he'd proclaimed, slowly, you relaxed. your giggles poured out much easier, your smile was gentle but genuine. and every time you looked at him, he felt like he was being seen in a way no one else had ever bothered to. not as some douche bag with a less than stellar reputation, or a guy who'd sooner fuck a tree than go out on a prepped date, just as satoru.

by the time dinner ended, you weren’t thinking about his rumoured womanising ways anymore. you were thinking about how he held the door for you, how he listened when you spoke, how he didn’t make a single flirty comment that felt like a small piece in his master 'get y/n to sleep with me' plan.

you were thinking maybe, just maybe, he meant what he said about being sincere.

afterwards, in the chill of the night, he walked you back to your apartment. with a fat smile on his face and his hands just aching to reach out and grab yours, he started to make small talk to fill the gap of silence.

“so,” he said, lifting his head toward you. “be honest. was that the worst date of your life, or just like... bottom three?”

you laughed, shaking your head. “yeah, i guess it was good.”

“good?” he gasped, feigning offense. “just good? i poured my heart and soul into that top-tier-date!"

his heart nearly melted at the sound of your giggle. “finee. it was really good, satoru.”

his grin softened, and he hummed sweetly. “hm. better.”

your date was drawing to an end as you stop outside your apartment, turning to face him. “thanks for tonight, it was really fun..." you smile up at him, you blush at the way he smiles back so fondly. "i really enjoyed it, toru,”

he could pass away right now and feel forever fulfilledZ “no, no. thank you for saying yes.” his voice dropped, sincerity seeping through. “seriously... i know you didn’t have to, and i know what people say about me. i’m glad you gave me a chance.”

you hesitated, then smiled nice and big. “me too.”

gojo’s heart soared. "so... how about a second date?" he asked with a shy blush, fiddling with his fingers behind his back.

you smiled softly, and let your eyes fall to the floor before responding with a bashful laugh. "of course, i'd love that."

he wanted to kiss you, wanted it so bad his chest ached with it. but he didn’t push. instead, he stepped back with a lopsided grin. "thank god. i'll make the second one even better, y/n, promise."

for once in his life he wasn't following someone inside after a date to get what he wanted, he was taking things slow, at your pace.

“sleep well, sweetheart.” he grinned, watching as you waved at him goodbye.

you disappeared inside, and the second the door shut behind you, he quite literally jumps for joy.

he jogged back to the frat like he had rockets strapped to his shoes, smiling so hard his face hurt. the second he burst through the front door, he shouted at the top of his lungs.

“she had fun! she actually had fun! i didn’t blow it!”

the guys groaned from the living room.

“we get it!” itadori yelled.

but gojo was unstoppable. he sprinted upstairs to sukuna’s room, threw the door open without knocking, and declared, “she likes me!”

“get the fuck out, i've already told you, i don't c—” sukuna's cut off by gojo's blabbering.

“—she likes me,” gojo repeated, ignoring the death glare. “i told you i wasn’t full of shit!”

“if you don’t leave in five seconds, you won’t live to see a second date.”

gojo ducked out, laughing like a madman, and bolted straight to the kitchen. nanami was, once again, making tea.

“nanamin!” gojo sang, sliding across the tile like a kid. “she laughed at my jokes. she smiled with me. she actually said she had fun!"

“you’re very loud,” nanami muttered, not looking up.

“i’m very in love,” gojo shot back, leaning against the counter with a dreamy sigh.

nanami rolled his eyes but decided that arguing with this meat head was pointless.

for the rest of the night, gojo couldn’t stop. he told anyone who would listen, hell, even people who didn’t want to, that he’d taken you out, that it went well, that you’d agreed to a second date. he paced the halls at 2.a.m, still riding the high, muttering to himself about what he’d plan next time.

and to be fair, this time the frat didn’t tease him too hard. because they all saw the way he lit up at the mention of you. the way his shit eating grin would soften when he said your name. the way the infamous campus fuckwit had gone three whole months without a single hookup, without a single scandal, because he only wanted one girl.

satoru gojo was finally caught. and the truth was, he didn’t want to be anywhere else but with you.

"hmm... maybe a cat cafe next."

m.list 💞

[pillsatoru]

HOW TO LOSE A GUY IN 10 DAYS - PIN IT 𑣲 gojo x reader

synopsis ⟢ you've ran out of things to publish for the school's magazines, that is until your friend brought up an amazing suggestion after seeing another friend get absolutely heartbroken, you all figured it would only be appropriate to have an article for what not to do for dating. so you take up the role of the annoying clingy girlfriend with none other than Satoru Gojo. but things go south when he's not taking the bait and actually falls for you instead.

pairing ⊹ ࣪ ˖ uni au soccer player! gojo x journalist! reader

warning / tags : 18+, fem reader, angst, fluff, second hand embarrassment, jealousy, he falls first she fell harder, cursing, gojo is a total sweetheart, eventual smut, tba ... art @/naomiiocha series masterlist here

Chic of the week. 

It’s everything put onto a magazine. Fashion, culture, love, diets, anything you can think of that will help out the girls of New York University. You blink repeatedly at your dry eyes that have been staring at your computer screen. 

“I’ve got nothing.” You placed your hands to the back of your head, slugging back at your desk chair with a groan. Even after hours of thinking about your next issue, nothing came to mind. Utahime leaned over, peeking at the blank screen, watching as the cursor blinked. “Oh sweetheart, you’ve got writer's block?” You nodded, poking your tongue against your cheek. 

“I just wish I could write about something other than how to properly wax your armpits, or how to lose weight in 5 days. There’s real world problems out there that I would love to bring awareness to.” 

“Yeah well, this is a chic magazine, not a political magazine. Once you have your career and you’re out of this hell hole, write all about what you want.” Utahime reasoned. She was right, this wasn’t a job, it’s just a club that writes for the school. 

“Where’s Miwa when you need her?” Your voice came out in a whine, slamming your fingers at your keyboard. Utahime glanced around the room, looking for the familiar blue hair. “She’s late. The meeting began over half an hour ago.” 

She sighed, stepping back when you pushed off your desk. “Look what came into my mail this morning.” You grumbled. Utahume’s ears perked up, reaching for the envelope. Inside were two tickets to the world cup. USA versus Paraguay, middle seats, perfect view. “Woah ho-ho, what are these?” 

“Remember that editor from the sports magazine I had a drink or two with last week? Guess he mistook my kindness for flirting or maybe he really appreciated me being the sweet girl I am.” 

“Must be nice.” 

You both turned to the voice behind you, making you and Utahime jump in fear. 

“Miwa! Jesus.” Your hand grabbed onto your chest, feeling your heartbeat accelerate. There were dark circles underneath her eyes and the ruined mascara evidence of tears. “What happened to you?” 

“What didn’t happen?” She sniffled, dragging his hand over her stuffy nose. “He dumped me. Oh my god, he dumped me.” 

“Get her a cigarette.” Utahime whispered. You hurriedly digged into your purse, taking out the box of cigs, handing them over to Miwa. “You guys didn’t make it past two weeks.” You hit Utahime’s stomach with your elbow, making her wince. 

“I know. And it was the best goddamn week and a half of my life.” 

“What even happened girl?” You opened up your arms to comfort her in a hug that she happily accepted. “I don’t really wanna talk about it.” 

You nodded, rubbing her back. 

Then, she broke down again. “He said I was ‘too much’ and I didn’t understand because I thought everything was going great! It was great and I blew it all up because I moved too quickly.” 

“What do you mean?” Utahime rested against the desk after trying her long hair into a ponytail in hopes of escaping the hot weather. “Don’t tell me you said ‘I love you’, that’s common sense.” She snickered. 

“Well..” 

“Miwa.” You and Utahime scolded. 

“The sex was really beautiful!” Miwa added, as if that made matters better. “And I cried and I said it, it just slipped out!” 

“That’s why he ended it?” 

“I think. Or maybe it was because of the amount of times I called him while he was “busy” or y’know, it’s probably because I’m fat.” 

“You’re not fat.” Your voices came out in unison once again. As you continued scolding Miwa for her poor choices in the ephemeral relationship, a lightbulb turned on inside Utahime's head. She clapped her hands in order to get your attention. “There it is. There’s your page.” 

“My page?” 

“Uh huh. Think about all those girls on this campus who are struggling just like Miwa. Ones that have problems hanging on to relationships. You can write about these classic mistakes most women do that drive men away.” 

You stood up straighter, all kinds of ideas popping into your head. “That’s not bad at all. I can ‘date’ a guy and see how long it takes until he snaps.” 

Your friend nodded, squealing. “Yes!” She clasped her hands with yours, jumping up and down. “It’ll be titled ‘How to lose a guy in 10 ways..” Utahime looked over to her fourth wall, moving her hand to the side to picture the title. 

Miwa blew her nose loudly, reminding you that she was still here. 

“How about ‘How to lose a guy in 10 days?’ That’s the total you guys were together right?” You cringed when Miwa threw her used tissue on your desk. “Yes, that’s right.” 

“Perfect. Now all that’s left is to find the guy.” 

The windows in the classroom were open, letting the slight breeze pass in. Outside, a whistle blew along with some yelling. “I can’t focus with all the chatter, what’s even going on?” You all made your way towards the window, peeking out. The soccer team was lined up, some doing reps while others stood by, discussing some very serious matter. 

“They’re getting ready for an upcoming game.” You leaned forward, hair blowing all over the place. The field was buzzing with energy, cleats full of the freshly cut grass. Miwa walked away, crying once again. “I saw him just now.” 

“Oh my god Miwa.” Utahime followed after her. 

You stayed put, skimming through the small crowd until someone stood out. His white hair almost blinded you from the sun’s reflection. The guy was tall and well built, you could tell even from a distance. “What about him?” 

“Who?” 

“Number 10.” 

Utahime immediately groaned. “Oh absolutely not. He’d drive you insane before you even got to try your little experiment first.” 

“Do you know him personally?” Your eyes never left him. 

“Satoru Gojo. Went to high school with him, worst guy ever. He never knows when to shut up.” You finally left the window, deep in thought. “Then I guess I’ll be the one to change him up.” 

⋆˚꩜｡

The team was still outside having practice games, taking turns shooting at the net. A boy with hair thrown up into a bun kicked harshly only to miss, earning a groan from others. “Yo man, it’s like you've got two left legs!” 

“I’ll shove them both up your ass if you don’t shut the fuck up.” 

Yikes. You lingered a moment before going over to the bleachers. There he was, standing with both hands on his hips, getting ready to catch the ball. 

“How do you plan on talking to him?” Miwa leaned over to whisper into your ear. You hushed her, about to scold her for her attempt at whispering when suddenly, the ball came flying directly at you, hitting you straight in the face. 

A sharp pain struck across your nose, making you bring your hands up to cover it. 

“Oh my god!” Miwa’s voice jumped an octave, grabbing your arm to gently tug it off your face. “Hold on, let me see!”

Another voice appeared, one that was breathless and panicked. “Shit, I’m so so sorry! Are you okay? I have a super bad aim today for some reason.” Your eyes widened when they met him, it was Satoru, looking down at you with a worried look on his face. 

He was even more oddly beautiful up close. 

“Uh.. it’s fine.” You managed out. 

“Are you sure? You don’t look fine.” He chuckled, wiping the small drop of blood that dripped out your nostril. “That’s gonna leave a bruise.” If it wasn’t for your article, you would've punched him repeatedly to break his nose. “I’m sorry again.. Uh I can go get you ice-”

“No, no it's fine, seriously.” 

Miwa gave you a look, one that was urging you to ask him for his number or anything. “You can make it up to me some other way..” Your words slipped out suddenly. Satoru’s brows lifted. “Yeah? What way are we talking here?” 

A grin was slowly morphing its way onto his face. 

“.. By taking me out.” 

“Out?”

“On a date.”

taglist -

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[madamechrissy]

♡ Time after Time ♡

You have been CEO Satoru Gojo's head assistant for over two years now - You do everything for him, including cleaning his messes, picking out his clothes, and writing his speeches. Sixteen hour days, night calls, you're tired of being overworked and at his beck and call. You decide you are going to put in your two weeks notice - when he finds out? He's shocked! Don't you love working for a bratty, spoiled Nepo baby 24/7!? He'll do anything to keep you - but you know better. Right?

pairings - CEO! Satoru x asst! reader

warnings - lots of sexual tension, Gojo being a spoiled brat, Nanami being sexy and tired, mentions of masturbation, mentions of Gojo being a lil slut, power dynamics, enemies to lovers type shit -eventual smut, eventual angst, mentions of drug use, two weeks notice vibes - 5.7k

this is a complete rewrite of my first fic - it's gonna be a lot different tbh, just this added 1.5k WC hehe. I'm so excited to do this one in my current writing style! I should have these out rather fast, tags open <3

art creds here

Chapter 1 - Drowning in You

You were tired.

Well past a vacation, insanely exhausted – so damn tired today, no amount of coffee could give you enough pep to make it through the day. You needed a fucking break – a long one at that. Your mind wanders to that vacation away from Tokyo that will never happen, not because you don’t have vacation days or money, no you have days stacked up.

Three weeks of PTO along with four weeks vacation, you could slip away for an entire two months damn near, but how would everything fall apart if you did? No it wasn’t lack of PTO, lack of money, shit you tend to work twelve to sixteen hour days sometimes, five to seven days a week on any given pay schedule.

Why do you work so much?

Well, it is the man you’re peering at across from you – the needy, whiny, annoying ass boss, Satoru Gojo.

Always asking you to stay at work late, always running his errands – even the smallest ones that he could do himself. Constantly saving his ass, covering for him when he didn’t prepare for an event, writing all his speeches, making those presentations. Fuck, you had to find him dates for these events because he couldn’t be bothered.

When the CEO Satoru Gojo wanted something, he got it, and it didn't matter if it ruined every plan you ever had, you had to get it done for him.

He ran casinos, owned his own hotel chain, several  nightclubs – some that just seemed a little shady to be honest. You name it, and Satoru Gojo probably owned it. He’d inherited some extreme wealth from his family – but mostly he was self made. Even the tower you worked in – Kamo Tower – was one of the best high rises in the city, everything Gojo touched seemed to turn to gold, or better yet platinum.

You had been so excited two years ago to be hired on as his intern, then ecstatic when you quickly moved up the ranks to be his head assistant. You made very money, in that Gojo was extremely generous – enough to send home to your family and take care of them too. It’s not the money that’s the problem, it’s the lack of a life – you literally were constantly at that man's beck and call.

Your tired eyes lower as you rest your chin on your hand for a moment, for even last night at two am you'd had to run to his fucking rescue. You were asleep, but the phone never stops fucking buzzing.

Dick boss: (yes that’s his name) Sweetheart, I need you.

You: no.

Dick boss: triple OT pay?

You: fuck. What is it?

Dick Boss: I'm in a bit of a bind…

The bind? Oh, that was three passed out naked women in his bed, and a room destroyed from some insane party he’d thrown, white powder residue left in his nose and all over the tables. Well that wouldn’t do – because Satoru needed his beauty rest! Surely you could fix that, right?

Thank you sweetheart, you’re just the best assistant ever!

You had given him the middle finger.

The night before that? Well he had urgently needed you to pick out his outfit for his soiree, he was too coked out to pick apparently – at three in the goddamn morning, you’d had to leave in your pajamas. Gojo Satoru had so many three piece suits, ties and shoes, it was actually disgusting.

Nanami Kento walks up to you, bringing you out of your daydream – he’s a little overworked from his own boss in the building, a trait you two share as head assistants. He hands you a cup of coffee in a styrofoam cup, with your name written on it in sharpie, clearly from one of the coffee shops nearby.

Dirty blonde and handsome, his suit stretched across his muscles just so… and fuck if he didn’t look like he needed a damn vacation too. If you had time to have any sort of fucking life you would have flirted with him a little bit for sure, ask him out for a drink if you could hold your eyes open past ten pm.

Maybe he would have, too?

“Long night?” Kento asks softly, grabbing you out of your thoughts, an amused expression on his face.

You sigh, nodding. “You could say that, thank you for the coffee Nanami! I owe you the next one.”

You let the sweet liquid hit your lips, eyes peering to Gojo's office. There was some lady in there, pretty as fuck in some crazy attempt at business stripper chic, sort of Gojo’s vibe. Yet instead of him eyeing her, he for some reason was scowling at you. What, you dared to sip coffee and not work for two minutes?

“Not at all,” Nanami says, clearing his throat. “Happy birthday.” 

“Shit that’s today?” You teased, but you did know, smiling and leaning back.

“We don’t really get birthdays,” he mumbles, running a hand over his face.

You grimace, sipping the coffee again. “No we really don’t, but thank you!”

“Of course. Take care of yourself okay? Gojo is… ugh.” Nanami looks disgusted as he shakes his head, pushing up his fancy glasses. You couldn’t help but giggle at that as he walks off.

Your phone rings, because of course Gojo can't just come to you, how could his spoiled ass walk a few steps!? No, you must go to him.

“Yes, Sir?” You answer the phone, trying not to roll your eyes, tapping your pretty glittery manicured nails on your desk, the one treat you gave yourself.

“Meet me in my office, sweetheart. Now.” That silken command may have excited most women, shit, most human beings, but it was just a constant source of annoyance for you.

You clear your throat and plaster on a smile. “Coming, Mr. Gojo.”

You smooth down your cute little office dress, if you had to be miserable you’d at least be presentable about it! You’re adjusting the buckle of your belt just a tad before walking towards the giant glass office, lit bright by the sun, peering in the door way to see the bane of your existence.

Gojo’s office had floor to ceiling windows surrounding it that had a ridiculous view of the cityscape below. You all were on the very top floor of Kamo Tower, after all. The air was filled with a faint scent, these hints of bergamot from his cologne, it was all something that was very distinctive to Gojo.

He may be a little shit but he smelled good.

He also looked good, reclining casually in that leather chair, his signature dark blue Gucci sunglasses on, round ones that are covering those ridiculous blue eyes. Which you honestly appreciate, because they were so damn pretty it made it hard to focus, even after two years of working as his assistant you weren’t immune to those baby blues.

“Sir?” You stand there cautiously, thinking of just putting in your notice then and fucking there, like that dream you had in your two hours of sleep.

Satoru taps his fingers on his abdomen, just resting there on that dress shirt all casually, long fingers you had no business looking at for too long. “Status update on my meetings?”

“I sent you them all,” he smirks all arrogantly, and you have to grit your teeth not to just crash out on this man. “You have two meetings today, sir. One for the new hotel partnership, then you have a meeting with Mr. Suguru about your casino. And of course, you have your event tonight.”

“Speaking of that,” he says with a little sigh. “I need you to come with me tonight for the charity ball.”

Oh fuck no.

Not on your birthday.

You shut the heavy door behind you, resting your aching head against it for a moment and shutting your eyes.

“I asked for tonight off,” Gojo scoffs at that – this little fucker scoffs, grinning, flashing those damn fangs like some vampire, all glinting from the sun that beams in. “I am not going.”

“No?” He stands, stretching his long elegant limbs, before he walks closer to you, making the scent of him waft through your senses.

“No,” you hate how he makes your heart race when he’s in front of you.

“I'll pay you well, sweetheart – plus you’ll be going as my date for the event, not going to make you actually work. You'll get to relax and shit, get paid to have some fun, drinks and food, dancing…”

“As your date?” You ask, pursing your lips a bit.

“I know, it’s kinda a dream scenario,” he grins like he’s bestowing the finest gift on you. “Don’t fall in love tonight.”

“Psh,” you roll your eyes. “Since when does CEO Satoru need a date? Especially a date with me. I can just arrange you a date like I always do.”

“It's a delicate partnership and I need someone who is smart. Not eye candy,” well fucking ouch. “I need you, little law school girl. Plus you’re American, and a lot of the people there are too, so it’s a no brainer.”

Not eye candy.

Men flirt with you pretty frequently actually, on the very rare occasions you’re not working you’ve had quite a few ask you out. You know you’re a pretty girl, but of course Gojo banged models on the regular, and you had no time to try to even attempt to look like a model. Shit, you barely had time to slap on some mascara and concealer every day to hide how tired you were.

“So you don't need anyone pretty, is that what you're saying?”

Satoru pauses then, frowning at you.

“What, no? You're very pretty,” he'd never said that about you – HR and all. Though he’d banged damn near all his assistants besides you, Satoru barely complimented your work let alone your looks.

Him calling you pretty really fucks you up, you have to catch your breath, looking up at him, curious how he had suddenly gotten just an inch away.

Sneaky ass.

“‘Not eye candy,’ isn’t that what it means?”

“Well no, that’s not what it means, just you dress kinda boring,” you blink again, as he digs himself into a hole. “No like…just all businessy and shit? You don’t dress sexy is all. I mean… not that you have to, I’ve never seen you not in a business dress unless it’s at night and I call you, then you wear pajama shorts and shit.”

You snort at that, shaking your head – you loved clothes, and to dress up, but of course he probably wouldn’t know that. “I would dress up if I had a life. All I do is work for you.”

“Exactly, that’s what I mean by not ‘eye candy’. How you dress, not your looks,” this man… “But I'll make sure your outfit looks killer, no need to thank me.”

Gojo winks at you, lowering his shades, those insane cerulean eyes making you overheat against your will. Big and glittering with silver, the irises the prettiest blue that the earth could scarcely recreate. Eyes that made anyone do anything he wanted, and they always worked – You were almost immune to that.

You take a breath for courage, it’s about time you said something, especially if your plan is to go. “It's my birthday and you want me to work overtime?”

Gojo frowns. “Birthday?”

He looks utterly confused, as if you should not have one of them, for it’s inconvenient. “Yeah. Twenty-sixth.”

He evaluates you carefully. “Why did I think you were like twenty two?”

“I’m not sure. If I was I wouldn’t even have my law degree yet, baby face maybe,” you do look young but then, so does Satoru. “But it’s actually my third birthday here, and you have never given me the day off. I will absolutely not put in OT.”

“What, you have some big plans, hot shot?”

No. Sure don't. “Yep.”

“Cancel em,” he shakes a hand dismissively and you scowl. “What? Need me to cancel them?

“No! I won’t.” You cross your arms under your breasts, and his gaze darts down for the briefest of moments, before flickering back to your face.

“No? What do you mean ‘no’?”

No one turned Gojo down – no one ever told the gorgeous, manchild of a CEO the word ‘no’ to anything. His six-foot-four frame bends over just a bit as he places an arm on one side of you, peering down, frown still on his handsome features, eyes lidded just a bit. you glare back up at him.

“Gojo, I'm really exhausted, and I just want to have fun and actually relax for my birthday,” he gasps, all affronted.

“What, then have fun with me! I’m fun!”

“That's work. Not fun.”

“Hmm,” he tilts your chin up with his long fingers, making you peer up at him, surprised at the contact and what it makes you feel, your tummy clenches up. “I'll make it fun, I promise. Then I'll give you the day off tomorrow. Deal?”

You are gonna fucking agree, aren’t you?

“Gojo, I could find you a smart American girl? Eye candy too,” you offer, he shakes his head, leaning too close.

“You're my best, sweetheart, I need you by my side.”

Bastard. Not him batting his pretty white lashes.

You sigh. “Ugh. Fine.”

He grins, and you catch a shaly breath as he backs away. “Good girl.”

“Don’t say that!?”

“Why not?” He’s sticking his hands in his pockets now, grin widening. “I'll have a brand new outfit brought to your apartment later? I’m assuming you don’t have anything fancy enough for this event.”

“Probably not…” You’re not turning down free dresses from Satoru Gojo’s rich ass. “Fine. Need my size?”

His eyes are drinking you in as he smirks, like he’s touching your body. “You think I haven’t gathered your size by now?”

Fuck.

Your cheeks heat up at his little assessment, the way it feels like he’s brushing his fingers over your body – though you’re used to him, at the end of the day you still had a pussy, and it reacted to him in ways that make you irritated. Satoru just chuckles deeply, turning away and waving a hand.

“You're dismissed, sweetheart. See you tonight.”

Just like that, your birthday night was just…

Work.

No you weren’t doing anything – but you could have cuddled on your couch! Not had to mingle and spend a night with Satoru Gojo of all people.

You rush out all irritated, downing your now cold coffee and cursing that blue eyed man.

****

“Can’t wait to put in my two weeks ugh,” you grumble to yourself as you finish up your makeup.

If you had to work your birthday you would absolutely look gorgeous for it – lashes, winged liner, red lips.

The dress he had ordered laid in a satin box on your pretty white day bed. You open it finally, the pretty black gown encased in baby blue and white tissue paper, the colors of the little shit Gojo himself. You gently pull out the gown and hold it up, and almost all of your irritation dies off.

Fuck if he doesn’t have good taste.

Black and decked with sequins, it glitters in the light, it was a silky fabric, soft as a caress against your skin. You undo the little zipper and peer in the mirror, sliding it on, it glides over your curves perfectly, coming to cinch in at the nip of your waist. The neckline was slutty dear lord – it plunged ridiculously low in fact, revealing a generous amount of cleavage that you typically kept under wraps at work.

The question was, how did Gojo know your damn measurements?

Pervert is what he was.

A pervert with good taste.

The dress had a slit that went dangerously up one of your thighs, exposing nearly all of one leg, while the rest of the dress hit the floor. It was as if he truly knew every measurement you had, better than if you’d went and tailored the damn thing.

Well at least you get a pretty dress for your pain and suffering!

You spin to look at the back of the dress in front of the mirror, it dips daringly low as well, exposing the smooth expanse of skin, from shoulder blades down to the dimples on your lower back. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel super pretty in a dress like this.

You rummage through your little jewelry box, eyeing to see what would work with the dress, and deciding on a pretty silver necklace and earrings, something simple. You’re clipping the earrings on when a text pops up.

Dick Boss: Waiting out front in the car.

You: Just a few.

You slip on your shoes and spritz some body spray on, your favorite from Victoria’s Secret you save for special things, when another text blings.

Dick Boss: I’m waiting…

Fucking Gojo. Ugh.

You: Coming now.

You lock up and head down the stairs of the apartment building, and see Ijichi Kiyotaka, Gojo’s driver, opening the door of the black limo for you. Kiyotaka, who somehow was one year younger than you, that boggled your mind more than Nanami only being one year older.

Geto and Gojo wore people out.

If you didn’t have a great skincare routine, Gojo would make you look old too.

“My lady,” he says sweetly, and you smile at him, sliding in, and there Gojo was across from you, long arms spread across the backs of the seat, his head resting back so that his throat was exposed.

His head snaps down, and he looks right at you, no sunglasses, only those pretty  blue eyes, the pouty pink lips parted. You tense, prepared for some lewd comment or rude one, but he’s quiet – blinking those white spiky lashes, arms sliding down as Kiyotaka shuts the door, his gaze taking you in ever so slowly.

Achingly slow, as if he had all the time in the world. You felt yourself holding your breath as it lazily traveled down and back up your body, clutching your little black evening bag tightly.

“You look…” He trails off, shaking his head a bit.

How does Gojo say how good you look?

Since when is Satoru Gojo tongue tied like this? And he is tongue tied, you’re so pretty tonight he can hardly catch his heart from racing, so effortlessly beautiful always in your business suits, but he’s never seen you like this. Twenty sixth birthday and he came up with excuses to make you come with him.

Yeah, Satoru knows it’s your birthday.

He came up with the idea to ‘need you’ like the selfish little shit he is, like he comes up with every idea ever, random things he knows damn well he can do himself, but why would he? When he can look at his pretty assistant constantly, hear her angry sigh and smell whatever body spray she has sprtized on her?

Satoru Gojo was a dick, and he knows it.

“Thank you for the dress,” you say softly, as he just… stares.

“Of course, consider it my birthday gift,” he smirks then, as if he’s composed himself. “You look…”

Beautiful.

Gorgeous.

Ethereal.

“Really fucking hot.”

Really Satoru, can’t come up with anything better?

You giggle at that – not beautiful or breathtaking, but would that really be something Gojo would say? No, you’ll take it. “Thank you, the dress is so beautiful.”

“Your body is that banging and you hide it like that?” He was somehow right next to you suddenly, ever the sneaky little jerk, and you tremble a bit at the nearness. “I should reprimand you, as your boss ya know.”

You roll your eyes and snort. “I can’t dress like this at work, Gojo.”

“You sure the fuck can. I’m the boss, I say so,” his fingertips trailed down your shoulder, and it sends tingles through your body, making you even more irritated at him. Why is he so close? “I’m buying you an entire new wardrobe.”

“The fuck you are, I like to be professional, unlike you,” you smack his hand off errantly, and your bare shoulder grows cold without the touch, goosebumps laid out in a network across your skin.

“You do really look good,” you take in his outfit, a black tux which fit his slim muscles perfectly – It was some shit Bruce Wayne would wear at one of his charity auctions.

Maybe Gojo was some rich superhero or villain. It would fit.

“You do too,” you murmur softly. “You always do.”

“I know,” Satoru winks at you as you roll your eyes.

Conceited ass Satoru.

He’s leaning forward to snatch up champagne, brushing against you far too intimately, you hold your breath and jerk just a bit when he pops it, pouring you each a pretty flute full. You take one, letting the bubbles tickle your nose, sipping the tart drink, moaning softly and shutting your eyes.

“Delicious,” you lick your lower lip and find him a breath away once more. You don’t move, but you’re frozen in place, confused as he looks at you like he never has. “Satoru?”

“Are you really thinking of quitting?” He asks then, his voice breaking, eyes gone dark. You have never seen Gojo like this.

You blink just a bit, taking a breath. “Uh… how did you know?”

“I know everything, baby girl,” he gently runs his long fingers through your hair, a rare frown on his lips.

“Baby girl? What the heck, Satoru… Yes I was thinking of it, and seducing me is not going to change my mind. Is that the point of this?” You demand, irritated, and against your better judgement, fucking horny.

Fuck Gojo – not literally.

His eyes study your own seriously now, jaw setting. “If that was my intention, you’d damn sure know.”

Your breaths come faster, every word was pouring like honey from his tongue, his hand tightening in your hair, yanking your head back ever so slightly to look up at him – making your mind race.

Imagine him pulling it when you…

Satoru’s imagining it right now, pulling your hair as you suck his cock down your loud little mouth, fucking your throat till it’s sore and you can’t talk the next day. Filthy images as the strands card through his fingers, and you scowl up at him, your hands clenched into fists against his chest, on the material of his dress shirt.

God you’re pretty.

“Oh, would I?” You challenge him, god you always do, notching your chin up a bit, Satoru laughs without humor.

“How many women have you heard me fuck in my office, hmm?” You swallow nervously, eyes narrowing. “How many have you had to send home for me? You think I don’t know how to fuck you dumb if I wanted to? Think I couldn’t rail your pretty cunt so hard you squirt all over me? Oh sweetheart, you wouldn’t even be able to walk when I finished with you.”

Gojo’s filthy fucking whisper was against your lips, it’s goddamn diabolical how he talks, you could taste the champagne sweet on his breath, mixed with his mints he constantly sucks on, your mouth almost salivates in his proximity. He wasn’t touching you, but he was so close you could feel him, those images running rampant.

“I won’t fuck you though, so what’s the point of even joking about it!? You don’t want me anyway. Not your type,” he snorts at that, one of his big hands on your waist, touching the bare skin on your back and wreaking havoc on every sense you’ve ever had.

“You know my type?”

“I sure do,” his thumb brushes underneath your breast, an action that makes your nipples tighten, aching as they press against the sequined gown. Damn if his gaze didn’t drop down, noticing the peaks and humming to himself.

“The women who entertain me,” his fingers move in little circles against your ribcage, eyes shooting back up to yours. “They aren’t necessarily my type.”

“Hmm,” it’s difficult to focus, you sip your champagne, leaning back a bit, but Gojo’s grip stays, and you would be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy it. “It doesn’t matter, you’re just talking out of your ass. Too much cocaine tonight?”

His grip tightens, and it makes you gasp, looking up at his darkened eyes in the dim light of the limo. “I haven’t had any, I’m just pretty fucking irritated my best assistant wants to leave. You’re ungrateful.”

“Ungrateful!” You snort at that, tossing back the champagne and grabbing at his hand, his wrist, tugging at it. “How the fuck, Satoru? I literally do everything for you!”

“And I pay you damn good!”

“I know,” you scowl up at him. “Guess what? I’d rather be broke somewhere than do sixteen hour days. It’s my damn birthday and here I am!”

Satoru scoffs and your fingers itch to smack him. “As if you really had plans. You have no friends and no life.”

“Bullshit,” you grit your teeth, shoving at his hard chest. “That’s because I have no damn time to make any! You think I wouldn’t have a boyfriend or something by now?”

“Maybe that’s your problem, why you’re so bitchy and stuck up all the damn time. You need to get fucked good.”

You slap him then. Slap your Boss.

Slap Gojo Satoru.

His hand catches your wrist, long fingers wrapping it tightly, pale cheek just blooming pink from your mark, your hand stings from the hit, breath making your chest rise and fall as his lips curve down.

“Ring a little true, sweetheart?”

“I can get fucked if I want, any time thank you very much,” you yank your hand back and shake it out.

“I didn’t say that, clearly you can get fucked,” his voice deepens, as he imagines all the ways he’d have you. “It’s just you don’t even want to, and you blame it on my hours, as if you were the type to fuck around.”

“I’d fuck Nanami Kento if I had any damn time,” Gojo’s eyes widen at that, brows raised. “Yep. Sure would, he’s handsome – oh and he remembered my birthday. If either of us had time I sure would, so does that answer it for you?”

Your heart beats in your chest, brutally, the thudding loud in your ears as the blood rushes through at the statement, and Gojo’s grip on your waist tightens. “You would fuck… Nanami Kento?”

Ah, you made him mad – Good.

“Who wouldn’t? He’s hot,” you shrug casually, smiling all fucking mean at him now.

“Out of anyone in the office?” He asks, voice quiet – this side of Gojo no one ever really sees, when he’s utterly jealous, unhinged and insane.

You make him this way.

“Mmhmm,” you answer, then he smirks.

“Including me?”

You open your mouth to say yes, but you know it’s not fucking true. Of course you’d have fucked Gojo, if he wasn’t a dick boss, if he was just a man…

Look at him, who wouldn’t?

“Cat got your tongue?” His free hand catches your chin, forcing your gaze to his.

You swallow nervously, licking your lips and drawing his attention to them. “No.”

“No, what?”

“No… not including you, fuck is that what you want to hear? That I’m not blind? Of course you’re attractive, and you know it, stupid!”

He scoffs. “You’re childish.”

“Me, childish!? You are!” You shove at him again, and he lets you go, you take a greedy breath and down more champagne. “It changes nothing, I am planning to leave. I will find a replacement, someone even better than me.”

“There is no one better,” his voice sounds so damn hurt – it sounds sincere, a rare thing for Gojo, emotion cracking in his voice as he downs his own glass and looks away from you.

“You think what, fucking me will keep me as your damn assistant?”

“It’s worth a shot, I’m the best fuck there is,” you scoff at that, Satoru just shrugs, some of that casual, conceited demeanor coming back, and you wanted to yell at your body for its reaction.

“It won’t happen,” you say firmly now. He smiles.

“Yeah? Why?”

“You’re my boss!”

“But you’re leaving.”

“I…” Fuck him.

“Hmm? You seem at a loss for words,” you scowl, looking out the window as the lights flickered by, setting down your drink and crossing your arms.

“Are we there yet?”

He laughs now. “See? Childish.”

“Says you!”

“You need a good orgasm, or ten. Get you to be less of a stuck up nag,” you gasp at his audacity, turning back and seeing his mean little grin.

“I do not! And I am not stuck up!”

“You do, and you are.”

“I orgasm plenty, thanks!” You feel your body on fire at that, and Gojo couldn’t look more satisfied, like the Cheshire fucking cat, the grin as wide as it could go, running his hand through his silken white locks that fall a little too perfect.

“Oh, do tell, pretty little assistant,” he practically purrs those words, leaning forward. “I’m dying to know how.”

“Cut the shit, Satoru,” you roll your eyes at him. “You’ve never talked like this in the years I’ve worked with you, where the fuck do you get off?”

“I get off on women, or in their mouths…” He shrugs like the little slut he is, enjoying your open mouth, once again lost for words.

“You know I did not mean that!” You hiss.

“Where do you get off? On a dildo maybe,” you blink, eyebrows low in a scowl, wanting to hit him again. “No, don’t look the type. Maybe a rose toy. Hmm… or just these little things.”

Gojo lifts your hand, ridiculously small in his own grip – the man has five inch fingers or more, you swear, and the touch alone is ruining you – the sight of your hand swallowed by him.

“They don’t hit deep enough, do they?” His whisper is so damn cocky, you can’t stand him.

Can’t stand thinking of his fingers inside you.

You’re breathless, as he holds out his own hand against yours, fingers so fucking long they rivaled the length of men you’ve been with. Likely larger than the couple of dudes in college, which was about all of your experience, Gojo’s probably done more in a night that you have – slutty ass CEO Nepo baby that he is.

“I… you…” You want to cuss him out, quit right then.

You should quit!

You also want his fingers inside your now soaking wet cunt.

Fuck him.

“I could get you off, put you in a good mood,” his hand takes your own, putting it right between your thighs, making you whimper. “We don’t have to fuck for that, there are so many ways I can keep my pretty assistant happy.”

“Why… are you…act- acting like this?” You manage to breathe out, but you have no energy to move away from him, or shove his hand off. – because if you were being honest with yourself, you’d love to fuck your frustration out on him.

“Maybe I realize how much I need you to stay as my assistant,” Gojo’s plump lips kiss down your jaw, his hand gently pressing yours against your soppy little cunt over those panties, moaning in your ear. “Is my assistant already so hot for me? Are you that easy to get wet?”

You bite your lower lip, feeling your own fingers led by his brush over your soaking wet panties. “F-fuck off…” It’s a whisper, a pathetic one at that – you want it, and you hate him.

You hate that your walls are just pulsing around nothing, that your clit is eagerly twitching against your joined fingers through the barrier of your panties, that the moan of your name from his lips against your ear made you wonder what he sounded like when he came.

Gojo slides his own finger against your panties for a brief moment as he moves yours – pausing, moaning again in that slutty way he does – pulling back to look at you.

You’re so fucking wet, all Satoru can do is imagine burying his face, letting you use him – every time he pisses you off you could push him to his knees and spread those pretty thighs, You could make him lick, kiss, taste your pretty cunt as his endless apologies, as he drags his fingertip higher, and uses his more than yours, he watches you.

You were so gorgeous like this.

“Fuck,” he whispers, something was just different about you. Gojo with women was always so self assured, but something about touching you has him vulnerable, when his long finger presses against the damp sticky fabric, just grazing your clit. “Sweetheart…”

He shouldn’t talk like that, look like that, you’re arching your hips up, and his fingertip is running up up slightly, pressing more firmly, your hand grips his collar, tugging him close. You’re dumb to do this, to roll your hips and whine all needy, watching as his eyes go black.

Gojo’s lips were just a breath away…

“We’re here, Sir, my Lady,” Kiyotaka’s voice has you both realize the limo had stopped.

Fuck.

You two shoot apart, and you struggle to catch your breath, adjusting your dress hastily, gulping down one more glass for good measure. Gojo turns and adjusts his pants, tugging his cock up into his waist band so he wouldn’t have a bulge at this damn event – not even looking at you.

How can he look at you without sinking to his knees and begging you to coat his face right now?

He turns back and clears his throat, you curse softly when you finally notice his tie is all fucked up.

“You can’t tie properly, Satoru,” you murmur, leaning over to him, pulling it apart gently and re-tying it until it’s perfect. You notice his Adam's apple bob up and down, and he’s shockingly quiet, just looking at you.

Gojo Satoru, quiet.

“There,” your hands linger, your eyes darting up to his lips once more.

“Thanks,” he says gruffly, and your eyes meet, the two of you at a loss for words in the quiet of the limo.

What the fuck just happened?

Kiyotaka opens the door, exposing you both gratefully to some cool night air, and you get out, curious just how the fuck this birthday night was going to go.

loves i'm dying to hear what you think ahhhh! ofc i'll always love the original and keep that up but I'm excited for this <3

Patreon for more exclusive fics <3

[faerybin]

「Ryomen Sukuna」 ⛦

!! This is a list of all of my favourite Sukuna fanfics <3

!! None of these are my mine, credits to the wonderful writers

!! Hope you'll enjoy and let me know if one of the links below doesn't work :))

DRABBLES *⁠.⁠✧

[Untitled #1] by @creampiedby ↴

[0.4k] — established relationship, fluff

His little brat by @sinkuna ↴

[0.8k] — dad!sukuna, fluff

[Untitled #2] by @//dollychou ↴ ♡

[0.8k] — fluff

influencer boyfriend!sukuna by @//ryoflix ↴

[1k] — established relationship, suggestive, fluff

Down the drain (literally) by @meowdei ↴ ♡

[1.1k] — fiancé!sukuna, fluff

ONESHOTS *⁠.⁠✧

[Untitled #3] by @iamaslutfor3dman ↴ ♡

[2.1k] — dad!sukuna, fluff

Hello Kitty : Fashion Killer by @lafleurperdue ↴

[2.3k] — biker!sukuna, smut, fluff

Tell me (I'm yours) by @indiewritesxoxo ↴

[3.4k] — light angst, fluff, smut, roommates to lovers

Nightly prescription by @notnotangel ↴

[3.4k] — kinktober, established relationship, smut

Desk Job by @mooningningg ↴

[5.4k] — highschool!au, smut, fluff

Chemistry class with fratboy!sukuna by @sixxels ↴

[7k] — fluff, suggestive

Mama I'm in luv with a criminal by @kamoswrld ↴ ♡

[7.9k] — criminal boyfriend!sukuna, angst, fluff, smut

Rocking around the Christmas tree by @feyrinnn ↴ ♡

[8.3k] — established relationship, fluff, smut

Rocky Mountain High by @seellove ↴

[11k] — outdoorsman!sukuna x citygirl!reader, established relationship, fluff, smut, slight angst

Type Dangerous by @tonycries ↴ ♡

[12.6k] — unckuna x preschool teacher!reader, smut, fluff

West Coast by @tonycries ↴ ♡

[12.7k] — biker!sukuna x waitress!reader, small town!au, biker gang!au, smut, fluff

His to ruin by @shokocide ↴

[13k] — arranged marriage, angst, fluff, smut

Chemically bonded by @sixxels ↴ ♡

[17k] — frat!sukuna x shynerd!reader, fluff, suggestive

Sukuna in Wonderland by @reignpage ↴ ♡

[17.2k] — fantasy au, academic rivals to lovers, smut, fluff

She won't go away by @saatorus ↴

[26k] — college!sukuna x reader, smut, little bit of angst, fluff

Five rules for dating my uncle (according to a five-year-old) by @miirily ↴

⇉ Sequel

[10.7k] Two-shots — uncle!sukuna, fluff, implied smut

SERIES *⁠.⁠✧

roommate!sukuna by @mooningningg ↴ ♡

[Series of drabbles] [Completed?] — fluff, smut

caracal!sukuna x housecat!reader by @blkkizzat ↴

[10.5k] [3/4] [On going] — smut, fluff, featuring gojo x geto

Coupled up! by @indiewritesxoxo ↴

[28.7k] [10/?] [On going] — fluff, smut, light angst, featuring jjk!men

New fics ⛦

Personal favourites ♡

Last updated : 22/02/2026

[ryosbaby-deactivated20260215]

SUKUNA FIC RECS PLEASE

okay buckle up this is an all time list of my favorite sukuna fics (i know ball)

KUNASERIES/MULTIPARTS

unspoken conditions by @spideyyeet — i feel like this goes without saying, this is like the top of the pyramid of all fratkuna fics. everyone and their mother probably knows this too i just feel like its a crime not to mention this

i can be fun by @tojipie — fratkuna x virgin! reader ANOTHER REALLY GOOD FRATKUNA SERIES. they're the reason why fratkuna is territory im scared to touch because all the ones ive read are js so good

specimen by @5yzygy — dude I LOVE READER AND SUKUNA HERE . . . its so freaky in the best way possible. nillie's sukuna is peak sukuna

spiracle by @5yzygy — this is my favorite work of hers, this completely altered my brain chemistry

what you know by @starmapz — i cried a few times while reading this — ive always loved splice of life themes BUT THIS this hits different

sports car by @goyardgoyangi — i absolutely love this. its so realistically written (its the only word in my mind right now) BUT YEA I LOVE THAT hes car obsessed but he lets her eat chicken wings inside 🥲🥲🥲 also reader leaving trails of her everywhere ^__^ ALSO ALSO mcdonalds after sex its my dream

all of @yenayaps sukuna works — DUDE when i tell you i read absolutely everything here . . from defiance to controller to not just anybody omggg. we can only wish we can dialogue like yena HOW DOES SHE DO IT

all the true form sukuna fics by @sttoru — oh to read all of these for the first time again

blurry by @w0rm3y — divorce! dad sukuna 🥲🥲🥲 i was so so invested from beginning to end, its worth every chapter

KUNASTANDALONE

she wont go away by @saatorus — ITS A CLASSIC HELLO. i repeat this is a classic sukuna college fic, i have this saved in my notes because i keep rereading it up to this day

tainted & impulse by @cxmplexity — these are two of the first few fics ive read here in tumblr (i was a wattpad reader yes yes) after reading these DUDE I NEVER OPENED wattpad again

trigger finger ready and got nowhere to run to by @rinhaler — this got me into threesomes completely before this i never read them AFTER THIS omggg it was all i can think about ALSO i dont even like mafia fics but this got me #goated

maui wowie by @whimsic — another amazing fratkuna fic (also another reason why im scared to touch fratkuna fics) this fic is accurately sukuna compared to most

first time? by @kamiflix — virgin! fratkuna WHO WOULDVE THOUGHT (hes a slut) this is so so genius bc were so used to the same fratkuna concept now HIM BEING A VIRGINNN hello

i'll make you miss me by @hiraethwrote — MAKE HIM BEG. MAKING HIM YEARN. another classic one that brings tears to my eyes

dead or alive by @motel6killer — again i wasnt into threesomes before but dudeee when i read this i felt like threesomes were the final piece of the puzzle to complete who i am as a person

KUNAAO3

these are only the few i read on AO3, i dont have the others saved up — ill insert them here when i find them

beneath the silk — if youre a sukuna gooner and you havent read this what the hell are u doing

forgotten souls — the ANGST man. hes the absolute loverman here. TALK ABOUT THE MAN WHO CANT BE MOVED

blackmail — if you like college aus this is a must read or else ur just missing out completely, i go back to this a lot because i love #menancesukunq

LAST BUT NOT THE LEAST my all time favorite sukuna writer man. i owe this person my life and my love for sukuna

again this is my all time list (most of these are older fics) and i had to dig them up from my very very secret account that i goon at. also apologies for the tags xx

i can remember a few more that i wasnt able to save but ill be updating the list (if i find them)

[5yzygy]

Specimen ‎ . ݁⋆ ꫂ᭪ ݁˖ . ݁

pairing. sukuna x neurodivergent reader (college au)

౨ৎ cw. smut, fluff, angst, reader is alt-coded and has glasses

parts in blue are sfw

part i.

part ii.

part iii.

part iv.

part v.

part vi.

part vii.

part viii.

artist cred

[cinnywinny-deactivated20260213]

Ain't My Romeo! || Chapter Index

୨୧ Summary: Satoru is the Romeo for your university’s upcoming play. You get the role of Juliet, and you believe everything is going to turn out perfect! ...but why is Ryomen Sukuna, school bully, despised by most, is the one standing on stage, in costume attire, in front of you, telling you to “get the fuck down from there, Juliet”?

⠀ೃ❀࿔ Chapter List⠀ೃ❀࿔

୨୧ 01 - Not My Prince Charming!

୨୧ 02 - Burn, Belov'd!

୨୧ 03

୨୧ 04

taglist AO3

[bambismoon]

it ain't me babe - masterlist

frat!toru x avoidant!reader

series synopsis | you’re not looking for love, you never are. satoru gojo won’t stop tripping over himself trying to give it to you. the frat president with too much heart and the girl who swears she doesn’t have one. what starts as a mutual agreement of keeping things strictly physical becomes complicated when the one rule you had of no feelings involved becomes the one he breaks long before he’d ever learned your name. [mdni 18+]

chapters

⋆☀︎｡ prologue

⋆☀︎｡ one

⋆☀︎｡ two - coming soon

one-shots

⋆☀︎｡ coming soon

[lostfracturess]

'TIS THE SEASON FOR UNRESOLVED FEELINGS — SATORU GOJO

pairing — satoru gojo x suguru’s little sister!reader

summary — eight years ago, satoru gojo almost kissed you on the bleachers, then apologized and left without looking back. you’ve spent every year since convincing yourself you’re over it—until you spot him across the mall in a santa costume that’s two sizes too small, beard slipping, surrounded by screaming toddlers—and you do what any rational adult would do. you hide. unfortunately, the universe has other plans. like locking you both inside a bookstore until morning.

... a story about growing up, growing apart, and finding your way back to each other.

word count — 18.9 k

genre/tags — modern AU, childhood friends to lovers, brother’s best friend, mutual pining, slow burn, second chance romance, he kept the bracelet (you kept the trauma), forced proximity, blue spring feelings, hurt/comfort, she kisses him first

warnings — 16+ ONLY. themes of abandonment and loneliness, past bullying, sports injury/career loss, angst, and a man who failed chemistry twice but never stopped loving you

author's note — i’m back, friends !! ahhh i’m so happy to share something with you again (kinda nervous about it too, ehmm). this story is written in first person, so i hope you’ll still be able to enjoy it, even if it’s a little unusual but i think it turned out kinda sweet :')) & this is my love letter to second chances and the complicated emotions of growing up <3

masterlist + read on ao3 + support my writing + artwork

“Hiding out here too?”

I turned at the sound of his voice. He climbed the bleachers with two plastic cups in his hands, white hair catching the last traces of sunset. Satoru Gojo. My brother’s best friend. My almost, my maybe, my never-quite.

“I thought you’d be busy with your fan club,” I said as I took the cup he offered. He dropped down next to me, long legs stretched over the row in front of us, close enough that our shoulders almost touched but didn’t.

“They’ll survive without me for a few minutes.”

A lie. People orbit him the way moons orbit planets—helpless. And I was one of them, one moon in a crowded sky. But in twelve days that would change. He’d be gone, accepted early to some university three prefectures away, the kind that sends its offers on thick cream paper. Our town would shrink to the size of a matchbox in his rearview mirror, and I would stay behind and count the days until the matchbox burned.

I raised the cup and took a sip. It was overly sweet.

Fireflies drifted above the wide soccer field, blinking like tiny stars in the growing dark. Behind us the graduation party spilled noise across the open air, laughter that sounded too loud, too hopeful, too unsure, the nostalgia of people already turning this place into a story, happy to escape and secretly wishing the time back.

I didn’t want to hide out here. I thought I’ve overcome my cowardness years ago but looks like I didn’t. I slipped away from the party when the celebration began to weight heavy on my heart, when each congratulation directed at them felt like a small funeral for the version of me that believed nothing would ever change.

Sixteen is a stupid age. Old enough to know people leave, young enough to believe you might be the exception.

And I didn’t want to be so sad that day. I really tried. It was Satoru and Suguru’s graduation party, after all. A happy day. The last great hurrah before they left. But I couldn’t shake the thought that I would stay here, finish school alone, rooted to this small town like someone had pinned me down with no chance to catch up.

I probably should have stayed with my friends, let their chatter about summer trips and movie stars wash over me and pretend I care about the same things. I could have passed for normal. Instead I followed the same worn path, trailing after my brother and his best friend because that had always been what I do.

Saturday mornings in our school gyms with my textbooks open while they ran drills, or late-night convenience store trips where they bought me ice cream and ruffled my hair. Birthdays, holidays, ordinary afternoons that somehow turned special because the two of them filled every moment with a brightness I never learned to create on my own.

My adolescence shaped itself around them. Suguru’s little sister. Satoru’s friend’s kid sister. I answered to those roles more readily than to my own name some days.

And somewhere between my childhood and this humid summer night, I convinced myself that if I stayed tucked inside the pocket they made for me, it would never stop fitting. I let myself believe the story would hold steady forever.

But it wouldn’t. Everything would change. In two weeks the house would go quiet. And I would still be here, sixteen and small and so unbearably left behind. Still in love with someone who called me kid and probably didn’t know my favorite color.

Two years felt like forever at that age. Seven hundred thirty days. Seven hundred thirty nights of maybe texting, maybe not. Long enough for new cities to leave their marks on his skin, for inside jokes to form in languages I wouldn’t speak, for girls with longer legs and brighter smiles to learn the exact pressure of his hand at the small of their back.

By the time I’d be old enough to board a train without permission, I would be the footnote he mentioned when someone asked about home. Remember Suguru’s little sister? Yeah, she was always around.

I hated that thought.

“Nervous about Osaka?” I asked, mostly to fill the silence before my thoughts ate me alive.

“I guess I should be. New city, more competition, living on my own for the first time…” He drank from his cup. “It doesn’t feel real yet.”

“It will when you’re playing in front of thousands of people.”

“Maybe.” He fell quiet for a moment, then asked, “What about you? Nervous about next year?”

“A little. But also… excited? I want to do well. I need to do well if I want any chance of getting into Tokyo’s chemistry program. My grades have to be perfect.”

“Hey.” He bumped my shoulder gently. “You’ll be fine. You’re the smartest person I know.”

“You’re just saying that to be nice.”

“I’m serious. You dragged me and Suguru through every year of chemistry, even though we’re two years ahead of you. Remember all those Sundays in your kitchen when you explained stoichiometry to us like it’s the easiest thing ever? And I still couldn’t get it.”

“You weren’t that bad.”

“I absolutely was,” he said. “Suguru was only slightly less terrible. But you saved our asses every time. Point is, Tokyo would be idiots if they didn’t take you.”

“You really think so?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I know so. You’re going to get exactly where you want to go.”

I looked down and picked at the rim of my cup, hoping my heartbeat wasn’t as loud as it felt.

“You’re lucky,” he said after a moment.

“Why’s that?”

He smiled, small and fragile, the kind that used to make teachers forgive him for never doing his homework.

“You know what you want,” he said. “You’ve got everything lined up. You’re gonna be some famous chemist or something, probably discover a new element and win a Nobel Prize.”

“That’s absurd.”

“It’s not. You’re stupidly smart. It’s honestly terrifying.” He leaned back on his elbows, eyes drifting to the first stars poking through the sky. “Meanwhile I’m just following Suguru and hoping I don’t screw everything up.”

“You won’t screw it up.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“I know so,” I said, throwing his own words back at him. “You and Suguru are gonna be amazing. You’ll travel the world, play in big and famous arenas, maybe even the Olympics.”

“You really think that?”

“I do. I always have.”

“But what if it doesn’t work out? What if I get there and I’m not good enough? What if I fail and have to come back with nothing… I don’t know. I’m talking nonsense.”

“You won’t fail. You’re too good for that. And you know it.”

He gave another fragile smile. “Must be nice, having everything figured out already.”

“I don’t,” I said. “I mean, I know what I want to study, but everything else is just—” I swirled the last of the punch. The ice had melted into pink water. “A total mess.”

“Like what?”

I stared straight ahead, at the dark line where the field ended and the rest of the world began. 

“Like wondering if the people I care about will still be around when I graduate. If anything will be the same in two years. If I’ll still matter to them when they’re off chasing dreams somewhere far away.”

He was quiet so long I thought he hadn’t heard. I wanted to disappear into the bleachers.

“You’ll always matter,” he said at last.

I wanted to laugh at how small the promise sounded against the size of what I needed. I wanted to cry because it was the most he’d ever given me. I wanted to beg him to say it again, louder so the night could keep it forever. Instead I bit the inside of my cheek.

“Will I?” I asked, foolishly.

“Of course. You think I could forget you?”

“Even when you’re in Osaka? When you’re playing for one of the best teams in the country, with scouts probably circling you after every game?” I should have stopped there. “Or girls?”

“Is that what you think my life is gonna look like?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about what you’ll do. I just know you’ll be too busy living your amazing new life to think about home.”

“You’re not just home,” he said. “You’re—”

“I’m what?” I hated it. I didn’t take it back.

“You’re important to me. You’ve always been.”

I could barely contain my little heart from exploding.

“Satoru,” I said, and it sounded like please and don’t and stay all at the same time.

His hand moved first. His fingertips brushed the back of mine where it rested on the warm metal. It was barely a touch. It should have been nothing. It felt like everything. I was so foolishly in love.

“I know I shouldn’t—”

His knuckles grazed my cheek. And for a heartbeat—one impossibly long, impossibly hopeful moment—I thought he might close the distance. I thought he might actually—

But something in him snapped shut. His hand fell. His gaze dropped to the ground.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

He stood and moved fast, long legs taking the bleacher steps two at a time. I have to go, he said and didn’t even look back as he took my stupid childhood dreams with him.

I don’t know how long I sat there. Long enough for the punch to go warm, for the music to loop twice, for the hollow in my chest to stretch into something too big for my small body to hold.

Eventually I walked home alone. I locked myself in my room, pressed my face into the pillow, and cried until my ribs hurt. When Mom knocked, I told her I was emotional about graduation. She believed me because mothers want to.

Two weeks later he left for Osaka without saying goodbye. Suguru hugged me in the driveway, ruffled my hair the way he always had, and promised he’d call every week. Satoru stood by the car with sunglasses on even though the sky was overcast, and lifted one hand in a wave that never became anything more.

The car pulled away. I watched until the taillights vanished, then went inside and closed the door on the rest of my childhood.

That was eight years ago.

Eight years of no contact. Eight years of pretending I was over it, that I was mature and unbothered, that time had made me sensible. Until now. Because there he was.

Across the mall.

In full view.

Dressed in a Santa costume that was both too tight and too short, with a fake beard hanging slightly askew. A glittery vinyl banner screamed SANTA’S VILLAGE! above his head, and a line of toddlers and parents stretched toward the plastic throne where he sat, all six-foot-three of him.

Startled, I stood behind the register of the bookstore where I worked over the holidays, arms full of orders and trying not to drop all of them as my brain forgot how to function.

I should’ve walked away. I should’ve pretended I was needed in the cookbook section, or called in sick, or quit on the spot, or fled the country—literally anything except stand there and stare. But, of course, I stared. Because of course I would.

And eventually Satoru Gojo—my brother’s best friend, my could-have-been, my nearly-was, the unfinished story I left back in high school—looked up, and his eyes caught mine.

Satoru blinked.

I blinked.

And in the middle of a crowded mall, surrounded by Mariah Carey promising she didn’t want a lot for Christmas, angry toddlers, and a mall cop eating his fifth donut of the day and not in the slightest doing his job… Satoru Gojo, the wound I never recovered from, whispered—

“…oh shit.”

Merry Christmas to me.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

We stared at each other.

Not long—maybe three seconds, maybe an eternity—hard to tell when lungs suddenly forgot how to work and the world stretched so thin it felt like one wrong breath might tear straight through it.

His eyes, that winter-sky blue right before the first snow decides to fall, held mine across the cheap tinsel and screaming toddlers. Eight years should have dulled them, turned them ordinary. But they hadn’t. If anything, time had sharpened them, made them brighter, more unmistakably his.

“Excuse me?” a woman said beside him. She nudged a small child forward—a little girl with pink cheeks and wide eyes staring up at the giant red figure in front of her.

Satoru blinked.

I blinked.

And the moment shattered like ice.

The little girl took one look at him—this weary Santa with the slipping beard and faint panic rising in his eyes—and immediately burst into tears.

“Ho… ho…?” Satoru tried, but it came out more like a question. 

The child wailed louder.

My own heart wasn’t doing much better. It beat too fast, too hard, too uneven, like it wasn’t sure whether to sprint or stop entirely. Because Satoru Gojo was here. Here. After eight years of nothing but secondhand mentions from Suguru, a few blurry appearances in my brother’s stories, and a whole lot of distance.

He was here. In this mall. In my town.

It wasn’t even his job. It was Suguru’s stupid annual winter side hustle—the one he uses up for his gaming habit instead of buying needed textbooks. But he was nowhere in sight. Why hadn’t he mentioned anything?

A strange pressure built behind my ribs.

None of it made sense. Satoru lived somewhere far away now. He had med-school lectures to attend, clinical rotations to do, an entire life that had nothing to do with our nowhere town or me. He had no reason to be here. He shouldn’t be here. And he absolutely had no right to make me feel like I’d been hit by a train I’d spent years convincing myself had already left the station with one single glance. And yet—

He came back.

“Hey.”

I startled so violently the top three books slid off the stack and hit the carpet with a dull thud. Maki stood right beside me, one eyebrow arched like she’d caught me—which, I guess, she did.

“…Who.” She followed the line of my stare. “—are you staring at?”

“I—uh—no one.”

Maki’s gaze flicked back to the disaster across the mall. A too tall and too broad Santa with white hair poking out from under the hat, velvet pants that stopped far too high on his legs, and a fake beard held in place by a rubber band stretched thin enough to snap from a single sigh.

She looked at him.

She looked at me.

She looked at him again.

Her face didn’t move, but somehow she managed to deliver several very loud thoughts at once, including:

You absolute clown.

You’re lying to my face.

What the hell is that man wearing?

“Right,” she said. “So you’re just… admiring mall Santa.”

“I wasn’t—he’s—”

“Tall? Weirdly attractive for someone who looks like he got kicked out of the North Pole? Doing a bad job?”

I stared at her, betrayed.

She shrugged. “I’m not blind.”

Across the mall, Santa-Satoru was squatting awkwardly, his beard slipping lower by the second. He whispered something to the sniffling girl; whatever it was worked, because her wail turned into a hiccup, and then a shy smile. For one heartbeat he looked up again, scanning, searching. And landed on me.

Maki followed the trajectory of his eyes. 

“Oh,” she said. “Now I get it.”

“I—he’s not—it’s not—”

“You know him,” she said, deadpan. “You know mall Santa.”

“Stop calling him that.”

“Then give me a better title.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Not when Satoru Gojo—my almost, my what-if, my forever something—stood twenty meter away in a stupid Santa costume, staring at me like he’d just seen something he thought had died years ago suddenly open its eyes again. And I had no idea what any of it meant.

Maki didn’t drop it. Of course she didn’t.

“So you gonna explain why hot mall Santa is staring at you like he wants you as his gift under the christmas tree?”

“He’s not—he wasn’t—Maki, stop.”

“Nope. Because you’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where you’re panicking like you’re some teenager.”

I winced. She was, as usual, correct. Maki waited. I stayed silent. She lifted an eyebrow. I gave up.

“Fine. He’s my brother’s best friend.”

Maki blinked. Once. “That’s it?”

“No.”

“I figured.”

Before I could elaborate—or panic further—I grabbed her sleeve and pulled her sideways, past the game section and manga, straight into the self-help aisle, because—let’s be real, no one’s ever there. Maki stared at me, waiting for me to talk between a sea of motivational quotes, cheerful covers, and titles like Finding Your Inner Light, Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway, and You’re Not Crazy You’re Just Healing!

I wanted to die.

“So he’s kinda, like—” I rubbed my face; tried again. “I mean, he is—was—is, I guess, still is but also no, was and—”

Maki tapped a book titled Stop Walking on Eggshells and gestured at me.

“You’re enjoying this,” I said.

“Yes. I very much enjoy watching you malfunction. Now tell me why mall Santa is making you lose your mind.”

“He used to be around all the time. When we were kids. Like every single day.”

“So childhood friend crush. Classic. Continue.”

“It wasn’t—I mean—” My fingers found a book at random to have something to hold. It was titled How Not to Fall for the Wrong Guy. I shoved it back. “He went to Osaka with my brother to play basketball and I’ve never seen him again since.”

“That happens,” Maki said, not unkindly.

“Yeah, but there was… something. Right before he left. Something that almost happened. And then didn’t.”

“Ah. Now were’re getting to the interesting part.”

“There’s nothing interesting because nothing happened. Or maybe it did, I don’t know. And I know it’s stupid. I’ve spent years trying to get over it. Over him. And now he’s here? In a Santa costume? In my mall? I mean—what is happening? What am I supposed to do with that?”

Maki made a thoughtful face, then pointed at a pink paperback beside my elbow titled Managing Panic Before It Manages You.

“You might need that.”

“Not helpful.”

She crossed her arms and leaned a shoulder against the Mindfulness and Meditation shelf. “Do you still have feelings for him?”

“No! God, no. I’m too busy for feelings. I have deadlines, rent, a succulent that’s on the verge of death. You know how it is.” I reached for the nearest row of books and began rearranging them, pulling one forward, nudging another back, straightening a row that didn’t actually need straightening. “It’s just—A lot happened. After he left.”

“Like what?”

“Satoru got injured.” My fingers found the corner of some pastel book about radical forgiveness and pulled at it until the edge curled. “About four years ago. It was bad. He had to quit basketball.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

“Suguru didn’t give me details—or better said, I didn’t ask really. But it was serious and Satoru wasn’t the same after. After his injury he moved to another city and started studying sports medicine.” I slid a book half an inch to the left, paused, then slid it right back again. “Suguru said he got quieter. More closed off. I never asked. I didn’t think it was my place. I still don’t think it is.”

“So you two haven’t talked since before the injury,” she said.

“Not once.”

“And now he’s standing in the middle of this mall in a Santa costume, looking at you like you’re his long lost girlfriend.”

I traced the raised letters on a book cover. After his injury, everything between us—between the three of us, really—changed in ways none of us ever named. Suguru and Satoru grew a little distant, their calls got shorter, the laughter between them sounded different. Satoru transferred to another university, and Suguru quit too. Said he didn’t want it anymore if they couldn’t have it together. And now, standing here with him somewhere in this building, too close and too far at the same time, I realized I wasn’t even sure I knew who Satoru Gojo was anymore.

“It’s strange,” I said. “Seeing him again. After so long.”

My fingers closed around a bright green paperback titled Overcome Anything in 30 Days! I pulled it forward, pushed it back, shifted the angle, aligned the spine with the others, then pulled it out again because the spacing felt wrong.

Maki watched with the look of someone witnessing a car crash and unable to tear her eyes away, while somewhere past the shelves, the mall’s Christmas playlist kept looping.

“You’ve rearranged that book six times,” she said.

“It’s crooked.”

“It’s not crooked.”

“It feels crooked.”

I adjusted it again. Now it actually was crooked, leaning forward like it was trying to escape the shelf, which I couldn’t blame it for. If I were trapped between self-help books on a Thursday afternoon, I’d try to flee too. I frowned, tried to fix it, made it worse, and finally gave up with a long exhale and shoved it back into place.

Maki raised an eyebrow. “Feel better?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so.”

A sudden burst of noise pulled me back to reality—voices, footsteps, the unmistakable ding of the front register. Customers had already begun to line up, a small crowd gathering at the cashier as if Maki and I had been hiding in this aisle far longer than I’d meant to. 

Before either of us could move, our manager appeared at the end of the row with that flat expression of someone who had been searching for quite a while and absolutely expected to find us doing nothing productive.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

I tried to keep myself as busy as possible in the last hours of my shift, which wasn’t exactly hard. Holiday shoppers swarmed the aisles like we were giving things away for free. I answered their questions on autopilot.

“Do you have anything for a twelve-year-old who likes dragons?”

“Fantasy section, back left corner.”

“What about cookbooks?”

“Front table, next to the registers.”

I didn’t halt for a second—scanned barcodes, tied twine around brown paper, shoved purchases into gift bags. I even covered for Maki, so she could sneak away for a quick nap in the staff room. Anything to keep my brain occupied and keep my eyes from drifting toward the open hall, where Satoru was probably still traumatizing small children in that absurd costume.

But every time the line thinned and I had four seconds to breathe, my gaze betrayed me. It sought him out, the same way it had during those long, sunburnt summers, when watching him felt easier than looking anywhere else.

And there he was.

Satoru. 

Santa-Satoru.

Still somehow looking like himself even under all that red velvet and cheap polyester fur. Now and then I caught the flash of white hair when he tugged the beard down to breathe, or the striped socks he definitely hadn’t owned at eighteen when the pants rode up. And the way he leaned down when a kid climbed into his lap—careful, gentle—was the same way he used to lean over my homework when I was twelve and pretending I didn’t know the answer just to keep him close.

I watched, transfixed. And every time, something in my chest tightened, like it recognized him before the rest of me could decide whether it wanted to. He was still him. And I was still watching.

He was older, of course—eight years will do that. But it was more than time. His face had lost the last traces of boyhood softness; his jaw was sharper, the faint roundness in his cheeks long gone. He’d always been tall, but now his shoulders looked broader, his arms stronger. 

I hated that I couldn’t look away from the man he’d grown into. I thought I’d never get to see this version of him. 

After he left, I treated his Instagram like a minefield—one wrong tap and I’d blow off a limb. It was this dramatic. But the nights got longer, and discipline thinned. Eventually I’d find myself awake in the middle of the night, thumb hovering, then giving in.

Action shots from games. Group photos after practice with his arm slung around people I didn’t recognize. Stories from away trips—hotel rooms, bus rides, teammates laughing. 

And the comments. God, the comments.

Girls—dozens of them—flooding every post with heart emojis and comments that got worse the more you scrolled. marry me. ruin my life. hello beautiful boy. I told myself it didn’t matter, that I didn’t care, that I was above this kind of teenage stuff. But I did care. And then came the night I fell down the fan-edit rabbit hole.

One accidental tap and there he was in slow motion—sweat catching stadium lights, fingers in damp white hair, laughing like the world had never said no to him with captions like why is he so perfect and imagine being the girl he smiles at like this. I wanted to throw my phone against the wall.

I knew I was stupid to feel jealous. An almost-something on a summer bleacher didn’t buy me a single inch of him or give me a say in his new life, the people he met, or the girl he leaned into after wins. I was the girl he almost kissed, then apologised to, then left without a glance back. Nothing more. I cared anyway.

And it had hurt. If I let myself be honest—which I tried very hard not to—it had hurt like hell watching him build a whole bright life without me. Watching him smile in photos with people who got to orbit him the way I once had, while I stayed here, still in high school, still the kid sister who didn’t matter enough to visit.

After the injury I stopped looking altogether. Suguru called one night and told me Satoru had gone down during a game. Something about his knee, about surgery and physical therapy and an unclear recovery, possibly even career end. 

I opened Instagram that same night, but I couldn’t look. Couldn’t handle seeing dreams I’d watched form since childhood splinter. Couldn’t handle seeing him hurt, even through a screen. Later I learned he’d deleted his account.

And now he was here, not in a screen but breathing and wearing a supid red costume and all. A memory that had learned how to walk again.

None of it helped. I needed answers. Or at least one answer. So during a moment of quiet—no crying children, no stressed shoppers, no requests for “that book with the blue cover that everyone talks about on TikTok”—I ducked behind the counter and pulled out my phone.

you: why is satoru here

The three dots appeared almost immediately.

suguru: you saw him??

suguru: he lost a bet

suguru: had to take over my shift

you: you couldn’t have warned me???

suguru: sorry i was busy

suguru: besides you’ve been avoiding him for years

suguru: figured you two should talk

you: we have nothing to talk about

suguru: sure

suguru: that’s why you always flee the room when i mention him, right?

you: i hate you

suguru: love you too little sister

suguru: be nice to him okay? he’s going through it rn

My fingers paused above the keyboard. Going through it? Was it about his injury? I started to type, but another message landed before I could finish.

suguru: gotta run

suguru: don’t kill each other

I stared at the screen. A bet. He was here because he lost a bet. Not because he missed the town, not because Suguru asked him to come home for the holidays, not because some part of him wondered what I looked like at twenty-four. 

Just bad luck and worse timing.

It should have been a relief. A door slamming shut on every stupid hope I’d refused to admit I was still carrying. But it landed like a punch. I shoved my phone back into my pocket and swallowed the heavy feeling it left behind.

“Customer at the register,” Maki called, and I went back to work.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

By evening the holiday chaos finally thinned, and we were supposed to be closing soon, but I moved slower than necessary. I closed the register a little too late, counted the till twice, pretended the receipt paper needed replacing. Anything to keep me here a bit longer. 

I wasn’t walking out those doors yet. Not after hearing Satoru’s voice drift across the hall earlier, telling some security guard he’d be “out of here soon.” I would wait him out.

“I’ll close,” I told Maki as she shrugged into her coat. “I’ve got inventory to finish anyway.”

She gave me a look that said she knew exactly what I was doing and found it deeply pathetic, but not pathetic enough to call me out on it. 

“Don’t stay too late,” she said. “Empty malls are creepy as hell.”

“Lock up when you’re done!” Our manager was already halfway out the door. “And actually finish the inventory this time!”

I waited until I couldn’t hear their footsteps anymore, until the overhead lights dimmed and the holiday music finally, goddamn finally, shut off. Mariah Carey might not want a lot for Christmas, but I sure as hell didn’t want to hear that song anymore for my Christmas.

I exhaled and opened the ordering tablet. One hour, I decided. Sixty safe minutes. By then the red suit would be folded in some staff room and he’d be gone—out the doors, into the cold, back to whatever life he lived now.

It felt like a solid plan. Reasonable. Adult, even. Which should have been my first clue it wouldn’t work.

I made it fifty-three minutes. 

Footsteps echoed down the empty mall. Could’ve been security; they did rounds at this hour. But something in the rhythm pulled at me in a way I felt in my chest before I recognized anything in my head.

“You still here?”

I turned. And there he was.

He still wore the stupid red velvet jacket and pants, but the hat and beard were gone, exposing pale skin and the soft freckles across his nose and cheeks. Somehow that made it worse—made him look less like mall Santa and more like himself. 

Like the boy on the bleachers. 

Like the boy who almost kissed me.

Like the boy who ran.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “I thought you left.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugged, hands disappearing into red pockets. “Didn’t feel right to leave without saying a real hello.”

“We don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“This awkward reunion thing. It’s late. You can just go. It’s fine.”

“What if I wanted to see you?”

I hated the way my pulse stumbled at the sound of his voice, how my whole body still tensed like we were back on that bleacher, suspended in an almost that never happened. I hated that after I’d buried him so deep I swore the dirt was packed, one stupid question cracked the grave open again. And that I wanted him to stay almost as much as I wanted him to leave.

“Satoru—”

“It’s been years,” he said. “And you’re still avoiding me.”

“I’ve been avoiding you?”

“Yeah. You have.”

“You left,” I said. “You and Suguru packed your bags and went off to Osaka, and I haven’t seen you once. Not once in eight years.”

“You could’ve called—”

“So could you! Don’t stand there and act like I’m the one who disappeared. You never called either, Satoru. You were the one too busy living your perfect little dream life while I was still here. Alone.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Not fair? From what I saw, you were the university athlete, the basketball star. Had all the parties, the attention, all the girls tripping over themselves in your comments and—”

Heat rose straight up my cheeks. Did I just admit to stalking his social media?—Yes, but I pushed forward anyway, because halting now felt like stepping off a cliff.

“You were busy,” I said. “I get it. You didn’t have time for your best friend’s little sister anymore.”

“That’s not—You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then tell me! Tell me why you left that night on the bleachers. Tell me why eight years went by and you never—” I couldn’t push the last words out. “You never came back.”

“I was in Osaka. I had practice, games, classes—”

“Suguru came home. Every break. You couldn’t manage it once?”

“It’s complicated—”

“It’s really not.” My fingers tightened around the tablet I was still holding. “You wanted to pretend that night never happened. Okay, fine. You did. But don’t stand here acting like I’m the one who—”

“I was trying to give us both space!”

“I didn’t want space! I wanted my friend back.” Something in his face went still, like I’d struck a nerve. “You were my friend, Satoru. Before anything else, before everything else, you were my friend. And then you just… left.”

“You were Suguru’s little sister,” he said. “You still are.”

“So that night was what? Something you wanted until you remembered whose sister I was?”

“I didn’t say that—”

“You didn’t have to.” My chest felt too small for all of this. “You ran away fast enough.”

“You were sixteen—”

“I was sixteen and in love with you! God, Satoru, was that not painfully obvious? You could’ve said something—anything. ‘Sorry, I’m not interested,’ or ‘Don’t fall for your brother’s best friend,’ or literally any sentence other than just stand up and run.”

“I was sixteen,” I went on, quieter now but no less fierce. “Sixteen and stupid and desperate for you. Any stupid excuse would’ve worked. My frontal lobe wasn’t even fully developed yet, you know—I would’ve swallowed whatever explanation you handed me without a second thought. And you could’ve spared me years of wondering what I did wrong. Of wondering what we almost were. Of wondering why I wasn’t enough.”

“And now I’m twenty-four. I’m doing a PhD. I’m supposed to be an adult. I’m supposed to be past this. But I still—I still wonder if you were my one true love and I just… missed my only chance.”

The bookstore went suddenly, violently quiet, the way a room falls silent after a glass shatters. I didn’t understand why everything I’d been holding back was suddenly spilling out, but by the time I noticed, I was already speaking again.

“I didn’t deserve this,” I said. “I didn’t deserve years of worrying. Of not knowing. I didn’t deserve to feel like that.”

Satoru stood three meters away, looking as though I had punched him. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. 

“I… I don’t know what to say.”

“That’s actually the worst thing you could have said. Congratulations.”

I moved past him, my shoulder brushing his. I grabbed my coat from behind the counter with hands that trembled.

“Wait—”

“Don’t.” I didn’t look back. I couldn’t watch the plea form and die on his mouth once more. “Just don’t, Satoru. Go home. Go anywhere that’s not here.”

I reached the glass door of the bookstore and pushed. Nothing. I pushed harder. Still nothing. “What—” I rattled the handle, panic rising. I moved to the next door. Locked. I tried the emergency exit. Also locked.

“No, no, no—” 

I pulled my phone out of my pocket. It was 9:02 p.m—the mall had closed two minutes ago. Security must’ve already done their final round and closed the building, and left.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“What’s wrong?” Satoru came up beside me. He tried the handle himself. It didn’t budge.

“We’re locked in.” I stared past my own reflection in the glass into the darkened mall—shuttered storefronts, shadowed corridors, not a single soul left. “Security closed the building already.”

“Can you call someone?”

I pulled out my phone again—2% battery—and then the screen went black. I blinked, tapped the side button. Nothing. “No, no, no—don’t you dare.” I pressed the power button harder like that would magically fix it. “Come on—” A faint battery icon flickered once, then—darkness. 

I let my head thunk against the glass.

“I’ve got mine,” Satoru said, pulling his hand from his pocket and reaching for his phone—except his fingers closed around empty air. He searched the other pocket, then the inside of his coat, then the Santa jacket. His face went still.

“I…” he began.

I looked at him.

He winced.

“…think my phone is still at the Santa booth.”

I wanted to die. Again.

“They won’t be back till 6 a.m.,” I said. “That’s when the cleaning crew comes.”

Nine hours. Nine hours locked in with the person I’d spent years trying not to think about.

“There has to be another exit,” Satoru said. “Emergency exits, loading docks—something.”

“All alarmed,” I said. “We open one, the cops show up.”

“So let the cops show up.”

“And explain why we’re here after hours? My boss will fire me on the spot.” I slid down until I was sitting against the cold glass of the door, burying my face in my hands. “This cannot be happening.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

High school gymnasiums always smell like teenage sweat and floor wax, packed so tightly with people one can barely breathe. I can still remember it so vividly, feel the humidity on my skin, damp and heavy, and suddenly, I’m fifteen again, lungs burning on that early spring day of the regional semifinals.

We were up against Saitama West, with their star player who’d already been scouted by university coaches. Everyone said our team didn’t stand a chance.

I showed up two hours before the game and saved myself a seat in the front row. My friends told me I was insane to sit there alone for that long, staring at an empty court, but I didn’t care. This mattered, because it mattered to them—to him.

Slowly, the silence was replaced by a low hum, then a roar. Parents, students, and teachers—people who usually couldn’t be bothered to attend a sports event—flooded the bleachers, while the opposing team’s section was a sea of their colors, three times the size of ours, their chants already deafening during warm-up.

I sat there with my knees pulled tight to my chest, wearing Suguru’s old practice jersey. It was comically large, the hem hanging past my knees like a dress and it still smelt faintly of teenage boy that never truly washes out of polyester no matter how often you clean it. I had stolen Mom’s liquid eyeliner to draw their numbers on my cheeks. On my left cheek, a 7 for Suguru and on my right cheek, a 10 for Satoru.

I clung to the edge of the bleacher, the metal cold against my palms, my stomach twisted into a tight knot. I was terrified they would lose. But beneath that fear was a selfish ache—a hope that maybe, if they won, Satoru would look up into the stands and finally see me, really see me, not as Suguru’s little sister, but as the girl wearing his number on her cheek. 

It was a stupid, I know. But when you are young, you believe everything you read on Wattpad or see in Disney movies. You believe that magic happens if you just wish hard enough. And for once, just once, I wanted to be the Disney princess.

And for a heartbeat, I was.

Satoru found me first. Even across the crowded gymnasium, with hundreds of people between us, his blue eyes locked onto mine. He grinned—that wide, cocky, impossibly boyish grin I had always been helpless against—and pointed a finger at his chest, then at the number 10 painted on my cheek. I was so happy.

Suguru noticed a second later, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. I stuck my tongue out. 

And then the game began. Suddenly everything moved at once, my eyes barely catching up. When Saitama West scored first, my stomach dropped through the floor. It looked too easy for them. But then Suguru took the ball. He slipped past a defender, drove toward the basket, and flicked a pass back over his shoulder. Satoru was already there, catching it in stride for a layup.

“Let’s go!” I screamed, leaping to my feet with the rest of the student section. “Go! Go! Go!”

By halftime, we were down by eight. My friends went out to get nachos and soda while I stayed glued to the edge of the bleachers, alone in the crowd, watching the third quarter go downhill fast.

Saitama West’s star player was a nightmare—faster, meaner, moving like he already belonged on a pro court. He was unstoppable, sinking shot after shot as if it were nothing, silencing our side of the gym with every clean swish. With four minutes left, we were down by twelve. Someone behind me already declared that it’s over. I refused to stop believing.

I had watched them run drills around our block until their shirts clung with sweat to their skin and their laughter turned to groans. I had sat on the porch steps and watched them practice until darkness swallowed the driveway, until Suguru had to drag Satoru inside by his hood because Satoru refused to go home until he hit ten throws in a row.

They didn’t quit when it was dark. They didn’t quit when they were tired. They wouldn’t quit now.

In the fourth quarter, something changed. Suguru turned into a wall, holding the opposing star player to zero points, while Satoru caught fire. He sank three straight shots, each one seeming to hang in the air for eternity before slicing through the net and surging the entire gym to its feet.

With thirty seconds left, the score was tied. My voice was gone by then, nothing more than an awkward rasp, but I was still screaming—or trying to. It didn’t matter. Everyone was standing, the floorboards rattling under our feet, the noise so loud that I couldn’t even hear the referee’s whistle anymore.

Suguru brought the ball up. Ten seconds. The defense collapsed around him—three bodies closing in, arms up, trapping him near the arc. Nine seconds. He drove right, and then I saw it—the tiny opening. It was the backdoor cut, the exact same tactic they’d rehearsed under the flickering streetlamps of our driveway a thousand times, right up until the neighbors complained about the noise.

Eight seconds. Satoru caught the pass. He took one dribble and went up. Seven seconds. The ball left his fingertips. It hit the iron. It rolled around the rim once, twice. Six seconds.

It fell through.

Sound crashed over me like a tidal wave—screams, the thunder of stomping feet and the roar of the student section flooding the court before the teachers even had time to stop them. Suguru and Satoru were swept up in the riptide, vanishing into a sea of people.

I hung back at the edge of the celebration, heart pounding so hard against my ribs I thought it might bruise the bone. I watched them rise from the crowd, breathless and sweating, but they looked impossibly bright and alive.

And then, through the surge of bodies and noise, Satoru’s eyes found mine. He lifted his hand and traced the arc of his layup in the air, then pointed a finger directly at the 10 painted on my cheek and mouthed the words, silent but unmistakable:

Saw that?

A heartbeat.

For you.

A smile broke over his face like sunlight.

I went home that night and wrote it down in my diary, pressing the ballpoint pen so hard into the page that it carved the words into the next page.

He didn’t look at the cheerleaders. He didn’t look at the scouts. He looked at me, I wrote and underlined the word me three times. It was my Disney moment.

I stared at the ink drying on the page, convinced that this was the start of my happily ever after. I didn’t know yet that the thing about blue springs and youth is that they burn out, and that being the princess usually just means you have the furthest to fall.

Afterwards, when the chaos died down and people started to filter out, I’d waited by the locker rooms like always. Mom was running late—stuck at work, as usual—so I had time to kill and nowhere else to be.

The gym was nearly empty now, just the janitor starting to sweep up confetti and a few students taking photos near the exit. 

I wandered back onto the court and stared up at the scoreboard, which still showed the final score in red LEDs. A forgotten basketball lay on the edge of the court. I picked it up, dribbled once, twice, and took a shot. It clanged off the rim and bounced away.

“You’re doing it all wrong.”

I spun around so fast I nearly tripped over my feet.

Satoru was standing at the edge of the court. He had showered, white hair damp and darkened, falling messily over his forehead. Suguru was probably still in there, using up all the hot water—just like home.

“I wasn’t—I was just messing around.”

“Here, let me show you.” He dropped his gym bag, picked up the basketball and walked over. “You’re holding the ball wrong. Fingers spread—like this.” He demonstrated the grip, and then passed it to me. “And your stance—feet shoulder-width apart.”

I adjusted my feet, feeling foolish.

“Better,” he said, stepping closer, too close. “Now, when you shoot, it’s all in the wrist. You have to follow through.”

He moved behind me, a sudden warmth at my back. I stopped breathing. His hands slid along my arms, then guided my arms upward and corrected the angle of my elbows. His hand wrapped around my forearm to steady it, and I froze entirely.

I had always known Satoru was tall, that he was strong. I’d watched him grow into his height like a weed, watched his shoulders broaden year by year. But knowing it and feeling it were two different things.

His fingers circled my wrist with room to spare, where mine would have barely met. My heart was doing something stupid and frantic in my chest, a hummingbird battering against its cage, the way only teenage hearts do when they suddenly realize how much bigger a boy’s hand is than hers.

“Don’t throw it. Guide it,” he said, his breath brushing my hair. I prayed he wouldn’t notice the goosebumps rising along my arms. 

I took a breath and pushed the ball. It rose in a high arc, mostly guided by his strength. It spun once, a perfect rotation, and dropped clean through the net. Swish.

“Oh my god!” I hopped in place. “I made it!”

“See? Natural talent.”

“I wouldn’t say that. You did all the work.”

“Nah.” A grin pulled at his lips. “That was all you.” He grabbed the rebound and tossed it back to me. “Try again. On your own this time.”

I squared my feet. I tried to remember the angle he’d pulled my elbows into and shot.

Clang.

“Not bad,” he encouraged. “Again.”

I shot again. This time the ball hit the rim before bouncing off.

“See? You’re getting it.”

Satoru caught the rebound with one hand and spun it on the tip of his index finger, the ball blurring into a perfect orange sphere. It was effortless, showy, and unfairly cool.

“You ever think about joining the team?” he asked, watching the rotation.

“The girls’ team?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged, letting the ball drop into his palm. “Why not?”

“Because…” I had never really considered it. Basketball was their world—Suguru’s and Satoru’s. I was only the spectator, the one who held the towels. I didn't belong inside the lines. “I don’t know. I’m not good enough.”

“You could be. With practice.” He nudged the ball back into my hands. “Plus,” he added, looking down at me, “then you’d be around more. You know, at practices and stuff. Not just games.”

I looked up at him, searching his face, risking everything on a single question.

“You want me around more?”

“Yeah,” he said “I mean, you’re our good luck charm, right? Gotta keep you close.”

Our. Not my. It hurt.

In one syllable, he had tied himself back to Suguru, reminding me of the unshakeable bond they formed. To him, I wasn’t a girl he wanted. I was the mascot. I was the little sister of the duo.

“Right.” I tucked a stray strand behind my ear and pretended my little heart didn’t hurt. “I’ll think about it.” 

I would never join. And if I ever did, it would’ve been only because he suggested it. But by the time tryouts came around, I’d always talk myself out of it—tell myself it was stupid, forcing my way into their world just to be near him. Wanting something that much makes you terrified to reach for it. 

But right then, standing alone with him in that quiet gym, I felt brave enough for one last act of stupidity.

“I, um… I made you something. For winning.”

I pulled the bracelet I’d made for him out of my jeans pocket. It was simple—woven thread in blue and white, the team colors. I’ve spent three lunch periods hiding in the library, watching YouTube tutorials on my phone, starting over twice, because it had to be right. It had to be perfect.

Satoru took it and he held it up to the light. “You made this?” He turned the woven band over in his large hands like it was something impossibly precious instead of cheap embroidery thread.

“It’s dumb, I know. But I thought… I don’t know. For luck. Or whatever.”

“It’s not dumb.”

He’d slipped it onto his wrist immediately and tugged it in place. “It’s perfect.”

I’d tried not to melt on the spot. “Don’t tell Suguru, okay?” I added quickly. “He’ll be weird about it.”

He smiled. “Then it’s out secret.”

Our secret.

After all the ours that meant him and Suguru, here was one that was just mine and his.

I looked up at him from where I was still sitting on the cold floor, leaning against the glass door that refused to open. And from this angle, I saw it.

He was still wearing it.

Blue and white thread. It was frayed and faded now, the vibrant colors of our high school team washed out by years of sun and water and life. It sat tighter on his wrist than it had back then, almost too small for the man he had grown into. But he had kept it.

Had worn it enough for it to fade, enough for it to fray, enough for it to become a part of him.

“You’re still wearing it,” I said.

His hand moved to his wrist, thumb brushing over the worn threads.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

His gaze stayed on the bracelet, on the knots I had tied a lifetime ago. 

“We should find somewhere to sit,” he said. “Nine hours is a long time to spend on the floor.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The staff room was barely a room at all. A narrow table, a couple of chairs that didn’t match, a mini-fridge that hummed too loud and lockers that didn’t quite close.

I switched on the electric kettle. It was old and took forever to boil, but I needed something to do with my hands. While it hissed, I dug through my locker and pulled out the emergency snacks I kept for long shifts. A few pieces of leftover Halloween candy and a box of cereal bars that were probably close to expired but still edible—or so I hoped.

“Here.” I tossed one to Satoru.

Satoru caught it with one hand—a reflex that hadn’t dulled with time, it seemed—and turned it over. “Cranberry?”

“It’s all I have.”

He tore the wrapper open with his teeth and took a bite. I reached into the cabinet for two mugs—one chipped, one with the bookstore’s fading logo—and grabbed two tea bags from the staff box, and hoped they weren’t close to expired too.

I leaned against the counter, watching the first thin wisps of steam rise from the kettle, and tried my best not to look at him. But then the cheap chair creaked behind me and I glanced over my shoulder anyway because apparently I’m weak.

He looked too big for the space, legs stretched out under the tiny table. I didn’t know what to make of him anymore.

There was a time when I knew him without trying. He spent half his life in our house, raiding our fridge and coming and going like he lived there. He knew which drawer held the good biscuits, which floorboard squeaked, which window stuck in summer. And I knew the way he stretched out his words when he was tired, the way he’d drop onto our couch and be asleep in ten seconds, the way he hovered in the kitchen when he didn’t want to go home yet.

Back then, he filled every room he walked into. He talked fast and laughed loud, pulling me and Suguru into his orbit whether we wanted to be there or not. Stillness didn’t suit him. It never had. He was the boy who almost kissed me once, then left before I could decide what it meant. Perhaps I should have anticipated that. He’d never stayed still a day in his life.

And now there was this person I hardly knew. His hair was cut short at the neck, and there was a stillness to him I had never seen before. He looked like someone who had decided exactly how much of himself the world was allowed to see and locked the rest away. Someone I recognized, but no longer understood. 

I watched him chew the cranberry bar, jaw sharper than I remembered. A man where my memory still tried to put a boy.

“Your manager takes photos?”

I followed his gaze to the corkboard above the table. A scatter of Polaroids pinned up with pushpins. There was Maki making a face behind a rude customer’s back. Nobara and I laughing over a spilled box of inventory. A group photo from Halloween where we were all dressed up as different book characters.

“Yeah,” I said. “She looks strict, but she really cares.”

“Which one is she?”

“The blonde in the back. Yuki.” I pointed to a candid shot of her laughing. “She started it when she opened the store. Said everyone who would work here should leave a piece of themselves behind.”

Satoru still chewed the cereal bar while his gaze moved across the corkboard until he stopped on one specific square near the center.

It was from my birthday last month. I wore a silly paper party hat that had already half slid off my head, while the rest of the staff crowded around me. Everyone had their hands lifted in heart signs, laughing and shouting at the same time at some poor customer we’d asked to take the picture, but held the camera wrong so the whole picture came out crooked.

My fourth birthday without so much as a text from him.

“You look happy here,” he said.

“I am happy.”

He was still looking at the wall. At the evidence of a life he hadn’t been part of.

“I didn’t know you worked here.”

“Why would you,” I said. “We don’t exactly talk.” 

Right then, the kettle clicked off.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

I clicked on the floor lamp near the two overstuffed green velvet armchairs in the reading corner; its yellow light barely reached the edges of the shelves that framed the nook. I grabbed two blankets from the storage closet and tossed one over his chair. It smelled like something that had been stored too long in the closet, but warmth was warmth.

Sliding into my own chair, I pulled my knees up and tucked the wool around my legs. The chairs were angled toward each other—close enough to talk without raising our voices, far enough that our legs wouldn’t accidentally touch. 

It would be absurdly easy to pretend this was normal, to imagine it was just a random Thursday night and we were simply two people who knew each other—rather than two people who hadn’t spoken in years and were now trapped together in a city mall until morning.

Silence filled the store. After a while, Satoru shifted. I felt his eyes on me before I met them.

“Suguru told me you’re pursuing your PhD.”

He was watching me with something careful in his expression, like he was stepping onto ice and testing how much it would hold.

“I’m just starting out,” I said. “It’s not a big deal.”

“What are you researching?”

“It’s technical.”

“Tell me anyway.”

I sighed. “I’m part of a group studying photophysics. Basically, how molecules behave under extreme light conditions. We’re trying to figure out how to make energy transfer more efficient, how to stop things from losing power as heat. It’s complicated and half the time the data makes no sense, but when something finally behaves the way it’s supposed to…” I trailed off, realizing my hands were moving, emphasizing the words. I pulled the blanket tighter. “It’s pretty cool. That’s all.”

“Tell me more,” he said.

“It’s boring, really. Dry math and a hell lot of experiments. You’d regret asking.”

“I won’t.”

He said it without a beat of hesitation. I eyed him, waiting for the smirk, the punchline where he’d admit he was just asking to be polite but to be honest he doesn’t really care. It didn’t come. He sat there in the dim lamplight, turned towards me, and waited.

“Fine,” I said. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Promise.”

I shifted the blanket higher over my knees. “We study behavior under pressure. Specifically, how molecules react when you hit them with really intense light, lke stronger than sunlight intense. We use lasers to push them into highly unstable states, and then track what they do in the few nanoseconds before they calm down.”

“Calm down?”

“Return to their original state,” I said. “Their lowest energy level. Where they’re stable again.”

“So you’re stressing them out and watch what happens?”

“Pretty much, yeah. We push electrons to higher energy levels, and when they drop back down, they release energy—sometimes as light, sometimes as heat. The goal is to make that release cleaner and more efficient. If we understand the pathways, we might be able to design better solar cells, more efficient catalysts, that kind of thing.”

“Huh.” He leaned back in the chair. “Sounds pretty cool.”

“You don’t have to pretend to be interested.”

“I’m not pretending.”

I shot him a look. I almost believed him. But I’d been made fun of enough times to know when someone was lying.

“Shouldn’t you know all this anyway?” I said. “Don’t med students have to take chemistry?”

“Yeah. We do.”

“And?”

“I failed it.” He touched the back of his neck. “Twice.”

I blinked. “Wait—what?”

“Passed on the third attempt.” A thin smile. “Barely. I think my professor felt sorry for me by then.”

“Satoru, you—” I stared at him, genuinely shocked. “You—the person I tutored in chemistry throughout his entire school life—failed chemistry in university? Twice?”

“In my defense, organic chemistry in med is completely different to what they teach you in school.”

“Oh my god. All those hours. All those diagrams I drew. The flashcards I made you—”

“Those were great—”

“You memorized the entire periodic table!”

“I forgot it immediately after finals,” he admitted. “Like, the next day. Gone.”

I wanted to throw my blanket at him. “How are you even still in med school?”

“Anatomy makes sense to me. Physiology too. But chemistry is just—” He waved a hand vaguely. “Invisible things doing invisible things.”

“That’s what I explained! For months!”

“I know.” He had the decency to look sheepish. “I’m really sorry about that, by the way. You put in a lot of effort for nothing.”

I slumped back in my chair. “You’re telling me you almost failed out of med school because of chemistry?”

“I didn’t almost fail out.”

“Third attempt, Satoru.”

He sighed, defeated. “Fine. I almost dropped out of med because of chemistry.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“I know.”

“All those hours.”

“I know.”

“The flashcards had little drawings on them.”

“They were very cute drawings,” he said. “Didn’t help me pass, but still cute.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Always have been.”

After that, we fell into a quiet that wasn’t awkward so much as familiar—the kind of easy silence shared by people who have too much history to feel compelled to fill every gap with noise. I leaned back a little farther in my chair and listened to the faint hum of the refrigerator in the break room that carried through the empty aisles.

“You look different when you talk about it,” he said. “Chemistry, I mean.”

“Different how?”

“I don’t know. Lighter, maybe. Like you’ve found your place.”

Satoru shifted again, sinking a bit deeper into his armchair, his long legs stretched out into the pool of lamplight.

“Can you show me sometime?” he asked.

“Show you?”

“The lab. Your work. If that’s allowed. If you want.”

I blinked, surprised. And suddenly the reading corner felt smaller, warmer, as if the night had pulled our chairs inches closer together without us moving.

“If I had known how important chemistry would become in my life,” he mused, looking up at the ceiling, “I’d have paid more attention to your lectures.”

“I didn’t lecture you.”

“You did. And you were brutal about it. You were two grades below me and still smarter in every way.”

“That’s an exaggeration.”

“It’s not,” he insisted. “You’d look at my homework, make that tiny annoyed face—the one where your nose scrunches up just a little—and I’d feel… weirdly ashamed of myself.”

“Because I scolded you?”

“Because you scolded me,” he confirmed immediately. “You’d correct one equation, pointing out where I missed a valence electron or whatever, and I’d think—Wow, I’m an idiot.” He went quiet for a moment. “You made me nervous.”

“I made you nervous?”

“Yeah,” he said. “You always did.”

I stared at him, the words still hanging between us like smoke I couldn’t wave away. Anger hit me so suddenly I didn’t have time to brace for it—hot and ugly, like a match struck too close to skin.

I made him nervous.

What was the point of that confession now? What did it count for, eight years too late, spoken in a locked mall at midnight like some kind of punchline to a joke I’d stopped finding funny?

He’d been nervous. He’d felt something. And he’d left anyway. Not because he didn’t feel the same. Not because it wouldn’t work. But because I was Suguru’s little sister. A label he slapped over every other part of me until I disappeared beneath it.

And I realized, I was never a person to him in those moments—only a rule. A bright line drawn in the carpet of someone else’s house. Crossing it would have been messy, inconvenient, a conversation with his best friend he apparently couldn’t stomach. So he chose the cleaner story: honor, loyalty, restraint. He kept his hands spotless while I learned to breathe around the ache of what almost happened.

It hurt. Because if he’d felt it too—if he’d been nervous, if I’d mattered—then why hadn’t I been worth the risk? Why hadn’t I been worth a single conversation, a single attempt, a single goddamn phone call in eight years? What good was his nervousness if he never let it matter? 

I would have followed him anywhere if he’d only asked. If he’d only gave me some small proof that I mattered more than the principle of not betraying Suguru.

I would have forgiven the missed birthdays. I would have forgiven the months of radio silence. I would have wiped my eyes and picked up the phone if he had called, even on the nights I swore I hated him, even when I was crying into my pillow over the sheer unfairness of loving him. I would have forgiven him for breaking my heart if he had just shown up to hold the pieces.

One call. One stupid, cowardly call and I would have run to him, arms wide, dignity in shreds, because back then love felt bigger than pride and I was young enough to believe forgiveness could fix a person. I was that stupid. I was that in love.

But he didn’t. He waited. He waited until the wanting had turned into resentment, until the girl who would have waited forever grew up into a woman who knew better.

I turned my face before he could read any of it.

“Suguru talks about you a lot,” he went on, ignoring my silence. “He’s proud of you. Says you work too much.” A small pause. “He worries, you know. But he also thinks you’re incredible. He always has.” Another pause, quieter. “I do too.”

I closed my eyes.

It would have been easier if he’d said nothing. If he’d stayed on his side of the chasm, playing the role of the distant family friend. But instead, he reached across it, offering me something warm, something earnest—something I didn’t know how to hold anymore.

“You don’t know me,” I said.

“You’re still you. I know you.”

“No. You don’t.” I pushed myself out of the armchair, the wool blanket pooling at my feet. “You have no idea.”

“Then tell me.”

“You don’t get to ask that. You don’t get to walk in here after eight years and talk like you understand who I am now.”

“Then help me understand! Tell me what’s wrong. Don’t you have everything you wanted? The PhD, the future, all of it. You’re doing exactly what you always said you would. Isn’t this the life you dreamed about?”

“Fuck you,” I spat, spinning around to face him. “You don’t know anything.”

He flinched, but the anger was already rising in him too. 

“Maybe I don’t,” he said. “Maybe I don’t understand you anymore. Because what else could you possibly want? You already have everything you ever wanted.”

“You left! You promised me I’d always matter, and then you left and never looked back. And I was alone again. I was the nerd of the school again—the pathetic girl who’d been left behind.” I took a shaking breath. “I needed you. And you left. And you made it look so easy—having girlfriends in every other city and never once picked up the phone.”

He opened his mouth, but I cut him off.

“Do you know what the worst part was? It wasn’t the bullying. It wasn’t eating lunch alone. It was realizing that you were right.”

“About what?”

“That I wasn’t worth staying for.” My voice barely made it past the knot in my throat. “That I was just Suguru’s little sister. Just some kid with a crush. Nothing more.”

“No—That’s not—”

“Then what was I, Satoru? Because from where I’m standing, I was someone you found it very easy to leave behind.”

He went quiet. So quiet I could hear the distant creak of the building settling into the night.

“I never had a girlfriend,” he said at last.

“What?”

“I said I never had a girlfriend.” His fingers found the bracelet on his wrist and twisted it absently. “You said I was too busy with girlfriends but I wasn’t. I never—I couldn’t.”

“That’s bullshit. I saw the comments—the pictures. All those girls—”

“Commented on my Instagram, yeah. Showed up at games. Asked for my number. But I never… I didn’t want them.” He was still staring at the bracelet, then looked up. “You want to know why?”

“No. I really don’t”

“Because none of them were you.”

I tried to make sense of his words, but I couldn’t.

“Why didn’t you ever call?” I whispered.

“To tell you what? That I couldn’t stop thinking about you? That every game I played, I was looking for your face in the crowd even though I knew you weren’t there? That I—”

“What? That you what?”

“That I’m still in love with you.”

I stood there, mouth half open, trying to stitch his confession into the fabric of everything I knew to be true, with the conviction I’d carried for yers that he’d simply forgotten I existed, but the thread kept slipping. Still in love, still in love, the thought looped endlessly in my head. He couldn’t mean it. People didn’t keep years of silences for love; they kept them for indifference.

And I had proof—the empty inbox, the unanswered texts, the birthdays I stopped mentioning because he never remembered. I had built an entire house of evidence that I was forgettable, and now he wanted to torch it with one sentence?

My pulse hammered, too loud and too fast. If he was telling the truth, then every night I cried myself to sleep had been for nothing. Every time I stalked his Instagram and hated myself for it, every time I called myself pathetic for still caring—wrong. I’d spent years learning to live inside the shape of his absence, carving out space for the ache until it fit me, and now he was saying the absence itself had been a lie?

“Is this all a joke to you?” I choked out, tears spilling over. “You left me thinking for years that there was something wrong with me. That you regretted almost kissing me. That I was just some stupid kid you wanted to forget about.”

I wiped at my face, hating the tears, hating him.

“Do you know what that did to me? Watching you live this whole perfect life in Osaka while I was stuck here wondering what I did wrong?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong—”

“Then why does it feel like I did? Why does it feel like I’ve been punished for years for having feelings I didn’t ask for? Do you know how lost I’ve been? Wondering if I’m enough. Being so fucking unsure and scared about everything. How many nights I stayed up wondering if I was making the right choices, if any of it mattered, if I mattered?”

I couldn't breathe around the tightness in my chest. It felt like drowning on dry land.

“I needed you,” I said—the confession punched its way out and took half my lung with it. “I needed you so much, and you weren’t there. I’ve felt so alone. So fucking alone. And all I wanted—all I needed—was for you to come back and tell me it would be okay. That I would be okay.”

A pause.

“I’m sorry I left,” he said at last. “I didn’t know how to be around you without wanting—without wanting everything.”

I looked at him through tears. 

“You’re such an idiot,” I said.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

I still remember the bite of the wind that autumn day.

I was twelve. My schoolbag was cutting into my shoulder, and my breath fogged the air in puffy clouds. I stood outside the school gates as the sun sank lower, turning the sky that particular shade of bruised purple and orange that meant evening was coming.

All the other kids had been picked up hours ago. The last bus home had left an hour earlier. Even the teachers’ cars were gone.

I realized then, in that small and shattering way children do, that she had simply forgotten. Again. It wasn’t intentional; it was just that her work was loud and urgent, and I was quiet and easy to overlook. But sometimes being forgotten hurt more than if she had done it on purpose. It confirmed what the girls in the bathroom had said earlier: that I was invisible.

I had tried calling home three times from the payphone down the road. No answer. Suguru wasn’t home either—he was helping Mrs. Harukawa from next door getting her groceries, like he did on Wednesdays. So I sat on the curb, backpack clutched to my chest, trying not to move my head. 

If I moved, the clump of sticky, grape-scented gum stuck to the back of my hair pulled at my scalp. The girls from 6-B had put it there during lunch, laughing as they mashed it in. I hadn’t cried then because I refused to give them the satisfaction. And I wasn’t going to cry now, because I was twelve, and crying was for babies.

But then the streetlights flickered on, buzzing overhead, and for the first time, I understood what it meant to be an afterthought.

“Hey.” I didn’t noice him until he stood in front of me. “What are you doing out here? It’s freezing.”

I looked up to see Satoru. He’d found me. 

He must have come from basketball practice, his gym bag hanging from one shoulder. He had just turned fourteen the week before, but to me he looked so much older—confident and sure of himself in a way that seemed almost adult. He had that short, cropped haircut everyone at school suddenly wanted, the kind that made boys look cooler, like they were on the verge of becoming something bigger than they were, while I was still so scared and unsure about everything.

“Waiting for my mom.” I looked back at the pavement, terrified that if I looked up again, the tears I was holding back would spill over. “She’s just running late.”

“How late?”

I shrugged, a tiny movement that made the gum pull at my hair. I flinched.

Satoru didn’t miss it. He crouched down in front of me, bringing his face level with mine. He reached out and gently tilted my chin up, forcing me to look at him. Then he turned my head slightly.

“Who did that?”

“Did what?”

“Don’t.” He guided my face back to his. “Who?”

I shook my head, big tears falling onto tiny hands.

“Okay.” He stood and slung his gym bag over his shoulder. “Suguru’s helping your neighbour today, right?”

I managed a little nod, not trusting my voice.

“Come on.” He offered me his hand. It was large and warm, his fingers taped up for practice. “We’re not waiting here.”

“But my mom—”

“I’ll leave a note on the gate. She won’t kill us. And anyway, we’re getting hot chocolate first.”

He took me to that small café near the train station—the warm one that smelled of roasted almonds and vanilla. He sat me down in a booth in the back, then went to the counter. He came back with a cup of crushed ice and two hot chocolates—the fancy kind with real melted chocolate and caramel drizzle that cost twice as much as I had pocket money for the week.

He slid into the booth next to me instead of across and told me to turn around. And then, the most popular boy in middle school sat in this quiet café, painstakingly working hand lotion and ice cubes into my hair to get the gum out of my hair. He was incredibly gentle. He didn’t pull. He didn’t make fun of me.

It had felt weird. And embarrassing. And I’d wanted to cry all over again, because I couldn’t even fix it myself—because I was sitting there like a helpless little kid while he tried to undo something cruel and stupid those girls at school thought was funny.

“Why do they do it?” I asked quietly, watching the caramel drizzle sliding down the inside of my glass.

“Because they’re bored,” he said. “And mean. And probably unhappy.”

“Unhappy with what?”

“With themselves.” He carefully separated another sticky strand. “Happy people don’t go around putting gum in other’s people hair. Only people who feel small try to make other people feel smaller. It makes them feel better about themselves.”

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe that the gum in my hair was proof that I was in some way better than them, that I made them feel bad about themselves, and not only a sign that I was easy to bully.

“Does it get better?” I asked. “When you’re older?”

“Yeah. It does. My mom always says you stop caring about the people who don’t matter, and you find the ones who do.”

“You believe her?”

“I do. Because I’ve found mine. You and Suguru.” His voice softened. “And you’ll find your people too. I promise.”

But I had my people.

It took almost an hour.

Satoru told me about the constellations starting to appear in the darkening sky outside the window while he worked at my hair, about a documentary on black holes he’d watched the other night, about his stupid couch and how Suguru had tripped over his own feet in practice yesterday. He built a wall of words to keep the world out.

When he finally worked the last of it loose, leaving only the faintest sweet smell of bubblegum behind, he set down the comb and turned me around in the booth to face him.

“Listen to me,” he said, suddenly serious. “Those girls? They don’t matter. They don’t get to make you feel small. You’re worth a hundred of them. Got it?”

I nodded, my throat tight.

“And if they do this again—if they do anything—you tell me. Or Suguru. We’ll handle it.”

I wiped at my eyes. “You can’t fight middle school girls, Satoru.”

“Watch me.”

A grin cracked his serious expression. He reached out and ruffled my damp, sticky hair.

“Actually, you’re right. I can’t fight them but I’ll stand behind you and look intimidating. You can fight your own battles. But you don’t have to fight them alone.”

When Suguru finally came home, he found us in the living room—Satoru and me playing Mario Kart on the old Nintendo 64, like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just spent an hour fixing something that wasn’t his problem.

The next morning, Satoru was leaning against the school gates when I arrived and walked me to my classroom. He didn’t say anything to the girls. He didn’t have to. He was tall and looked scary if he wanted to, and that was enough.

On the days Suguru had afternoon activities, Satoru was always there. I found out weeks later that he was skipping the first hour of his basketball practice to walk me home—trading his playing time and enduring his coach’s complaints just to make sure I made it to my front door without looking over my shoulder. 

For years, I lived inside the bubble of his protection. I walked tall because his shadow was long enough to cover me. But gravity is a temporary force, and eventually, orbits deteriorate.

Satoru graduated. He packed his bags for a university in Osaka, taking his brightness and protection with him. And the moment he left, the air around me grew thin again.

The bullying didn’t come back the way it had before. There was no gum in my hair, no shoved lockers. It was smarter now. Quieter. It was the silence when I walked into a room. It was the way conversations stopped dead when I approached. It was the collective decision that I was, once again, invisible. 

Without Satoru and my brother to look intimidating behind me, I became that unsure little girl again, the one who’d never figured out how to stand up for herself and was scared senseless to try.

I stopped going to the cafeteria. I stopped trying to find a seat at the tables where I wasn’t wanted. I retreated to the library. I ate my lunch alone between shelves of dusty encyclopedias and fiction, surrounded by characters who were brave in ways I didn’t know how to be. I wanted to believe that I was like the heroines in the books—misunderstood, waiting for her story to start, for my real Disney moment. But really, I was just waiting for him to come back and save me.

And when that realization finally settled in—that no one was coming, that the cavalry had moved on—I felt a kind of desolation that nearly swallowed me whole. I was so lost. Without them, I didn’t know who I was anymore. I was just an outline of a person, defined by who I was related to and who I was waiting for.

I had to claw my way out of that library. I had to fight so hard, so goddamn hard, to invent a version of myself that didn’t need a bodyguard. I had to build a spine out of something other than their approval. I turned to books, to science, to the cold, hard certainty of facts—things that couldn’t leave me, things that didn’t make promises they wouldn’t keep.

I found myself in the vacuum they left behind. But someday you have to decide you cannot hide anymore, cannot keep curling into the space someone else used to fill. Someday you have to stand up, even if your hands are shaking, and declare yourself the leader of your own life. And God, it was a lonely, brutal birth. 

“I found more.”

Satoru crouched beside me, holding out a fresh box of tissues from the break room.

“Thanks.” 

I took one, dabbing at my face even though I was pretty sure I’d run out of tears. I curled up on the floor, back against the rough fabric of the armchair, knees pulled tight to my chest. The adrenaline that had fueled me earlier had drained away, leaving my limbs heavy and my head throbbing with that dull, dehydration headache that always follows a good cry.

Satoru set the tissue packet on the carpet between us and lowered himself to the floor across from me, long legs folding awkwardly as he leaned against the opposite chair. The red velvet pants rode up, exposing his striped socks again.

“You should really get out of that costume. It looks miserable. And I can’t take you seriously when you look like Santa.”

He looked down at the suit—at the fake white trim, and the velvet already pilling in places—as if realizing for the first time that he was still wearing it.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s itchy as hell, anyway.”

He unbuckled the wide black belt and let it fall onto the carpet, then unzipped the jacket. The padded red bulk slid off his shoulders and crumpled behind him. Underneath, he wore a fitted white tank top.

I immediately regretted suggesting it.

He rolled his neck, stretching out his shoulders, and the cotton pulled tight across a frame I no longer recognized. I had spent the last hours grieving the boy I used to know—the lanky teenager who lived in basketball shorts all year round and ate cereal straight from the box. But the person in front of me wasn’t that boy anymore. Not even close.

I looked away.

“Better?” I asked, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near pathetic.

“Much better.” He tossed the Santa jacket over the arm of the chair and leaned back on his hands, veins standing out in sharp lines along his forearms. “Though now I’m wondering if I should put it back on.”

“Why?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.”

I threw my blanket at him.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

It was nearly four in the morning when we gave up on sleep entirely.

We’d tried. Both of us retreating to our armchairs with blankets pulled up to our chins, pretending the silence was comfortable, pretending we weren’t aware of every shift and breath the other made. But sleep was not possible. My mind kept circling back to everything we’d said, everything still left unsaid, replaying it on an endless loop until I wanted to scream.

Satoru had been the first to break. Suggested we find something to do, anything. And now, here we were, sprawled on the carpet between the velvet armchairs with a board game spread between us—something with a dice and complicated cards that he’d pulled from the store’s game section, promising he’d pay for it later when the register worked again.

Two more hours. Just two more hours until the cleaning crew arrived and shattered this strange, suspended reality we were trapped in.

The game was simple enough that we didn’t need to think too hard, complicated enough that it keept our heads busy. A welcome distraction. I watched him roll the dice, watched his fingers—those stupidly long fingers—move his piece across the board. 

He was cheating. Probably. I wasn’t paying close enough attention to be sure, but it seemed like the kind of thing he’d do just to get under my skin. It felt painfully domestic. It felt like the rainy Sunday afternoons of our childhood, when we’d play card games too, rewritten in a language I was only just learning to speak.

And as the minute hand ticked closer to dawn, I found myself wishing, selfishly, that the sun wouldn’t rise. I didn’t want the locks to open.

“Don’t take it too hard.” Satoru nudged his winning piece forward with a flick of his finger, already grinning. “I’m just naturally gifted at board games.”

I lost, of course. “You cheated.”

“Prove it.”

“I don’t need to prove it. I know you did.”

“Sounds like something a loser would say.” 

He was still smiling in that infuriating, boyish way that had always made it impossible to stay mad at him for long. 

He pushed himself up from the carpet and stretched his arms overhead. A sharp hiss escaped through his teeth. He reached down, gripping his knee, his face tightening in pain that wiped the smile clean off his face.

He sank back down, stretched his leg out in front of him, and shoved the Santa polyester up over his knee. I watched him dig his fingers into skin.

“Suguru told me.”

“Suguru talks too much.”

“He said a surgery could fix it. He said the doctors told you that you could play again. If you wanted to.”

“Yeah,” he breathed out, the word rough. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

He stared at his knee, thumb tracing the line of the scar, somehow pretty and ugly at the same time. 

“The surgery is expensive,” he said. “And even then, there’s no guarantee it will work. No guarantee I’d ever play at the level I used to.”

“But there’s a chance.”

“There’s a chance.”

It was hard to see him like that—so unsure of himself, unsure of the one thing he’d always loved. This was the boy who used to fall asleep with a basketball in his bed. The boy I once believed would die if he couldn’t run.

“You love it,” I said.

“I still do. But I don’t know if that’s what I want anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

He leaned his head back against the armchair, staring up at the shadows on the ceiling.

“Basketball was everything for so long, and I was so sure that this is what I always wanted—what my life’s gonna be like.” His hand slowed on his knee. “And then it was just... gone. One bad landing, and the future I had always imagined myself in disappeared, and I had no idea who I was without it.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say.

“It’s okay.” A faint smile touched his lips. “Turns out losing everything forces you to figure out what you actually want. Not what you’re supposed to want, or your parents or whatever—just what matters to you.”

“And basketball doesn’t matter anymore?”

“I don’t know. I loved it. I really loved it. But I don’t know if I loved it for the right reasons. Or if I was just good at it, so I kept doing it.” His thumb found the bracelet on his wrist, worrying at the frayed blue and white threads. “Sports medicine makes sense. I get to stay close to the game, help other kids the way I wish someone had helped me. And if I never play again maybe that’s okay.”

“You don’t have to decide right now,” I said.

“I know. Doesn’t stop everyone from asking, though.” He lowered himself fully onto the carpet, lying flat on his back with one arm folded behind his head, staring up at the dark. “It was bad. After the injury. Everyone kept telling me it would be okay, that I’d come back from it. But I knew the second I hit the floor that it was over.”

“The surgery didn’t go as well as they hoped,” he continued. “Recovery took longer. And every day I wasn’t on the court was another day watching everyone else move forward without me. I didn’t know who I was if I wasn’t that guy anymore—the basketball player, the one everyone expected things from.” His voice dropped lower. “I felt like I’d lost everything, and that I failed at the only thing I was ever supposed to be good at.”

I lowered myself onto the carpet beside him and turned onto my side. I watched the rise and fall of his chest and thought about the boy who used to write be a pro basketball player at the top of every Christmas wish list he’d ever made.

How cruel growing up is. It takes the brightest certainties and shatters them, leaving us to sweep up the pieces and pretend we’re fine because that’s what adulthood is about. It’s no fairytale.

One day you’re the boy who will never stop running; the next you’re learning how to walk without pain. One day you’re the girl who knows exactly who she is; the next you’re teaching yourself how to be someone again.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

He pushed himself up and rested on one elbow. I could count the pale lashes framing those impossible blue eyes, and in that moment, I wanted him never to look away.

“It’s okay. I was probably terrible company anyway.” 

And I wanted to tell him it didn’t matter, that I would’ve taken him grumpy and bitter and unfair and broken if that was all he had to give.

“I envied you, you know,” he said. “Back then. A lot more than I want to admit.”

“You… envied me?”

“I did. I asked Suguru about you all the time. And he’d tell me you got into your dream university, that you were top of your class, that you got into your PhD program. You sounded so sure of yourself. And I had—nothing. I didn’t know who I was or what I’m gonna do. And you looked like you were becoming everything you always said you wanted.”

Stupid, I thought. I had everything except him.

“I’m sorry I never called. I was—” his voice thinned, almost broke. “I was afraid.”

“Of what?”

“That you would hate me.”

He looked away, eyes drifting to the shelves, then to the carpet between us, anywhere but me. Amber light slid across his cheekbones, settling into the faint hollow beneath his eyes that made him look older, more worn than I’d ever seen him.

“I was afraid you’d moved on and find someone other, someone better. Someone who wouldn’t hurt you. Someone who would show up, who would be there for you. Not someone who would disappear because he got scared of what his own feelings meant.”

His hand moved to the bracelet, fingers working the frayed threads again.

“I wanted to visit so many times. I wanted to call. But what would that even be? Me on the phone saying, ‘I’m thinking about you, but I can’t come home because basketball takes up so much of my life’? What kind of relationship would that be?”

I was grateful I was already on the floor, because I was sure my legs would’ve given out at the way he said relationship—like it was something real, something we could have actually had. And it felt so unbearably unfair.

Because I’d spent eight years trying to kill that want. I’d folded it into the smallest, sharpest square possible and shoved it somewhere deep behind my ribs where it couldn’t embarrass me anymore. 

I dated people who were kind and uncomplicated, people who never made my heart behave like it was trying to escape my chest. I told myself what I’d felt for Satoru was only the dramatic intensity of adolescence, the kind of thing everyone goes through and grows out of.

I’d spent years and years terrifying myself out of hoping for anything else—only for it to come back as if nothing had changed at all. And I’m still sixteen and stupid and desperate for him.

He pushed himself upright then, turning away. 

“I wanted something better for you,” he said quietly.

It is strange how time changes people—how it can turn even the most confident person adrift. It hollows people out in places you didn’t know were soft.

“Do you remember the winter ball in tenth grade?”

He didn’t turn around.

“Mom and I spent hours trying to find a dress,” I went on. “We came home with empty hands because I didn’t feel pretty enough for any of them. And you were out in the driveway playing basketball with Suguru. You asked if I’d found anything, and I told you no, and that I might not even go because the only person who asked me was Souta from math, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to go with him.” I took a breath. “Do you remember what you said?”

I think he knew, but he wanted me to say it anyway.

“You told me I deserved someone better. You told me I deserved someone who’d treat me right. Someone who’d show up with flowers and tell me I looked beautiful and actually mean it. Someone who wasn’t asking just because he thought I’d be an easy yes.”

“I remember,” he said quietly.

“And then you asked me to go with you instead,” I said. “You picked me up at seven. You wore a suit that Suguru made fun of for weeks, but you didn’t care. You brought me purple dahlias because you remembered they were my favorite. And you danced with me all night.”

I could still feel his hand at the small of my back it if I closed my eyes. Could feel the way he held me like I was something precious, something breakable, even though I’d never felt stronger than I did in his arms. We moved in this uneven little sway to the music because neither of us could dance, and I remember thinking that I didn’t care if the whole world was watching, because he looked at me like I was the only person in that overheated gym.

I remember the exact moment the slow song started—how his grip tightened, how he pulled me closer without asking, and I let him. I pressed my cheek to his shoulder and breathed him in, thinking this is it, this is the moment everything changes. My heart was beating so violently I was terrified he’d feel it through his shirt. I was so sure he’d kiss me before the night ended.

He didn’t. But for those few hours, I was the girl from the movies—the one who gets chosen.

“I was so happy.”

He turned his head slightly. “You were?”

“Of course. Can you imagine my smile when I heard you’d hit Souta in the face with the basketball during practice? Everyone said it was an accident, but I let myself hope it wasn’t.”

“That was kind of stupid.”

“I thought you were so cool.”

“Because I broke someone’s nose with a ball?”

“Because you did it for me. Back then, you always showed up—for everything. When I was scared, when I needed help, when I didn’t even know how to ask for it.” A beat. “You told me I deserved better that night. You told me I deserved everything. You were my everything—my better.”

“And then I left.”

“And then you left,” I said, softer than I meant to.

Something in him seemed to give way then. He lowered himself down on the carpet beside me and turned onto his side, eyes level with mine, and rested his head on the crook of his arm.

We were so close now. Close enough that I could see the faint scar on the bridge of his nose he got from a backboard in sophomore year. Close enough that I could count every faint freckle scattered across his cheekbones. Close enough that I could feel the pulse in his wrist where it lay inches from my fingers, betraying him. Close enough that when he exhaled, I breathed him in.

Almost touching. Always almost. The way everything with us had always been—almost, but not quite. We’d been rehearsing this story since we were kids and stupid enough to believe almost counted as yes.

“I’m sorry I was such a coward back then. Still am,” he said, pushing up on his elbow. “I was afraid you wouldn’t want me if I wasn’t him anymore. If I was just… me.”

I wanted to laugh and cry in the same breath.

As if there were a single version of him that I wouldn’t have loved with the same helpless certainty. As if I hadn’t already loved him in every lifetime we never got to live—the boy I grew up with, the one who shielded me, the one who flew, the one who fell, and the familiar stranger beside me now.

I would love him no matter what. I would find him and choose him in every version, in every lifetime, until the stars burned out.

“You’re so stupid,” I said.

I didn’t wait for a response. I reached out to cradle his face in my hands. His skin was warm, and I ran my thumbs over his cheekbones, forcing him to look at me.

“I’ll always want you.”

And then there was no distance left at all. I leaned in and kissed him. And for the first time in a very long time, the ache finally felt like coming home.

He froze for a single stunned heartbeat—a soft, breathless shock against my mouth, like he couldn’t quite believe I’d chosen him after everything. But the hesitation lasted only a fraction of a second, and the shock melted out of him like frost under sudden sun. He exhaled into the kiss.

His hand slid up the back of my neck, his long fingers weaving deep into my hair to cradle my head. He guided me back against the floor, rolling us so gently the carpet barely shifted beneath us. I was on my back before I could catch my breath, the faint light of the lamp spilling across his face as he hovered above me, eyes wide and bright as frost, searching mine for permission he already had. 

And I answered by pulling him down.

Our lips met again, surer now, no hesitation left in either of us. His weight settled over me, careful and close, the heat of him sinking into my chest until I couldn’t tell where my heartbeat ended and his began.

A mechanical click broke through the quiet. Fluorescent lights hummed awake overhead. The entire mall lurched from night to morning in a single breath.

6:00 a.m.

I pulled back slightly. “The security—they’re here—”

“I know,” he murmured against my mouth. 

“We should—”

“Probably.” But he didn’t move. His thumb traced along my jaw, eyes searching mine. “In a second.”

“Satoru—”

And then he kissed me again. Deeper this time, more insistent, like he’d been holding this moment inside him for years, like he was trying to erase every empty second we’d spent apart.

He kissed me like he’d finally come home.

“I’m still mad at you,” I said against his mouth.

“I know.” He kissed me again, softer this time. “I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

“That’s a big promise.”

“I’m not running this time.”

He pushed himself up, pulling me with him to sit in his lap. “I won’t,” he said. “I promise. I won’t.” His arms wrapped around me, warm and sure and everything I had ever wanted. One hand rested against the small of my back, the other threading through my hair, cradling my head like I was something precious.

Mine, I thought, dizzy with it. Mine, mine, mine. This boy was finally, impossibly mine.

I kissed him harder, my fingers curling into the fabric of his tank top, and felt him smile against my mouth. Distant footsteps echoed through the mall, the real world waiting to interrupt. Neither of us cared.

Maybe Disney got it right sometimes. All those movies I used to roll my eyes at, where the music swells and the lights come up and the princess finally gets kissed the way the entire theater has rooted for all along—maybe they hadn’t been lying after all.

Because this would’ve been the moment the orchestra kicked in, when the violins would start playing and the curtains drew back, and snow began to fall right on cue—the kind of happily-ever-after I stopped believing in when I was sixteen.

And it was happening on a dusty bookstore carpet in a locked mall, with a boy half out of a Santa costume, between shelves of romance novels and self-help books. 

But it didn’t matter. It was better. It was real.

It was the boy who once broke my heart and somehow, against every rule my guarded self had built, put it back together with every soft, careful kiss.

Turns out fairytales don’t always wear ball gowns and crowns. Sometimes they wear a frayed friendship bracelet and a knee that will never fully heal. Sometimes they limp a little, and cry a little, and wander eight years in the dark to find their way back.

But they still come true.

Here, with his mouth warm against mine, with the boy who had once been my entire sky and never really stopped being it, mine finally did.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

“You sure this is allowed?” he asked as I swiped my access card at the door.

“It’s Christmas break. No one’s here.” The lock released with a sharp beep. “Besides, you’re the one who wanted to see where I work.”

“I did,” he said, and stepped in behind me.

It was quiet in that particular way a lab gets over the holidays, when everyone finally has a reason big enough to leave without feeling guilty—because apparently weekends don’t qualify. But the faint chemical smell still hung in the air, the one I’d stopped noticing sometime around my third month in the program.

I flicked on the overhead lights, washing the room in cold.  Glassware lay scattered across the black benches exactly where everyone had left it three days ago. Beakers, notebooks, and a tube rack holding three samples I’d meant to run before the break, and a pile of gloves I knew exactly which undergrad left because he’d always promise he’d throw them out “in a minute” and never did.

Satoru paused in the doorway for a beat. His gaze moved over the equipment, the annotated periodic table on the wall (someone had drawn a smiley face on fluorine, which remained a mystery to this day), and the whiteboard full with equations that made no sense or maybe they did if you tilted your head far enough. Then his attention stuck on the laser rig in the left corner, where someone had put a Christmas hat on it for holiday spirit or something.

“It’s bigger than I expected,” he said.

“We share it with two other research groups.” I set my bag on my usual bench near the fume hood. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

I walked him through the space, my voice shifting into that overly animated tone I never hear until I run out of breath and want to die of embarrassment. In the moment, though, I had no brakes. I pointed out the UV-Vis spectrometer where we took absorption spectra, the gas chromatograph that always failed us at the worst possible times, the glovebox where we handled our most sensitive samples.

I kept explaining, words tripping over each other as if they’d been waiting for an audience to hear me speak about molecules and lasers, and he did his best to keep up. He followed me, asking questions that were surprisingly thoughtful for someone who’d failed chemistry twice.

“Wait, so you work in the dark?” he asked.

“Sometimes. Light can ruin the whole thing, so we wrap everything in foil, use amber glassware, or switch to red light when we have to.”

“That’s actually kind of cool.”

“Right?” I felt a grin take over my face. “It feels very mad scientist sometimes.”

When we reached the laser setup, I couldn’t stop myself anymore. It was my project—the thing I had poured myself into for months. I launched into an explanation of the photochemical reactions we studied, how we used ultrafast lasers to excite molecules and track their behavior in billionths of a second. My hands flew everywhere as I tried to explain the invisible world I lived in.

I was halfway through another sentence when it hit me that I’d been gesturing like a maniac for five straight minutes.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m talking too much.”

I turned toward him. He had settled against the bench beside the laser, head resting in his palm. He wasn’t looking at the laser. He was looking at me. In the way people in books look up at constellations—like something had rearranged itself overhead and he couldn’t quite believe it was real.

“What?” I asked, my voice smaller than I meant it to be.

“You’re so beautiful.”

“You’re stupid.”

He pushed off the bench and closed the space between us. His hand rose, thumb brushing along my cheekbone.

“I love this,” he said. “I always did.”

“Love what?”

“That look you get when you talk about chemistry. Like nothing else in the world matters.” His thumb traced the edge of my jaw, slow and almost thoughtful. “It used to drive me crazy in high school. You’d start explaining some reaction and sketch the molecule structure, and I’d just… sit there. Pretending to understand.”

“You weren’t pretending. You were actually terrible at it.”

“I was. Probably because I spent more time watching you than listening. Half the reason I failed it twice in university. I kept waiting for you to walk in and save me again.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, well.” His forehead rested against mine, his voice going quiet. “I’ve been stupid about you for a very long time.”

And then he kissed me.

And even after all the kissing we’d done—greedy and endless like we were trying to make up for eight years in a matter of days—it still felt new. Still made my knees weak. I melted into him, hands fisting in the front of his sweater.

“We have to go,” I said, though my fingers refused to let him go. “Christmas dinner. My mom’s expecting us in less than an hour.”

“One second.” His hand slipped to the back of my neck and tilted my head back to deepen the kiss. A sound escaped me, somewhere between a warning and giving up entirely, and he smiled against my lips. His other hand slid down my spine, pressed just above the waistband of my jeans, and the small of my back arched helplessly against him.

“Satoru—” I managed between kisses. “We’re going to be late.”

“Hmmm,” he murmured, which did not count as actual language.

“My mom will kill us.”

“Let her.” Another kiss, hungrier, before he trailed down my neck, guiding me back against the bench. “I’m making up for lost time.”

“Suguru will kill us.”

He stopped. Pulled back. Stared at me for one long moment. “Right. Yeah. We should go.” He grabbed his coat. “Now. Immediately.”

“That changes you?”

“He already hates my guts. I’m not testing my luck. He’s studying law—he’ll sue me or worse.” He took my hand, already pulling me toward the door. “And I’d like to stay alive long enough to keep kissing you, if that’s alright.”

Snow fell in thick, puffy flakes, blanketing the city in white. In the car, Satoru’s hand found mine across the center console, his thumb drawing slow circles over my wrist as we drove. By the time we pulled into my childhood driveway, the windows glowed warm against the winter dark. Through the frosted glass, I saw Mom moving around the kitchen, the Christmas tree lights twinkling in the living room. It looked exactly the way it always had. Like nothing had changed.

Except everything had.

We barely made it three steps inside before Suguru appeared in the hallway, arms crossed, expression neutral in that terrifying way only older brothers manage to. 

“You’re late,” he said.

“Traffic—” Satoru began.

“Twenty-three minutes late.” Suguru’s eyes narrowed. “To Christmas dinner.”

“We got held up at the lab—”

“The lab.” Suguru's voice was suspiciously calm. He looked at me. I looked at the floor. “Right. The lab.”

He stepped forward and pulled me into a hug so tight I thought I heard a rip crack. Over his shoulder, he shot Satoru a look that could’ve frozen boiling water.

“Hi, Suguru,” I muttered into his sweater.

“Hi, little sister.” He kissed the top of my head and let me go. “Satoru.”

“Hey, man—”

Suguru grabbed him before he could finish, hauling him into what looked like a hug but was definitely some kind of wrestling hold. Satoru made a strangled noise. 

“I hate this,” Suguru said in a perfectly calm voice, his arm locked around Satoru’s neck. “I hate that you’re dating my sister. I’ve hated the idea since you were both stupid teenagers.”

“Can’t—breathe—”

“But,” Suguru continued, loosening his grip by maybe a millimeter, “I can’t say I didn’t see it coming.”

“You’re getting sentimental already?” Satoru asked, mockingly.

“Don’t test your luck.” He tightened the hold again, then finally released Satoru, who stumbled back, gasping like he’d only narrowly escaped an execution.

Suguru clapped him on the shoulder, hard enough to make him wince. 

“You hurt her, I’ll end you.”

“Understood.”

“I’m a law student now. I know how to hide a body.”

“…Also understood.”

“Good.” Suguru turned toward the kitchen. “Mom! They’re finally here!”

Inside, it was all exactly as I remembered and somehow more—the table nearly collapsing under far too much food, the tree in the corner topped with the same star we’d repaired one too many times, and the table with the same old faded tablecloth with the cranberry stain shaped like a heart we’d used since I was eight.

Suguru was already claiming his usual seat, still shooting Satoru looks like he’d later accidentally, and not at all accidentally, stab him with a fork when he’d reach for the blueberry tart. And Mom bustled around with serving dishes, humming to the Christmas music that played on the radio on the counter.

It was chaotic. It was loud. It was the same kitchen where I’d eaten breakfast every morning and done my homework at the table, right up until the day it held my university acceptance letter. The same living room where I’d learned to walk, where Suguru had taught me card games, where we’d spent countless evenings sprawled on the couch watching movies.

I hadn’t understood, until now, how much of my life had orbited this space. How many moments, big and small, had unfolded here. How the most important parts of growing up had happened within these walls. And somehow, with Satoru’s hand warm in mine, it finally felt complete. 

This, I thought. This is what coming home feels like. And I couldn’t wait for more chaotic Christmases just like this—with him beside me, exactly where we were always meant to end up.

Suguru threw a bread roll at Satoru’s head. Satoru caught it with one hand, grinning like an idiot.

“Your throws got weak, man,” he said, tossing it back. “You lose your arm in law school?”

“Keep talking and the next one’s a plate.” Suguru caught the bread, expression flat. “Besides, you’ve had a rough couple years. Didn’t want to embarrass you.”

Satoru’s smile sharpened. “Oh, we’re doing this?”

“We’re doing this.”

Mom appeared in the doorway with a wooden spoon raised as if she was one second away from throwing it. “It’s Christmas. Sit down. Both of you.”

Satoru looked down at me, his eyes impossibly blue in the candlelight, and smiled.

“Merry Christmas,” he said softly.

I thought about that first moment in the mall—me frozen behind the register, watching him in that ridiculous Santa suit, certain it was the worst possible timing. The cruelest joke. Turns out the universe knew exactly what it was doing.

“Welcome home,” I whispered.

He pulled me closer, his breath warm against my lips. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m home.” And then he kissed me.

From somewhere behind us, Suguru made an exaggerated gagging noise. Under his breath, he added,

“You’re welcome, by the way.”

masterlist + support my writing

author's note — hope this gave you the same feeling as warm socks and hot chocolate after coming in from the cold !! thank you so much for reading. i’ve had the busiest summer and i can’t tell you how grateful i am for all the lovely messages you sent during my absence. they genuinely kept me motivated. thank you, truly.

i’ve been experimenting a bit with different pov these past months and somehow ended up falling into first person. it makes me feel less like a distant narrator and more like someone living inside it, and i hope it finds its intended audience anyway, even if first person in fanfic isn’t always everyone’s favorite. thank you for giving it a chance.

and i really hope you liked the teenage angst in this one. there’s something almost magical about that time in life when your emotions feel too big for your own body, when you’re convinced things will always stay exactly as they are and then you grow older, look back, and feel a little nostalgic of it all :'))

if you’re waiting for your own second chance, i hope it finds you gently and at exactly the right time. thank you for spending a little of your day with me and merry christmas to those who celebrate ! if you don't, i hope your days treat you kindly <3

ps: i swear the next update is one of my main stories. i haven’t forgotten about them ahhhh

pss: if you want to read another little christmas story from last year, you can find it here. and if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here.

© lostfracturess. do not repost, translate, or copy my work.

[snail-day-deactivated20251016]

You swear Satoru pretends he’s not as strong when he’s around you. The man will let you shove him and then immediately collapse to the floor, whining that you’re just sooo mean to little ol’ him :(

So, of course, when he’s about to leave for the day, expecting his usual morning kiss, and you’re not exactly giving him what he wants (just those quick, annoying little pecks), he starts getting that look.

That stupid grin.

Big and dopey, blue eyes crinkling as his snowy lashes flutter, leaning in closer each time you try to pull away, chasing your mouth like a fool in love. “Nooo, come back. You know what I want.”

And obviously, you’ve had enough.

You grab him by the front of his jacket, spin him, and pin him up against the wall. One hand cupping his pec, because if you’re gonna do this, you’re gonna do it right, and the other curling around the sharp line of his jaw as you lean in and kiss him.

Sloppy. Messy. Tongue sliding into his mouth, breath warm and close, and you swear you hear a moan slip from the back of his throat.

You murmur against his lips, “This is where you're weak, right?”

And it’s like you hit a pressure point. His legs buckle slightly, spine curving like you knocked the air out of him. If you weren’t holding him up, he’d probably be sliding straight down the wall. His fingers twitch like he wants to grab you, anchor himself, but all he can do is giggle breathlessly against your mouth, brain clearly buffering.

When you finally pull back, he’s flushed. Blinking like you just smacked him. The tips of his ears are pink, his lashes fluttering as he stammers, “What the hell was that, baby, no, nuh uh, you come back here and finish what you started.”

And now he’s whining at the door like the poor, lovesick puppy he is, mumbling about how he’s gonna be thinking about that kiss all day.

You change his contact to 'Masochistic freak' after he finally leaves to go on some random mission.

[junos-chronicles]

Half of Me

☕︎ Pairings: Baby-daddy!Gojo x f!Reader ☕︎ Satoru Gojo was never supposed to be more than your best friend. Sure, you had history—too many lines crossed—but it was always complicated. He had his life together: the fancy law degree, the penthouse, the girlfriend. You? You had a coffee shop job, a cluttered apartment, and a cat. After one drunk, regrettably unforgettable night, things get messier than ever. A month later, you're staring down a positive pregnancy test with no idea how to tell the man you haven't even spoken to since. You thought heartbreak was bad. Turns out, secrets are worse. ☕︎ Content warnings + tags: 18+ MDNI, modern AU, friends to lovers, complicated relationships, angst with a happy ending, unplanned pregnancy, eventual smut, drinking, pining, emotional turmoil, gojo has a girlfriend at first, mutual but poorly communicated feelings, bad decisions at 2am, reader has a cat, lots of feelings, shoko being the only one with a brain Art by: @mmsks_ on X

How to Ruin a Friendship in One Easy Step!

Step Two: Make it Worse

Step Three: Run Before it Sinks in

Step Four: Pretend You're Fine

Step Five: Show Up or Don't

Step Six: Make Space for the Impossible

...

...

...

...

Taglist is open!

[rbfclassy]

STILL IN LOVE MASTERLIST — TOJI FUSHIGURO

SYNOPSIS…after still messing around with your ex husband, you began to wonder if you’re still in love with him after finding out about his new girlfriend…

INFO…ex husband!toji x fem!reader, reader & toji have two kids, megumi is readers bio son, jealousy, smut, angst, arguments, alcohol, drinking problem, family problems, arguing in front of kids, toxic behaviors, crying, mentions of divorce

OTHER…likes and reblogs are appreciated

chapter 1

chapter 2

chapter 3

chapter 4

chapter 5

chapter 6

chapter 7

chapter 8

chapter 9

chapter 10

chapter 11

chapter 12

+more to come soon!

[backinmyphase]

You didn't even know how this happened and if you were in your right mind, you would be embarrassed to no end, but somehow you ended up laying in fratboy! Satoru's bed with him on top of you making out, and god who knew what would happen after a few drinks at one of his parties?

But even now you still were wondering why his kisses felt so passionate, why his hand on your waist held you so securely and steady and why were you imagining a faint blush on his cheeks?

What a few drinks do to you, huh?

"Fuck, you are so hot..." he was mumbling into your lips while his other hand explored your body. You felt yourself burning up at his words and after a small whine escaped your lips, he chuckled while creating a small gap between you two.

"Says you..." a poor attempt to flirt really, but it did draw a small laugh from him.

"Soooooo..." he started to lightly pull at your shirt and a bit of panic ignited through your body. "Is this okay?"

He stopped in his tracks and looked at you through his dazed eyes. Blue eyes. Really, really pretty eyes.

Fuck, why were people always judging other girls for spending the night with him? You would do it for the rest of your life if you could...

"Hey, if you don't want to, it's alright-" after your lack of response, the famous fratboy! Satoru really got nervous and looked at you with no of his usual confidence.

"No no, I want this but..." you cleared your throat while looking away. "Could you please turn off the light?"

He blinked at you two times. Then three times. His mouth slowly opening and closing again, making you feel smaller under his gaze and almost clutch onto your clothes. He then sat up while shaking his head. "Why?"

"Oh you know..." you followed him and sat up yourself, while letting out a nervous laugh. "Don't want you to be turned off."

...

That wasn't what Satoru wanted to hear, no never. He looked at you with so much confusion he genuinely thought you were joking at first. But when he saw your awkward smile he couldn't believe you really meant it.

"Me? Turned off? By you?"

"Oh I know how it is, sometimes the imagination is better than reality, I don't want to ruin the fun-" you let out another nervous laugh. You already ruined this didn't you?

"Me? Turned off? By you??" he groaned as he saw the genuine confusion on your face.

"I don't understand..." you muttered while he studied your face with a critical look.

"Listen to me sweetheart." he pulled you close again and you could just barely surpress the little sigh that was about to leave you.

"You're literally the most gorgeous woman I have ever laid my eyes on. And I won't be turned off by any part of you, okay?"

Now it was your turn to blink at him. And it was probably just the lightning, but he seemed even more red.

"You are telling that every girl." you accidentally muttered what was supposed to stay in the safe and deadly space of your head, but he heard it and now almost seemed to glare at you.

"Jesus we need to work on your self esteem." he started to hide his face in the crook of your neck, nibbling at the skin. "And I won't fuck you, if I can't admire you, just to be clear. I waited to long for this moment to not see you moaning my name."

Now you were really burning up, what the hell?

"Please, I just don't want this to be ruined by my not so great loc-"

"I waited to long, seeing you every day at campus, admiring you, listening to your sweet voice, to only get a dark room for my first time worshipping you."

"Gojo, stop it-" you felt like dying from his words, feeling him touching you everywhere wasn't helping you in any way. Even if you will dream of this.

"Satoru. You know the name." he groaned into the crook of your neck. "Sweetheart, I think we have to just cuddle for today."

It was stupid but your heart sank at his words because, fuck, you really did ruin it. "Is that so?"

"Yeah. I have to take you out at first so you get that I'm serious."

What a few drinks do to you, huh? If only you knew fratboy! Satoru wanted to ask you out since last year.

Listened to bed chem while writing this hehehe

[alygator77]

࿐ vows of duty ── part 1

࿐pairing. arranged clanhead! satoru x fem! reader

࿐summary. the gojo clan is untouchable, and their new ruler, gojo satoru, is the most powerful sorcerer of his generation—unrivaled, unrestricted, and utterly uncontrollable. for years, he has defied the expectations of his clan, rejecting tradition, resisting the cage they built for him. but even the strongest must bow to duty. a deal struck, a marriage arranged. you, the daughter of a fallen clan, are chosen to stand at his side. not out of love, but because gojo satoru always gets what he wants. and if he's obligated to marry, fuck it, he wants you. though, you quickly learn that your place is not beside him—but beneath him. why? because gojo satoru doesn’t do love.

࿐tags/warnings. nsfw 18+, smut, angst (with eventual fluff), slight canon divergence, arranged marriage, satoru is emotionally detached, he's kinda a dick at times, breeding, breeding kink, praise kink, some degradation, loss of virginity, mentions of infidelity, mentions of a prior scandal (i'll update tags as i write more) » 【this part — involves a 7 yr time skip, from both reader and satoru's pov. satoru's a little shit. he's arrogant and gives no fucks. suguru defects. sexual content. fingering, handjob, orgasms, male ejaculation on tits, lots of dirty talk】

࿐wc. 16.4k (suuuurprise.... heh)

࿐a/n. hiiii. it's finally here—the full fic of this drabble. you can expect this fic to be multiple parts, i'm just not sure how many yet. anyways, i had fun writing a canon version of satoru. i love my canon pookie. even if he's emotionally constipated here. enjoy 🫶🏻 (art by @/_3aem on X )

Your mother had always told you—there were four great clans in jujutsu society. Four names that shaped history, wielding power that stretched back for centuries.

The Zenin Clan, ruthless in tradition, where strength dictated worth and weakness was met with exile.

The Kamo Clan, a relic of the past, clinging desperately to their once-unshakable influence, willing to spill whatever blood necessary to remain relevant.

The Gojo Clan, untouchable, revered—the bloodline of gods. A name so powerful it stood above all others, their very existence defined by the Six Eyes and Limitless, abilities so rare they might as well have been myth.

And then, there was your clan.

A family as old as Kyoto itself, a bloodline sharpened by centuries of discipline and technique. The fourth great clan, standing alongside these names not as a rival, but as an equal. You were always told that your family had not built its legacy on brute force or deception, nor had it relied on a singular, overwhelming ability to dominate the battlefield.

No—your clan thrived on precision. Strategy. Control.

Respected. Feared. Established.

Yes, let it be known that your family produced some of the finest jujutsu sorcerers Kyoto had ever seen—that alone secured your place among the elite. And so, you had spent your life walking the delicate line between tradition and expectation, power and obedience. You were raised to be precise, to be measured—a perfect reflection of the strength your family stood for.

And that was why you were here tonight.

Because power, recognized power.

And tonight, the most powerful clan of them all was crowning a new king.

Tonight—December 7th—on his eighteenth birthday, Gojo Satoru would be proclaimed Clan Head of the Gojo family. The invitation had been sent to only the most respected and esteemed. This was more than a celebration; it was a display. A reminder.

All of Japan had known for years that the next ruler of the strongest clan had been chosen. Ever since the moment Gojo Satoru was born, it had been inevitable. But tonight, it would become official.

Inhaling deeply, you forced stillness into your spine—your expression smoothing into something unreadable.

You were no stranger to moving through halls filled with power—no, you had been raised for moments like these. You knew how to hold yourself, how to command respect, how to navigate a room full of Kyoto’s most dangerous and influential figures.

And yet…

There was something about tonight that felt… different.

Perhaps it’s because, for the first time, you would stand in the same room as him. The prodigy. The untouchable. The strongest sorcerer of his generation—a living legend before he was ever grown, a force of nature wrapped in a human body.

You had heard his name more times than you could count, but you had never seen him.

Not in person. Not until tonight.

"Fix your kimono.”

Your mother’s voice cut through the quiet hum of the car, sharp and precise as ever.

She didn’t look at you as she said it—she never had to. The flick of her gaze toward your reflection in the window was enough. Cool, assessing. She expected perfection.

You didn’t argue. You never argued.

Instead, your hands moved instinctively, smoothing the silk draped over your lap. Midnight blue, embroidered with delicate silver cranes in flight—a symbol of strength, of longevity, of duty. A reminder of the life you were bound to.

The obi at your waist had been tied flawlessly earlier that evening, its silken folds pressed into place with meticulous care—yet you still adjusted it. Not because it was imperfect, but because she had told you to.

Exhaling softly, your mother’s eyes swept over you briefly—as though the smallest flaw in your presentation might tarnish the family name.

"Appearances matter," she murmured, smoothing the folds of her own ivory kimono, embroidered with peonies and bamboo—symbols of wealth and resilience. Even in the dim light of the car, she radiated elegance, flawless as always.

"Tonight, we do not lower ourselves."

She spoke as if you didn’t already know. As if she hadn’t spent years molding you into a perfect reflection of the family’s strength.

Across from you, your father shifted, stretching his legs slightly as he leaned back into his seat. The glow of his phone screen flickered over his face, casting sharp shadows across his features. As his fingers tapped idly against the side of the device, the screen was angled just enough that neither you nor your mother could see it.

Yeah… that was a habit of his. One you had learned not to acknowledge.

Your mother never acknowledged it either. Not in words, at least.

But you saw it in the way her fingers tensed against her sleeve, in the subtle shift of her posture, as if willing herself to ignore the obvious.

"You put too much weight on these things," your father muttered, carrying an air of finality. "The Gojo Clan already knows who we are. No amount of perfect posture is going to change their minds."

The silence that followed was familiar.

A subtle tension seeped into the space between them—the kind that had no beginning and no resolution. Something ever-present, like a thread woven too tightly through the fabric of their marriage.

Lowering her gaze slightly, your mother adjusted the folds of her sleeve with slow, deliberate care.

"Power is not always displayed through strength alone," she said, softer now. "It is seen in the way others perceive you. The moment you allow someone to look down on you, you have already lost."

Exhaling through his nose, a quiet sound rumbles through your father’s chest—neither agreement nor disagreement. He wasn’t listening. Not really.

"Depends," he sighs dismissively. "There are worse things than being looked down on."

Your mother’s hands froze for just a moment, before she recovered, smoothing out her sleeve with a quiet nod.

"Of course…" she murmured, conceding with practiced ease.

She would not challenge him. She never did.

Turning yourself toward the window, you felt the weight of their silence settle into your ribs.

You had seen this scene too many times before. So you looked away. Focusing on the world outside, rather than the quiet battlefield inside the car. Then, finally, it came into view.

The Gojo Estate.

It did not sit among the rest of Kyoto. It stood above it.

Carved into the mountainside, the estate loomed over the landscape like something untouched by time. Its outer walls stretched endlessly into the dark, built of aged wood and blackened stone, reinforced not just with craftsmanship but with sorcery itself. A silent warning. A declaration of power—this was not a place where outsiders were welcome.

Beyond the towering gates, the estate unfurled like a painting.

The courtyard was vast, an expanse of raked gravel and polished stone pathways that twisted through pruned bonsai, moss-covered lanterns, and koi-filled ponds shimmering beneath the moonlight. Each element was a silent testament to a clan that valued not just power, but control—as if even the earth beneath the Gojos’ feet bowed to their authority.

A long row of cherry blossom trees lined the outer garden, their pale petals quivering in the night breeze. Winter had stolen the color from Kyoto’s streets, but here, the blossoms remained in eternal bloom—preserved unnaturally, suspended in time by the lingering touch of sorcery. As the wind passed through them, petals drifted down in soft flurries, catching in the air like falling snow.

Your breath stilled slightly.

Even for someone raised in a powerful clan, the sight of the Gojo estate was enough to humble.

The car slowed to a stop, just before the entrance, and your gaze flickered toward the attendants waiting outside before shifting upward, toward the main hall that loomed beyond the courtyard.

It was not a home.

It was a throne.

And tonight, the man who would rule it was waiting inside.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Y’know, I really don’t get why everyone’s making such a big deal out of this,” Satoru drawls, tugging at the stiff collar of his ceremonial robes with a dramatic grimace. “They’ve known I’m the strongest since birth. Feels a little redundant, don’t y’think?”

Across the room, Suguru lets out a slow exhale, his shoulder pressed lazily against the wooden frame of the window. Beyond him, Kyoto stretches into the night—rooftops bathed in silver moonlight, the glow of distant lanterns flickering like dying embers. But he isn’t looking at the view. His gaze flickers toward Satoru through the mirror’s reflection, watching as his friend fussed with the layers of fine silk draped over his shoulders, like it’s a burden rather than an honor.

“They have to make a big deal out of it,” Suguru murmurs, quiet, almost bored. “Otherwise, what’s left for them?”

Satoru scoffs, shifting his weight as he tugs at the sash around his waist, loosening it just to tighten it again.

“Yeah, well. If this keeps ‘em busy, maybe they’ll hold off on nagging me about marriage for another year.”

Suguru hums, pushing off the window frame. Taking a slow step forward, his hands slip into the wide sleeves of his yukata as he watches Satoru wrestle against his robes like they were shackles.

“You say that like they won’t have a new excuse next week.”

Catching Suguru’s gaze in the mirror, Satoru’s lips curl into a lazy, knowing grin.

“Think they’ll get creative?”

“They always do.”

Clicking his tongue, an exaggerated sigh slips from Satoru’s lips as he finally turns from the mirror to grab the ceremonial overcoat folded on the edge of the lacquered table. The fabric is rich and regal—deep indigo silk embroidered with gold, the threads gleaming under the dim candlelight.

“Tch… I swear…” he barely spares the elegant silk a glance before throwing it over his shoulders, the heavy material settling like a crown he never asked for. “Maybe I should start charging for every goddamn time they waste my time.”

Suguru hums, tilting his head.

“You’d make a fortune.”

“Please,” Satoru scoffs, flicking at the intricate gold trim on his sleeve, grin sharp and self-satisfied. “I’m already loaded.”

Suguru lets out a quiet breath, one hand slipping into his sleeve before pulling out a cigarette, rolling it between his fingers.

“And yet…” he muses, placing it between his lips as he fishes for his lighter, “all that money, and you’re still stuck wearing that ridiculous thing.”

Satoru let out a long-suffering sigh, rolling his shoulders under the weight of the overcoat, shifting slightly—like he could somehow make it sit lighter on him.

“Right?” He turns back toward the mirror, tugging at the stiff collar with an annoyed pull. “I look like I belong in a fucking museum.”

Suguru says nothing at first. The metal flicks, a sharp scratch of sound, flame briefly illuminating his face as he lights the cigarette. The glow reflects in his violet eyes for half a second as he takes a slow drag.

“Or on a wedding altar,” he exhales smoke in a measured breath.

Satoru’s hands freeze mid-adjustment. His head snaps up, and through the mirror, he shoots Suguru a flat look.

“Not funny.”

Suguru smirks, the cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers as smoke curls through the air. “I’m serious,” he murmurs, tapping ash into a nearby tray. “Wouldn’t put it past them to slip an engagement announcement into tonight’s festivities. You know how they like their surprises.”

Clicking his tongue, Satoru runs a hand through his hair, deliberately messing it up again.

“Yeah, well… first sign of trouble and I’m teleporting the hell out of there.”

A quiet chuckle slips through Suguru’s lips, but there’s no humor in it.

“And then what?” his voice softens, but the words weigh heavier. “You gonna outrun your own clan forever? Your duty?”

Satoru shrugs. “If I have to.” He’s grinning, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

With quiet consideration, Suguru exhales, watching Satoru with a mixture of amusement and exhaustion. But this time, it’s not his reflection he’s looking at. It’s him—standing there in those ceremonial robes, draping over him like chains, wearing arrogance like armor.

“You… really think it’s that simple?”

Satoru doesn’t hesitate. His grin sharpens, flashing white teeth like a blade.

“Of course it is. I’m Satoru fucking Gojo.”

Though Suguru’s expression doesn’t shift, his gaze darkens, something quiet and knowing creeping into his features.

“Yeah…” he murmurs. “You are.”

“C’mon, you think they actually care?” He pauses, eyes flicking to Suguru through the mirror. “This isn’t about me. It’s about the name. The bloodline. Hell, they’d be throwing this same party for a rock if it had the Six Eyes.”

There’s a lingering silence.

Through the mirror, Satoru sees Suguru’s expression shift—his posture still loose but somehow weighted, as if each breath he takes is heavier with words unspoken. Suguru’s long raven hair falls slightly into his face, but it doesn’t quite hide the quiet strain pulling at his features.

“Damn…” Satoru exhales sharply through his nose. “You look like shit, man.”

Suguru blinks, briefly startled, before scoffing, rolling his eyes as he flicks ash into the tray beside him.

“Gee, thanks.”

But Satoru doesn’t let up. His gaze lingers, cutting through pretenses like a blade.

“No, seriously. Have you slept at all this week? ‘Cause from here, you look like you’re about to keel over.”

Suguru lets out a quiet chuckle, but it’s weak, hollow—gone before it ever really forms.

“Yeah…” he lifts the cigarette back to his lips, taking another slow drag. “I dunno. ‘m just tired.”

The ember burns bright for a moment, casting sharper shadows along his best friend’s face—deepening the lines of exhaustion—a quiet weight that Satoru’s been too busy to address. Then, clicking his tongue, Satoru focuses back to the mirror, dragging a hand through his hair with careless ease.

“You’re thinking too much again…” he mutters. “Always a bad sign.”

“Yeah, well...” Suguru exhales, smoke curling lazily around him. “Guess someone’s gotta do it.”

Quirking a brow, Satoru turns toward him fully this time.

“Oh, fuck off.”

Suguru smirks, but it’s small, faint—the kind that barely lifts the corners of his lips before disappearing altogether. As he leans back against the wooden frame of the window, his fingers tap against his arm, holding the cigarette loosely in his grip.

“What are you thinking about?” Satoru asks.

Suguru quirks a brow before he huffs, shaking his head slightly.

The silence sits heavier this time. There’s something distant in his expression—like his thoughts are a step ahead of him, somewhere neither of them can quite reach. Flicking the cigarette between his fingers, he taps ash into the tray with slow precision.

“I’m just wondering…” Suguru mutters, his voice quieter now, something careful in the way he says it. “If you weren’t who you are—would they still be kneeling at your feet?”

Satoru blinks.

“Uh. Duh.”

Suguru scoffs, shaking his head, his fingers tightening slightly around his bicep.

“No, Satoru. If you weren’t—” He stops himself, exhaling sharply through his nose, his jaw flexing slightly like he wants to say something but doesn’t trust himself to. Instead, he shakes his head. “Never mind…”

Satoru’s gaze narrows.

“Um. The hell was that? You can’t just say something cryptic and then drop it.”

For a moment, there’s something unspoken between them—something lingering just beneath the surface, pressing at the space between words. Then, just as quickly, Suguru’s expression smooths over. Whatever flicker of thought had been there vanishing behind an effortless, practiced mask.

“It’s nothing.”

It wasn’t.

But whatever it was, Suguru wasn’t going to say it.

Exhaling through his nose, Satoru watches him for a second longer before rolling his shoulders—shaking off the conversation entirely.

“Anyways,” he sighs, stretching his arms above his head as he strides toward the door, loose and unaffected, like he’s just heading out for a stroll instead of stepping into the weight of his legacy.

As he passes the lacquered table, his hand instinctively reaches for his sunglasses, flipping them open with a careless flick before sliding them onto the bridge of his nose.

Suguru’s gaze drags back to him, eyes lingering over the contrast of expensive, embroidered silk and dark tinted glasses. He smirks. “Doesn’t really fit the robes.”

Satoru groans, shoving his sunglasses up into his hairline before letting them drop back onto his nose.

“Tch. I know, I know. Too fucking modern for their delicate sensibilities, right?”

Suguru chuckles, putting out his cigarette. “Something like that.”

With a resigned huff, Satoru tosses the sunglasses onto the table with a clatter.

“Fine fine…” he grumbles, pausing—considering. A wicked smile curls onto his lips. “Hey… what do you think—should I blindfold myself instead and pretend I can’t find the stage? Give ‘em a little show?”

Suguru barks out a short laugh, shaking his head as he exhales.

“You’re really gonna make a fucking scene on your own celebration?”

“Oh, Suguru,” Satoru’s grin is all teeth as he makes his way toward the door. “Make a scene? When have I ever done that?”

Suguru gives him a long, slow look as he follows.

“Do you want that list alphabetically or chronologically?”

Satoru snorts. “Smartass.” He shoves the door open without hesitation. “Y’think I can piss off at least three elders before the night’s over?”

“Mm... four, if you really try.”

“That’s the spirit.”

And as Satoru steps forward—toward the weight of a legacy that meant nothing to him, Suguru lingers behind him, watching as Satoru walks ahead, carrying the world like it’s weightless.

But Suguru knows better.

He always has.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Stand up straight,” your mother murmurs quietly—so soft that only you can hear it. “And try not to stare.”

Your spine straightens instinctively, shoulders pressing back—but stare? Fuck. How can you not? The Gojo estate is unlike anything you have ever stepped foot in.

The ceilings stretch impossibly high, wooden beams arching overhead like the ribs of some celestial beast. Hand-painted fusuma panels line the walls, gold leaf catching the candlelight, depicting Kyoto’s landscapes in elegant brushstrokes. There is a stillness here—something ancient, untouched by time. Unshaken by war or weakness.

A faint trace of aged incense lingers in the air, blending with the clean scent of fresh tatami, wrapping around you like something sacred—a quiet reminder that tradition is absolute here.

The steady flow of guests direct you down the grand walkway, toward the main hall, and the air hums with low voices—silk robes rustling as elders and elite sorcerers file in, taking their assigned seats.

Assigned by status.

The highest-ranking families settle nearest to the center of the hall, where Gojo Satoru will take his place, while the lesser clans drift toward the outer edges, far enough to understand their place.

You barely register it.

Because just beyond the walkway, past a row of sliding doors left slightly open, something catches your eye.

A dojo.

Wide and open, its polished wooden floors gleam under the dim glow of candlelight. Tall, arched windows invite in the cool night air, carrying the rustling of bamboo from the gardens beyond. Along the walls, beautifully crafted bokken rest neatly in their racks beside long naginata and aged katana, their lacquered hilts gleaming faintly.

It is… perfect.

Unlike anything your own estate has ever had. A proper space for training—not the rigid, structured sessions dictated by the elders, but something freer. A place to move, to breathe, to fight.

God… it’s everything you’ve always wanted.

After all, your clan was built on precision, control, intelligence. Not raw combat. You have trained—mastered every movement drilled into you since childhood—but never were you allowed to spar without restraint. Never trained to be a sorcerer, never encouraged to fight in a way that would leave bruises—that would stain silk with sweat and blood.

You were raised to be a perfect reflection of your family, a perfect wife—that is all.

And yet, here it is. Fuck. A proper dojo—what a dream. So perfectly built for battle, yet it’s tucked into the halls of the most powerful clan in Jujutsu society, probably taken for granted as if it were nothing.

As your steps slow, you barely realize how long you’ve been staring, until you feel the lightest tug on your sleeve.

“Enough,” your mother mutters, grip light but firm.

Your heart jumps. Shit. It was one thing to observe. To admire. But it was another to linger.

“Eyes forward,” she lifts her chin, and you follow her deeper inside.

Moving ahead, the crowd shifts around you, elders and elite sorcerers weaving through the grand hall, settling into their assigned seats—but damn it. You’re still thinking about that damn dojo.

What must it be like to strike and be struck back, to train not just for form but for battle?

But your mother’s grip subtly shifts. Tightening.

Then, with the slightest turn of her head, she murmurs, “…w-what? Where did he go…”

Your breath stills as you realize, your father is no longer beside her. Glancing around, he is nowhere to be seen, lost in the sea of flowing silk and quiet murmurs. But you don’t need to ask where he’s gone—you already know. And… so does she.

Despite it, she doesn’t curse. Doesn’t let her expression falter. Doesn’t break stride. But you see the way your mother’s lips press together, the way her fingers curl slightly against the sleeve of her kimono, gripping fabric like it’s the only thing she can control.

A slow, measured breath leaves her nose. Then, with a practiced ease, she smooths out the folds of her sleeve.

“Wait at your seat…” she instructs softly. “I’ll find him.”

And just like that, she is gone.

It’s not the first time.

Not the first time she’s swallowed the weight of his absence, nor the first time she’s forced herself to chase after a man who has never once stopped running. A man who dishonors her with such frequency that it no longer feels like betrayal—only expectation.

And she goes anyway. Every time.

Why?

You begin to ponder.

How many wives have had to smile through disgrace, bound by duty to men who do not see them? How many have sat in silence, enduring the quiet disintegration of a marriage, knowing their suffering is only theirs to bear?

The thought lingers as you move toward your assigned seat, your steps slow, lost in quiet contemplation. You barely register the way silk brushes against you, the flickering candlelight casting shifting shadows across the polished floors.

“You’re in my seat.”

The words are crisp. Clipped.

You barely have time to process them before the weight of who they belong to settles in your chest like stone. Glancing up, your stomach drops.

Shit.

You’ve sat in the wrong seat.

Not just any seat.

His seat.

Gojo Hajime.

An elder of the Gojo clan. A man whose presence alone commands respect and caution in equal measure. His reputation is built upon unforgiving discipline, a fierce advocate for upholding the hierarchy that governs jujutsu society. You have seen how lesser-ranked sorcerers bow deeper in his presence, how his voice alone is enough to quiet a whole fucking room.

And you—you—have just taken his seat.

You should apologize. Immediately. Stand, lower your head, bow so deeply your knees kiss the floor—but you don’t even get the chance. Because the moment your lips part, his voice cuts through the air again.

“How disgraceful.”

The murmurs start immediately. Soft at first. Rippling outward.

A misplaced seat is not just an accident—it is an insult. A disruption to the hierarchy, an unspoken challenge to status. And it is not just your mistake—it is your family’s.

Eyes begin to turn.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Your heart hammers against your ribs, panic coiling tight in your stomach. You can feel the weight of scrutiny, the silent condemnation pressing against your skin like needles. But just as the tension threatens to crack open, before you can even move, before you can correct your mistake—

“Damn,” a voice cuts in. “I didn’t know we had assigned seats based on grumpiness. If that’s the case, maybe we oughta scoot you a little further up, gramps.”

The murmurs die instantly. A ripple of silk as heads turn, a breath caught collectively in the throats of the room.

Because everyone knows that voice.

Gojo Satoru.

And when you finally force yourself to look, when you finally shift your gaze toward the source of your salvation, you find yourself staring into the bluest damn eyes you’ve ever seen.

They are a color not meant for this world—icy, piercing, almost otherworldly under the flickering candlelight. Not simply blue, but something deeper, something endless, like the sky when it stretches too far, too high, too unreachable.

And then, just as effortlessly, he drops into the seat beside you.

“Hope ya don’t mind if I sit here, gramps,” he sighs, propping his chin against his palm with a lazy grin. “Since, y’know… you’re already standing.”

The elder bristles.

“Gojo-sama…” he says slowly, voice strained. “Seats are assigned with purpose.”

Satoru exhales loudly, stretching his neck. “Right, right,” he drawls. “And lemme guess—some dusty old men in a room decided where everyone sits?”

“The council—”

“Right, right,” he interjects, waving a dismissive hand. “The same council that decided I needed to wear this stiff-ass robe tonight.” He tugs at the embroidered silk draped over his shoulders for emphasis before flashing a sharp grin. “Real forward thinkers, those guys.”

A flicker of disbelief passes over the elder’s face.

Satoru hums, tapping his fingers idly against the table. “Tell ya what… since I’m feeling generous tonight, how ‘bout we just let it slide? Y’know, pretend we’re not wasting all this energy over a damn seat?” He leans back, stretching his arms over his head, his voice dropping to something lower, lazier. “Unless, of course, you’d rather keep arguing with me in front of all these lovely guests? On my birthday, need I remind you?”

The words are spoken lightly, casually, but there’s an underlying challenge in them—something daring, something edged with amusement, as if he already knows how this will end.

And the elder does, too. Because what can he say? What will he do? It’s a battle he can’t win. Not against the strongest.

A long breath drags through his nose before he bows his head stiffly.

“…as you wish, Gojo-sama.”

Satoru grins, entirely pleased with himself. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

With that, the elder moves stiffly to another seat, the murmurs gradually settling into quiet acceptance, though you can still feel the lingering weight of curious glances thrown your way.

And finally—finally—your lungs remember how to breathe.

You should say something. Thank him. But before you can, Satoru turns his attention to you, tilting his head slightly, that easy smirk still curving his lips.

“There,” his fingers play idly with a tousle of your hair, letting it twirl between his grasp. “A lady of your caliber deserves the best seat in the house, don’t y’think?”

You blink, still caught between lingering panic and something dangerously close to awe.

Because just like that, with a grin and a few well-placed words, he had made a mockery of the entire situation. Had turned the weight of expectation into something trivial, something meaningless.

Had made defiance look so damn effortless. And for the first time tonight, you wonder what it would be like to live that freely.

Satoru watches you, head tilted slightly, as if waiting for something. Amusement flickers in those ridiculously bright eyes, sharp and unreadable beneath the flickering candlelight.

You realize then—you haven’t said a word.

Shit.

Heat pricks at the back of your neck. You force yourself to blink, to breathe, to gather the scattered remains of your dignity before finally managing, “…oh, um… t-thank you, Gojo-sama.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “Ugh. Don’t do that.”

You blink. “…do what?”

“That whole ‘Gojo-sama’ thing. Bleh.” He scrunches his nose, expression twisted in exaggerated distaste. “You make me sound old.”

You hesitate, caught between confusion and amusement. “But… you’re the Clan Head now.”

He groans dramatically, dragging a hand through his hair. “Ugh. Don’t remind me.”

Your lips twitch, just barely suppressing a laugh, and his gaze flickers to you at that, something playful sparking in his eyes. Leaning in slightly, his elbows rest on the low table, voice dropping to something conspiratorial.

“You wouldn’t believe how many speeches I’ve had to sit through already. I swear, they’ve been reciting my life story like I’m some kind of historical relic.”

You raise a brow. “…aren’t you?”

Satoru gasps, clutching his chest like you just struck him. “Wow. The betrayal.”

Shaking your head in amusement, you finally allow a small laugh to slip out.

“I… didn’t mean it like that.”

“Uh-huh.” He squints at you in mock suspicion before his lips stretch back into an easy grin. “Alright, I’ll let that one slide, since I like you.”

Your stomach does a strange little flip.

It’s nothing… right? Just the nerves. The residual stress from earlier. The weight of too many eyes lingering in the periphery.

But as he watches you—head tilting slightly, like he’s trying to figure you out—you don’t know what the hell to say. And yet… you also find yourself not wanting to look away.

Because Satoru Gojo is beautiful. Undeniably.

He is elegance without effort, arrogance without apology, a man who moves through the world like it was built to accommodate him. His snowy-white hair is a tousled mess, catching silver beneath the candlelight, framing the sharp angles of his jaw, the high curve of his cheekbones, the ever-present smirk tugging at his lips.

And his eyes—God, his eyes.

They aren’t just blue. They’re endless. A shade too sharp, too striking—like fractured gemstones, like glacial ice catching the light at just the right angle. They don’t just see, they consume, pulling you in as if the whole fucking world just disappears when he looks at you.

What the hell are you supposed to say to him?

Shit. You’re lingering again. Your mother would curse you for this. You should speak—say something, anything. But the words never come.

Luckily, you don’t have to figure it out.

Because just then, a sharp chime rings through the grand hall, signaling the start of the formal ceremony. A ripple of movement stirs through the guests as heads turn toward the center of the room, where the elders begin to take their places.

Satoru exhales, stretching his arms overhead in a lazy arc. “Guess that’s my cue.”

He rises smoothly, adjusting the heavy silk of his robes with little care, as if he’s already bored of the whole affair. But then—before stepping away—he casts you one last glance, that ever-present grin still playing at the edges of his lips.

“See ya around, sweetheart.”

And then, like this entire night is nothing more than a game to him, he waves, casting you a playful wink. Casual. Effortless. Like you’re old friends. Like this moment, fleeting as it is, belongs to just the two of you—despite the dozens of eyes still lingering in your direction.

And, without hesitation, he turns, stepping toward the center of the room, where the weight of his legacy awaits him.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

The ceremony is exactly what Satoru expected—long, tedious, and filled with more self-important speeches than he cares to count. The elders take turns praising the significance of his ascension, the legacy he carries, the burden he must now bear.

As if he doesn’t already fucking know. As if the weight of the Gojo name hasn’t pressed against his spine since the moment he was born.

He stands at the center of it all, a crownless king in layered silk, his every move watched, measured, and judged by the dozens of expectant faces surrounding him.

Whatever. Let them say whatever they want.

Because at the end of the day—he is still Gojo Satoru. And they can dress him up in their finest robes, seat him at the highest throne, weigh him down with the expectations of an entire clan—but they can’t make him care.

And they know it.

So, when the speeches end and the ritual formalities dissolve into something more palatable—celebration, sake, music—the real scheming begins.

The moment the first note is played, an elder clears his throat. Satoru doesn’t even look up.

“We have taken the liberty of selecting your first dance, Gojo-sama,” the man says, hands folded neatly in his sleeves, the picture of diplomatic grace. “She is from a highly esteemed bloodline. A perfect candidate for marriage and—”

Satoru groans. Loudly.

“Oh, come on.” He drags a hand down his face, tilting his head back like this entire conversation physically pains him. “You’re really pulling the marriage card already? I just fucking turned eighteen.”

The elder’s expression doesn’t shift. Doesn’t falter. They’ve played this game with him before. They know Gojo Satoru only bends when it suits him.

“We must get ahead of things. And it is tradition for the head of the Gojo Clan to take his first dance with a suitable partner—”

“Right, right.” Satoru waves a dismissive hand, eyes scanning the room for anything more interesting than this conversation. “And lemme guess—she’s got a nice lineage, proper manners, and the personality of a wet napkin?”

A pause as the elder clears his throat. Yeah. That’s all the confirmation he needs.

Satoru exhales, shaking his head, fingers drumming lazily against the lacquered armrest of his chair.

“Yeah… I think I’ll pass,” he’s rising from his seat as the elder begins ushering a poised, graceful young woman towards him—clad in silk, the color of cherry blossoms.

Satoru doesn’t even look at her.

He’s looking for an escape, and as his eyes sweep the crowd, he sees you.

The girl from earlier.

And just like that, his mind is made up.

Before the elder can say another word, before the girl can step any closer, Satoru moves.

Not toward her.

Toward you.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Dance with me.”

You blink, gaze dropping to his hand, extended toward you, palm open, fingers relaxed.

It’s not a request.

It’s a decision.

A disruption—a defiance of everything expected of him.

And the room knows it.

The air seems to tighten, a subtle shift in the atmosphere as hushed murmurs flicker between the guests, silk rustling as heads turn. The weight of attention presses against your skin, heavier than the finest-woven kimono, heavier than the eyes of your parents, now fixed on you, unreadable.

Your lips part slightly, but no words come. Fuck. You should at least breathe. But you don’t. You can’t. Your mind is barely processing what the fuck is happening.

Then, a quiet but pointed sound—your mother clearing her throat beside you.

“She would love to.”

Her voice is soft, but firm, a smooth, graceful assertion that leaves no room for question. A response crafted not for you, but for those watching, those weighing this moment, those who will whisper about it long after the night ends. Because this is not just a dance. This is a spectacle. A shift in the script carefully written for the evening.

And your mother knows that. To refuse would be foolish. To hesitate would be disgraceful. To accept, however—

An honor.

So, when she turns toward you, offering the smallest, most practiced of smiles, you understand her meaning entirely.

You will dance with Satoru Gojo.

With a breath you weren’t aware you had been holding, you glance back toward him. He’s watching you, amusement flickering in those impossibly blue eyes, that lazy, knowing grin still curling at his lips.

“See?” he hums. “Mother knows best.”

You don’t know what possesses you—perhaps the weight of expectation, or perhaps something else entirely—but your hand lifts. Fingers barely brushing against his before he takes it completely, enclosing it in a grasp that is warm, steady, unwavering.

And just like that, he pulls you into the center of the room.

Into the center of everything.

His grip is firm but unhurried as he leads you, like none of this is a big deal. Like he hasn’t just overturned an entire evening’s worth of careful tradition.

Your heartbeat thuds in your ears, your breath barely finding its way back into your lungs as you let him guide you into position. One of his hands settles lightly at your waist, the other still holding yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles absentmindedly.

“Relax,” he murmurs, just low enough for only you to hear. “You’re stiffer than my old kendo instructor.”

You huff, trying to ignore the warmth of his palm against yours. “I—this is just… unexpected.”

Exhaling dramatically, he spins you effortlessly into the first steps of dance. “Tell me about it,” he groans. “You just saved me from another goddamn elder trying to shove some proper young lady into my arms.”

You blink. “What?”

“Oh yeah,” he drawls, twirling you smoothly before pulling you back into his grasp. “The matchmaking schemers are working overtime tonight. Bet they’re seething right now.”

You stifle a laugh. “So… you picked me out of spite?”

“I picked you because you looked like you needed saving too.” His eyes flicker toward you, sharp but warm, like he’s seeing straight through you.

You hesitate. He’s… not wrong.

“Well… my mother was about to give me a very long lecture about decorum,” you admit quietly.

His grin widens as he hums. “Guess that makes me your knight in shining silk, huh?”

You roll your eyes, but the laughter bubbling in your chest betrays you.

Satoru’s grip shifts slightly, his hand pressing just a fraction firmer against your waist as he leads you through another step. He moves so effortlessly, like the weight of expectation never touches him, like the rules of this world bend just for him.

For a moment, the heaviness in the air fades.

For a moment, you almost forget the crowd watching.

For a moment… it’s just the two of you.

As the melody slows—the last few notes stretch through the grand hall like a fading breath—you barely register the shifting of the crowd around you. It feels like the world has shrunk.

And then, stillness. The dance is over.

You should step away. You should let go.

But Satoru lingers.

His fingers remain curled lightly around yours, as if he’s forgotten to let go—or maybe he just doesn’t feel like doing so yet. His touch is warm, steady, and entirely too deliberate for someone who seems to take nothing seriously.

As his gaze drops to your hand for a fraction of a second, his smirk deepens, something unreadable flashing in those impossible blue eyes. Then, with a casual ease—like it’s the most natural thing in the world—he lifts your hand slightly and presses a chaste kiss to your knuckles.

Soft. Unhurried.

Barely a brush of his lips against your skin, but enough to send something fluttering wildly in your stomach.

Damn him.

You feel it everywhere—the warmth of his breath against your skin, the way his hold lingers a second too long before he finally lets go. When your hand drops back to your side, it’s still tingling from the contact, and you know you should say something, but your tongue feels too damn heavy in your mouth again.

Satoru, however, looks perfectly at ease, like he hadn’t just turned your world sideways with a single fleeting kiss. Still, the moment stretches—something about it feels… different. A beat too long, a silence that carries something unspoken.

But when he shifts, the moment simmers away as he turns his head slightly, his attention suddenly caught by something beyond you. Or, someone.

Geto Suguru. His best friend.

His posture loosens as he exhales through his nose, casting you a final glance. “Well, sweetheart,” he drawls lazily, taking a step back. “Hate to dance and dash, but duty calls.”

And just like before, he lifts a hand in that same casual wave, and winks—slipping back into the crowd with the ease of someone who has done this a hundred times before.

Following his gaze, you look just past the cluster of mingling sorcerers, at the figure leaning lazily against one of the wooden pillars. His dark long hair falls across his shoulders, his arms are folded neatly into the side sleeves of his yukata, and his eyes are half-lidded, bored.

Satoru reaches him in just a few strides, and whatever the two of them exchange is lost to you beneath the hum of the room—but they’re laughing, at ease.

Exhaling slowly, you force your trembling hands to steady at your sides, your racing heart to settle, remembering where you are. Because the world moves on. The music starts anew. The guests return to their conversations.

But you don’t. Not yet.

Because this—this is something you’ll remember. The night you first met Gojo Satoru.

The night you first saw him for who he was—not just the head of the Gojo Clan, not just the strongest, but something untouchable, something defiant. Something free.

And maybe, just maybe, a small part of you will always hold onto that moment.

A moment you wish you could claim for yourself.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

Seven years have passed since that night. Seven years since the weight of an entire clan was draped over his shoulders like a silk noose.

Gojo Satoru is still the strongest, still the untouchable ruler of the Gojo Clan, but the years have done little to change the one thing the elders have always hated about him—he refuses to be controlled.

But their patience is wearing thin.

The moment he steps into the council chamber, Satoru already knows he’s going to hate every second of this.

Same old stiff-ass room, same old stiff-ass elders. The walls lined with painted screens depicting wars won centuries ago, incense burning in the background like it’s meant to cleanse him of his sins or some shit. He exhales loudly, rolling his shoulders back, then strolls forward with all the urgency of a man walking to his own execution.

Dropping lazily onto the tatami, Satoru lets out a long, exaggerated sigh.

“Alright,” he drawls, popping his neck with a slow tilt of his head. “Let’s hear it. What crime have I committed this time?”

A tense silence follows.

Gojo Hiroshi, the eldest of the council, lets out a long, deliberate sigh, his sharp gaze steady beneath thick silver brows. “Your inappropriate conduct has reached our ears again.”

Satoru smirks. “Oh? I’ve got fans? You geezers keeping tabs on me now?”

His words are met with cold, unimpressed stares.

“You mustn’t treat this as a joke,” another elder chimes in, voice lined with restrained patience. “Your recklessness is a stain upon our clan’s legacy.”

Satoru scoffs. “Recklessness? I’m pretty sure I’ve saved more lives than any of you sitting here. Y’know, by doing my actual job.”

“The strongest should not act so carelessly,” Hiroshi cuts in. “And yet, all you do is goof off. Throwing yourself around, jumping from woman to woman, acting like some common fool—”

Satoru groans loudly, tipping his head back with a dramatic sigh. “God, is this really about me having a good time? I hate to break it to ya, old man, but I’m twenty-five, not fifty. Maybe if you all had a little fun in your youth, you wouldn’t be so damn uptight.”

The closest elder levels him with a stern glare. “We have tolerated your… indulgences long enough.”

“You speak of a ‘good time’,” another elder continues, fingers steepled together. “But you must consider the future. This—this frivolity—must end.”

Satoru clicks his tongue, tapping his fingers lazily against his knee. “Yeah? And just where are ya gettin’ at, gramps?”

Silence. A slow exchange of glances between them.

Satoru watches as they silently decide who will be the one to say it. They always do this. Always sit in their stiff little circles, acting like their words carry the weight of gods.

Finally, Hiroshi exhales, slow and measured, before speaking.

“The next leader of the Gojo Clan must be born.”

There it is.

Satoru lets out a slow, exaggerated breath, tilting his head back. “Man… you guys really need a new hobby.”

“We have been patient,” Hiroshi continues, ignoring him. “But the time for childish defiance is over.”

Satoru’s lips twitch. Childish? He could wipe this entire damn room off the map if he wanted. Not that he would, though—he’s mostly reasonable.

An elder shifts slightly, fingers curling over the edge of a plain, unassuming folder resting beneath his palm, and as Satoru’s gaze flicks to it, recognition flares.

Ugh. Not this bullshit again.

This isn’t new. He knows what’s inside. A folder full of names. A folder of candidates—eligible women, bloodlines deemed strong enough, clans deemed worthy. A relic of a past he never fucking asked for.

His irritation spikes as he begins to rise.

“Yeah, so… fuck this. I’m gonna stop ya right there—”

“You will sit down, Satoru.”

The words are sharp. Final. Satoru freezes mid-step, the weight behind them pressing like a blade against his spine.

The fucking audacity. A command? A fucking order?!

Exhaling through his nose, he bites back the burn of frustration clawing up his throat. “Nah,” he mutters, waving a dismissive hand as he turns on his heel. “Fuck off.”

“The next leader of the Gojo Clan must be born.”

Satoru stops.

A slow laugh bubbles up from his chest—sharp, humorless, before turning back to face them. Tilting his head, an icy chill threads his voice.

“Let me get this fucking straight. You dragged me all the way here, wasted my precious time, just to tell me I need to knock someone up? Wow.” He lets out a sharp whistle, slowly clapping his hands together in mock awe. “Out of all of your excuses, this one takes the fucking cake.”

“You fail to take this seriously,” Hiroshi’s voice is quieter than the others, but heavier in its own way. “You never have.”

Satoru’s jaw tightens. “Maybe because I don’t need to. I’m the strongest, remember?”

“And yet,” Hiroshi exhales, “even the strongest will one day fall.”

The words settle in the air like a foregone truth. Satoru doesn’t flinch. But something in his jaw ticks, barely perceptible.

Even the strongest will one day fall.

He hates the way those words burrow under his skin, clawing at something he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

“You refuse to take a wife. You refuse to consider the future,” Hiroshi continues, voice steady. “You’ve left us no choice. And so, we have taken it upon ourselves to make the choice for you. Marriage arrangements are already in place.”

Satoru’s brow furrows—a seething rage building underneath his skin. Pulling down his blindfold in a slow, deliberate movement, he reveals the impossible, piercing blue of his Six Eyes.

“Excuse me?”

The air shifts, thickening under the weight of power, of warning—of a challenge.

For a moment, all he can hear is the rush of his own blood in his ears. And then, just beneath the suffocating weight of his own fury, another voice cuts through.

‘You gonna outrun your own clan forever? Your duty?’

A memory. A voice.

Suguru.

The words hit him like a hammer, striking something raw, something he thought he buried a long time ago.

Geto Suguru.

His best friend. His brother. The one person who had ever truly understood him. The only person who could ever match him step for step, thought for thought.

The person he lost. A man who had abandoned all right or reason. Who had turned his back on everything. On Jujutsu High. On their ideals. On him.

And suddenly, the weight of it all presses heavier on Satoru’s shoulders. It feels suffocating. Because for the first time in years, something inside him wavers. And damnit… that pisses him off.

With a sharp step forward, Satoru’s hand snatches the folder from the table in one swift motion, the rustle of paper slicing through the silence like a blade.

The room tenses as he flips it open, eyes scanning the pages, the names, the faces—the future they’ve decided for him.

As he goes through its contents, a folder he’s seen often but never truly looked into, he realizes it’s exactly what he expected—polished profiles, lists of pedigreed women, hand-selected for their bloodlines, their breeding, their usefulness.

Every file reads the same.

Perfect posture. Proper etiquette. Skilled in traditional arts. Fluent in tea ceremonies. Raised to serve, obey, bear children.

Gross.

His brow furrows in irritation as he skims through the neatly cataloged qualities, as if he’s browsing a fucking menu.

Expert in tea ceremonies. Elegant calligraphy. Well-versed in ikebana.

Exhaling sharply through his nose, he flips to the next file with a flick of his wrist.

Gentle temperament. Raised to uphold family honor. Culinary excellence.

Jesus.

It’s all the same.

Not a single original thought, not a single fucking thing that isn’t meant to mold them into perfect little wives and mothers.

Satoru’s fingers twitch as disgust curls up his throat.

What? Is he supposed to just pick one, put a ring on her, fuck her like some obligation? Breed an heir with a woman whose only defining trait is knowing how to arrange flowers?

Tch.

He’s already itching to slam the folder shut and walk out of this room, consequences be damned.

But then—he halts. His gaze briefly catching on a familiar face.

You.

A picture clipped neatly to your file, just like all the others, but something about it makes him pause.

He knows you… right?

Or—at least, you look somewhat familiar.

Satoru has slept with countless women, but he’s pretty damn sure he’d remember if you were one of them. Plus… you’re a virgin, according to your file, so… that can’t be it.

He scans the page with mild curiosity, barely reading at first—and low and behold, it’s another list of fucking perfect traits designed to impress him.

Cooking. Baking. Floral arrangements.

Right. Of course. Same as the rest.

But then, his eyes flick lower.

Martial arts.

His brow lifts.

Huh. Now that’s new.

Shifting his weight, his gaze lingers on that one detail.You practice martial arts? Interesting.

The corner of his lips twitch, intrigue curling at the edges of his amusement as he flips through the rest of your file—skimming for anything else that isn’t some prim manufactured selling point.

Not much stands out amongst the crowd, expect that, yeah, you’re hot too. That certainly doesn’t hurt.

If they’re really forcing him to do this shit—if he really has to fuck a woman and produce an heir—he’s at least going to pick someone who can actually hold his attention. Hell, if he has to fuck her, she better be someone who can at least get his dick up.

Exhaling through his nose, his eyes flicker back up to the elders, their bated breaths held with anticipation.

“…fine,” he mutters, “I’ll marry.”

A ripple of movement shifts immediately—a murmur of approval.

“But.” His voice cuts through their satisfaction like a knife. “Cancel whatever bullshit arrangement you had planned.” His Six Eyes gleam as his gaze flickers up, sharp, glacial. “If I’m doing this,” he exhales, voice smooth as glass, “I’m doing it my way.”

And with that, he slams the folder down, open with a photo of you.

“I at least want a say in who the fuck I’m picking,” he mutters, voice cool, final. Then, his gaze flickers up. A smirk—sharp and defiant—curls at the corner of his lips. “So… there ya have it. I pick her.”

A beat of silence. Then another.

Satoru watches as the elders’ expressions shift as they take in your photo, their brows knitting together, their lips pressing into thin, disapproving lines. There’s something unspoken between them—hesitation. Uncertainty.

Jesus Christ... what now?

His fingers tap idly against the table, impatience curling at the edges of his composure. Rolling his eyes, he exhales sharply before plopping back down onto the tatami. 

“What?”  his irritation spikes, gaze flickering between the stiff-ass old men. “You gonna tell me she’s not good enough? That her tea ceremony etiquette isn’t up to your impossible fucking standards? She was in your folder!”

Silence.

Then, Gojo Hiroshi clears his throat.

“There is… history.” His words are careful, measured. “With her clan.”

Satoru lifts a brow, unimpressed. “Okay… and?”

A flicker of unease passes between the elders.

“Satoru,” another speaks, voice steady, placating. “Clan politics are not so simple—”

He scoffs. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. You think I give a shit about clan politics?”

More exchanged glances. More unreadable expressions. But Hiroshi remains still.

“It is not just politics…” he finally says, gaze unwavering. “There was a… scandal.”

Satoru exhales, fingers pausing mid-drum.

God, he fucking hates when people beat around the bush. His patience is wearing thin. He agreed, didn’t he? What the hell more do they want?

“Scandal?” he echoes, voice flat, uninterested. “Oh, let me guess. Daddy lost a business deal? Mommy hosted the wrong kind of dinner party? Spare me.”

A slow breath.

“…her family has been outcasted.”

A pause.

“Disgraced,” another adds. “Stripped of their status. They have nothing. They live in ruin.”

Arching a brow, Satoru lets the silence linger—lets them wait for him to grasp the supposed severity of the situation.

But he doesn’t give a shit about status.

He just wants these crusty old men off his back, and your folder was the least boring in that entire damn stack.

“…and?” his voice is flat. “I fail to see what the fuck any of this has to do with me. She was in your folder. That’s who I pick.”

The tension thickens as the air feels heavier. The elders remain silent, exchanging glances, waiting for him to finally understand—to realize what he’s signing up for.

Hiroshi is the one to finally speak.

“She comes with nothing now, Satoru,” his tone’s heavier now. “She was a suitable candidate… yes. But now? She has no wealth. No influence. Her mother is drowning in debt. If you choose her, you will be marrying into ruin.”

Satoru groans, loudly, dragging a hand down his face. He’s so fucking tired of this conversation. With a sigh, he rises, reaching into his pocket for his blindfold.

“You old geezers really think I give a shit about money?” he mutters, shaking out the fabric before sliding it over his eyes slowly—like he’s already disengaging from the conversation. “God, you’re all so dramatic. I’m loaded. Who fucking cares.”

“Satoru—”

“I said I’d marry. It’s her or nothing,” his voice is final, unwavering.

The folder snaps shut in his hands, the sharp sound slicing through the hushed tension. A flick of his wrist sends it skidding back across the polished table.

“So, there you have it. Call her mother, we’ll draft an arrangement.”

A ripple of unease shifts through the council, their stiff expressions unreadable. Hiroshi’s brow knits. “An arrangement?”

Satoru exhales, rolling his shoulders, stretching his arms overhead like this entire conversation has physically exhausted him.

“Yup.” His fingers splay lazily as he waves a hand through the air, tone entirely too casual. “I’ll pay off their debts. In return, she marries me. Win-win. There. Easy.”

Then, that smirk—cocky, taunting—pulls at his lips as he leans back, tipping his chin up in mock amusement.

“Anyways. Good talk.” He pauses. “Sooo… uh. We done?”

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Eat.”

The command is soft but firm, breaking the silence that has stretched too long across the small table before you.

Your mother sits across from you, poised as ever, lifting her chopsticks with careful precision, plucking a small piece of tofu from her bowl. The once-pristine silk of her kimono has dulled with time, its ivory threads faded from wear, from struggle. But she wears it the same way she always has—with quiet dignity, spine straight, hands resting carefully in her lap, an image of control that nothing—not scandal, not exile—has managed to break.

She doesn’t look up as she speaks to you once more.

“You’re staring at your food again.”

You don’t remember the last time dinner felt this quiet.

Well, at least not this kind of quiet. This quiet is… different.

It’s not the quiet like when your father was still here—sitting where your mother is now, tapping idly at his phone, barely listening as you spoke about your day. Not like the quiet nights when he would come home late—smelling of perfume that didn’t belong to your mother.

Not like the quiet night he left—walking out the door, taking everything with him.

A soft clink pulls you back—the sound of your mother setting her chopsticks down with slow, deliberate care. When you lift your eyes, she is already watching you, her expression as unreadable as ever.

“You must eat.”

Picking up the chopsticks, your fingers feel stiff against the smooth wood. The miso soup in front of you has gone lukewarm, its thin broth barely fragrant, stretched with water to make it last longer. A meal meant to sustain, not satisfy.

“I’m… not hungry.”

Your mother doesn’t sigh. Doesn’t frown. She simply takes another bite of her meal, chewing with quiet deliberation before dabbing the corner of her mouth with a napkin.

“A weakened body leads to a weakened mind,” she murmurs. “You cannot afford to be careless with your health.”

You don’t roll your eyes, but damnit, the urge is there.

Even now, she speaks in lessons, in discipline. As if you still had a name to uphold, a family to represent. As if any of that mattered anymore.

Frustration coils in your stomach, tight and twisting, but you don’t let it show. Because she won’t. She never has.

Not even the night he left.

You still remember it—the way your mother stood there, unmoving, as your father walked out the door. No screaming. No pleading. No chasing after the man who had stolen everything from her, from you.

Just stillness. A quiet that swallowed everything—a quiet that never fucking leaves.

And then, the fallout.

The scandal that burned through the clan like wildfire. The disgrace. The exile. The slow, agonizing unraveling of everything you once knew.

You swallow hard, forcing the thoughts down, lifting your chopsticks to take a bite.

Because your mother doesn’t dwell on the past. She doesn’t even acknowledge it.

And so, neither do you.

Suddenly, a sharp ring slices through the air.

Your mother stills—her gaze lingering on the telephone for a moment before she moves, rising to her feet with effortless grace, lifting the phone to her ear.

“Hello?”

As she silently listens to whoever’s on the other line, her shoulders stiffen. It’s subtle, but you see it. The faint tightening of her jaw. The way her fingers curl around the receiver, gripping it just a fraction tighter than necessary.

“I see…”

Another pause.

“Yes. Understood.”

The quiet click of the receiver settling into its cradle echoes through the small room, and you study your mother for a moment as she remains still—motionless.

“…mother?”

When she turns, something flickers in her eyes. Not worry. Not resignation. Something else. Something you haven’t seen in years.

Hope.

“…we have been summoned.”

Smoothing down the fabric of her kimono, she settles back at the table—smiling serenely.

You blink. “Oh… okay. By who?”

“Gojo Satoru.”

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

A familiar weight settles over your shoulders as you step past the towering gates of the Gojo estate. It’s been so long since you last walked these halls, and yet you still remember the first time, seven years ago—the grand ceilings stretching impossibly high, the golden glow of lantern light against hand-painted fusuma panels, the hushed murmurs of Kyoto’s elite.

Now, as you pass through the inner courtyard, it is just as intimidating as you remember.

Just as breathtaking.

A servant bows low, silently ushering you toward the tea room, leading both you and your mother in graceful step. As the entrance nears, her voice breaks the silence.

“You will be on your best behavior,” she murmurs, not unkind, but firm.

Right… as if you needed the reminder.

Stepping inside, the tatami mats barely creak under your careful steps, and the scent of incense greets you first—rich, woody, cloying. A low table sits at its center, the lacquered wood polished to perfection, a ceremonial tea set already in place. And across from it, seated with an unmistakable air of ease, is him.

Gojo Satoru.

Even draped in expensive silk—his robes stitched with the distinguished colors of his clan—he carries himself with an irreverence that clashes against the rigid atmosphere of the room. One arm rests against the table, the other draped carelessly over his knee. His blindfold is absent, and for the first time in seven years, you once again meet those impossibly blue eyes head-on.

“Ah, there she is,” he hums, lips curling into a lazy grin. “Thought I was getting stood up.”

Your mother clears her throat pointedly, bowing in greeting. You quickly follow suit, the practiced motion ingrained in you.

“Gojo-sama,” she says smoothly, “it is an honor to be welcomed into your home.”

Satoru waves a dismissive hand, leaning back. “Yeah, yeah. Big honor. Let’s skip the formalities, huh?”

Seated around the table, the elders watch the exchange in silence, their presence heavy, suffocating. You recognize Gojo Hiroshi among them—his sharp, assessing gaze narrowing on you briefly.

Oh… awkward.

Is he still mad about his seat?

Hiroshi exhales, dragging his gaze to your mother. “We will discuss the terms of the arrangement in the study,” he says, voice calm, measured. “In the meantime, Gojo-sama and his intended should use this opportunity to… familiarize themselves.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, Satoru sighs—stretching his arms with a dramatic groan. “Right. Tea ceremonies. My favorite.”

Placing a gentle hand on your shoulder, your mother gives you a knowing glance, a silent reminder—behave.

And then, with a final bow, she follows the elders as they shuffle toward the adjoining room, their hushed voices retreating beyond the sliding doors. The quiet click of wood sliding echoes in the stillness, leaving just the two of you.

Alone with Gojo Satoru.

A familiar weight settles in your chest, something tight, uncertain. His gaze lingers—not scrutinizing, not cold, but assessing. And God, he’s just as beautiful as you remember him. Too beautiful. The same easy confidence. The same impossibly blue eyes that seem to pierce through everything.

You’ve always held onto that feeling from the first time you met him—what was it, exactly? Admiration?

“Well,” Satoru exhales, stretching his legs slightly beneath the table. “Guess it’s just us now.”

Something about the way he says it makes your tummy clench. Is that the admiration? Fuck, whatever. You know what this meeting is supposed to be. A display of grace, a demonstration of propriety. A wife’s first duty to her husband-to-be.

And so, you inhale, slow and controlled—reaching for the tea set.

“Care for some tea?” you murmur, lifting the delicate porcelain into your fingertips, moving through the familiar, measured motions of ceremony. Of tradition.

Lifting the teapot with both hands, you tilt it just so, allowing the warm liquid to pour in an elegant arc, no wasted movement, no hesitation. The way you were taught. The way it has always been.

Then, with just as much care, you offer it to him, your gaze respectfully lowered.

“Please… enjoy.”

With an unreadable expression, Satoru’s fingers brush against yours as he takes the cup from your hands. Exhaling through his nose, his eyes flicker down at the tea, before taking a slow sip.

There is an unnerving silence.

“Is it… to your liking?”

“Uh…” he shrugs, flashing a boyish grin. “Tastes like tea?”

You blink.

What are you supposed to say to that?

A growing nervousness flutters in your chest. Your mother is depending on you—don’t fuck this up. Nodding, your hands fold neatly in your lap as you recite the lines of tradition.

“It is an honor to serve you, Gojo-sama. May this tea be a reflection of the harmony I hope to uphold in our union.”

For a moment, nothing.

Then—Satoru laughs. Not a small chuckle. Not polite amusement. Full-bodied, head-tilted-back laughter.

It startles you, your body tensing at the sound as he sets his cup onto the table and doubles over, catching his breath between chuckles.

You stiffen. What the hell was so funny?

“…did I say something amusing?” you ask carefully.

Satoru waves a hand, shaking his head as he wipes beneath his eyes. “No, no. It’s just… wow. You really went full perfect wife mode, huh?”

Your brows pull together slightly. “Yes… well. It is only proper to conduct myself with—”

“Yeeeah… let’s not,” he waves a hand, leaning forward slightly, arms folding over the table. “You don’t have to do that with me, y’know.”

You hesitate. “Do… what?”

“That.” He gestures vaguely at you, expression amused but pointed. “The stiff politeness, the whole ‘it is an honor to serve you’ thing. Jeez… feels like I’m at another meeting with the elders.”

You blink, your fingers curling slightly against the fabric of your sleeve. “But… this is a formal arrangement.”

He hums, tapping a long finger against the porcelain cup. “Yeah, but we’re also people… aren’t we?”

His words catch you off guard.

People.

You’re not sure if you’ve ever been allowed to simply be that—just a person. Not an heiress, not a proper wife, not a disgraced daughter in need of redemption.

You glance at him, at Gojo Satoru, and suddenly… he doesn’t feel so unreachable.

Oh…

He’s the same as you remember—the man who saved you seven years ago. The one who made defiance look so effortless, so free.

Perhaps… with him, you can breathe. Live freely.

Shifting slightly, your fingers relax in your lap.

“…Very well,” you murmur. “Then how would you prefer I speak to you, Gojo-sama?”

Satoru exhales dramatically, tilting his head to the side. “Well for starters, drop the ‘Gojo-sama’ thing. Hate that.”

You bite back a smile. “It’s a title of respect.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he waves a hand. “But every time you say it, I feel like I need to go yell at some underlings or something. I’m twenty-five, not fucking ancient.”

Your lips twitch slightly. “Alright… what should I call you then?”

He grins. “Just Satoru s’good.”

“…mmkay,” you hesitate for a moment. “Satoru, then.”

His smile widens, pleased.

“Perfect.” He leans forward slightly, resting his chin against his palm, one long finger tapping against the table. “Now… be honest. You don’t actually like this crap, do you?”

You blink. “Pardon?”

“This.” He gestures vaguely at the tea set, the meticulously arranged porcelain, the lingering scent of incense curling in the air. “All this traditional, stiff-ass, sit-in-silence tea ceremony nonsense.”

Your fingers clench slightly in your lap. “It’s… important.”

Satoru hums, unimpressed. “Yeah, yeah. But do you like it?”

You hesitate. It’s a simple question. A stupid one, even. But for some reason, it feels… foreign. Like no one has ever asked before. You should say yes. It would be the correct answer. The proper one.

“…it’s familiar,” you settle on.

Satoru hums again, watching you closely. “That’s not a yes.”

Looking down at the tea in front of you, a quiet weight settles in your chest. Then—he leans back with a sigh, stretching his arms behind his head.

“Sooo… whadda say we ditch?”

You blink. “Huh?”

“I mean, c’mon,” he groans, tilting his head to the side like this is the most obvious thing in the world. “This is boring as hell. You don’t actually wanna sit here drinking tea all day, right?”

You lift a brow. “But… isn’t this what the elders want?”

Satoru’s grin turns sharp. Mischievous.

“Yeah, and I like pissing them off,” his voice dips slightly as he shifts closer. “So… let’s try something.”

He pats his lap. Once. Twice.

“C’mere,” he says, lazily.

You stare—heat rising up your neck, your fingers gripping the fabric in your lap.

“…what?”

Satoru lifts a brow. “What?” he echoes, with a grin. Then, he pats his thigh again, nonchalant. “You heard me. C’mere. Sit.”

You open your mouth, then close it. Then open it again. “Erm… how does… this have anything to do with ditching?”

“Hmm… maybe, it doesn’t.” Satoru shrugs, lips curling at the edges. “Maybe I just wanna see if you’ll do it.”

A pause. Your stomach flips. Your pulse skips. Your brain is screaming at you. This is improper. Completely inappropriate. Unbefitting of a proper woman, much less a bride-to-be.

And yet—

Fuck. He’s watching you with expectation, amusement, curiosity. Because this is Gojo Satoru. The man who has always done whatever the hell he wants—and somehow, that makes you feel like you can too.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you drag in a deep breath, then move—shifting onto your knees and leaning forward. With a quiet exhale, you turn, lowering yourself onto his lap, your back against his chest as your hands rest awkwardly in your lap.

The moment you settle, his arms curl around your waist. The air changes, and your heart flutters.

“…huh,” his voice is closer than expected, his breath warm against the shell of your ear. “Didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

You swallow, refusing to meet his gaze—when suddenly, the world bends.

Weightlessness seizes you—like free-falling, like slipping through space itself. Your stomach lurches as reality warps around you, fleeting, untethered—until solid ground finds you again.

A slow blink. Gone is the tea room.

Where the hell are you?

Soft lantern light flickers against dark wood and paper screens, casting shifting shadows along the floor. The air is crisp, laced with pine, and beyond the open veranda, a private onsen awaits—its surface steaming beneath the early evening sky, mist curling lazily across the mountain air like silk. The distant hum of cicadas thrums through the silence, the world around you untouched, secluded, still.

Satoru exhales, a pleased hum, shifting beneath you.

“Ahh, much better…”

Warm fingers thread through your hair. Slow, deliberate—gathering the strands to one side. You feel a brush of lips against your shoulder as he murmurs,

“…don’t you agree?”

Shit. The realization settles over you like heat—you’re still in his lap.

“Wha—” the room is hazy—you’re a bit breathless from the sudden shift in reality, and fuck, it’s mixing dangerously with the heat of his touch as his fingers slowly drag along your waist.

Hesitantly, you tilt your head back, meeting his eyes. Blue. Endless. Watching you. You should look away, but you don’t.

“Um…”

“Ta-da,” he murmurs smugly.

Shifting slightly, you try to will away the heat in your face, slipping away from his chest as you adjust. Your thighs drape over his lap now, half-facing him. And fuck—was that a mistake?

Because now, he’s all you can see.

Snowy white hair, framing a face too perfect to be real—his mouth curving into a lazy grin that makes your tummy clench in a way you’re entirely unfamiliar with.

“Where… are we?” you manage.

Satoru hums, shifting beneath you—his fingers dancing over the silk of your obi. “Oh… y’know,” his hand drags higher, resting just below the curve of your breast. “Just somewhere no one will bother us…”

As your dizzy mind tries to recalibrate from teleporting, you blink, finally processing the position you’re in. Or rather, the position he’s in—lounging on a shikifuton.

His fingers twirl the tie of your obi, and you tense, suddenly incredibly nervous.

“G-Gojo…”

He clicks his tongue. “Satoru.”

“Um…” his other hand begins to slide higher up your thigh. “S-Satoru,” you amend, barely above a whisper.

A dangerous grin. “Good girl.”

Oh. You’re fucked. A shudder rolls through you.

“This place… um…” you try to distract yourself with words. Because what the fuck are you supposed to do when he’s touching you like this?! “Its… not the estate, is it?”

“Nah,” he murmurs lazily. “One of my private villas.I’ve got property all over Japan, sweetheart. Figured I’d take you somewhere more… comfortable.”

Comfortable.

Because sitting in his lap counts as comfortable… right?

And shit. Just what is this heat coiling at the base of your stomach? It’s dizzying. You need to move—need space, need air. But as you shift, attempting to slip from his lap, his grip tightens.

“Ah, ah,” he tuts, hands steadying you with effortless strength. “Easy there, sweetheart.”

Your pulse stammers, and for a second, you forget to breathe.

“I—I just need to—”

“Stay put.” His fingers flex against your waist. Firm. Unyielding. “We just teleported. Move too fast, and you’ll tip over.”

As your lips begin to part—a protest forming—a sudden wave of dizziness washes over you. Your breath hitches as the edges of your vision blur for a fraction of a second, and you sway, balance slipping.

“Ohp. There it is.”

Satoru moves before you can even react.

One hand slips behind your back, the other finding your hand as he gently lays you back against the futon. The silk of your kimono pools around you as his palm slides back to the curve of your waist.

And suddenly, he’s everywhere.

Leaning over you, elbow propped up—half above, half beside you. A frame too broad, his snowy-white hair falling forward just slightly, strands ghosting against your forehead.

The air shifts.

Those impossibly blue eyes drink you in, framed by thick lashes that soften the sharp cut of his jaw. “Still dizzy?” he murmurs teasingly.

Inhaling shakily, your eyes flutter shut for just a second, searching for something steady, something solid. But there’s only him—his presence, his warmth, the scent of him—clean, crisp, intoxicating.

Yup. You’re fucked.

“…no,” you whisper. But it’s a lie.

Because it’s not the teleporting that’s making your head spin anymore.

Satoru hums, knowing.

“Since we’re to be wed…” his fingers resettle just below your breast, lips curling into a slow, deliberate smirk. “I think you deserve a sample, don’t you?”

Huh?

You should say something. Anything. Your lips part instinctively, but before you can form a thought, before hesitation can settle in—Satoru is leaning in and your brain is short circuiting.

His hand lifts, cupping your cheek as he tilts your chin just so, and with a tenderness, his lips brush against yours in a soft, lingering press.

It’s like a dream. Gojo Satoru—the man you’ve admired, so sweet, so charming, so free—kissing you? Is this real life?

When he pulls back, he studies your expression, a smug grin dragging up his lips.

“What? You want more?” his lips brush against yours, and you barely process it when he mutters, “…wanna ruin you…” kissing you again.

This time, his lips are moving—slow, languid, like he’s introducing himself to you in a way words never could, coaxing you into the unfamiliar rhythm. He doesn’t rush. He guides. Mapping out your hesitation, your breath, the way your body tenses before melting beneath him.

Is your heart going to beat out of your chest? It feels like it. Just as you ease into his movements, his tongue flicks against the seam of your lower lip—soft, teasing.

“C’mon…” he quietly demands, tongue tracing your lips again, “open up f’me…”

And God, you do. Because he feels too good not to.

“Atta girl…” he hums, tongue slipping past your lips with ease. And now, that slow, lazy exploration turns headier, more consuming, more demanding. Groaning quietly, he’s pulling you in, guiding you. Leading. Teaching.

Oh.

That heat in your tummy… it’s spreading down between your legs now. You’re simmering with an inexplainable heat, and you instinctively clutch his robes, whining involuntarily as he kisses you stupid.

He’s grinning smugly against your lips, your sound fueling him as he devours you more. As your lips crash, you feel him shift, his fingers tugging at your kimono—toying with the delicate knot of your obi.

Wait.

You freeze.

Oh god.

Are you about to lose your virginity to the man you are to marry—before your wedding night?

Noticing you tense, Satoru’s smirk gentles and his movements slow. His lips taper, trailing down your jaw with tender pecks.

“Heh… relax, sweetheart…” he purrs against your skin, caressing your body. “In case you’re wondering, ’m not taking that tonight.”

Your breath stutters, heat curling beneath your skin.

Are… you relieved? Fuck… do you want him to fuck you? He’s making your head spin, and with him, tradition feels unnecessary.

 “Oh… I-I just…” you swallow. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

He raises a brow, a slow smirk pulling up his lips. “Yeah? Then I can show you, baby.” His lips graze the curve of your throat, fingers still teasing at your obi. “But I need to hear it from you first.”

You blink up at him, heat pooling between your legs at the look in his eyes—dark, heavy-lidded, consuming.

“What do you want? Gonna let me play with what’s mine?”

Your heart stammers. Fuck, you should hesitate. This is entirely unbefitting of a proper lady. It’s against everything you were raised to be. But the moment his teeth graze your jaw, fuck it, you’re already nodding.

“…yes, please.”

Satoru hums. “Good girl.”

And then, with a deft tug, your kimono slips open as he pulls it apart—the cool air kissing your skin just before he does, lips trailing from your collarbone to the curve of your breast.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “So pretty… look at these tits…” His tongue flicks against your nipple, and you whine, “S-Satoru—ahhh…” shuddering as his mouth wraps around it, swirling his tongue as he sucks the peak.

Smirking, he releases your nipple with a wet pop. “Bet you’re not as prim and proper as you look…” he muses, lips dragging lower, nipping at the sensitive dip of your waist. “Bet there’s a filthy little thing hiding under all this tradition…”

His palms descend, smoothing over your thighs, coaxing them apart with ease, but you tense just a bit.

His gaze lifts, ice-blue and smoldering. “Nervous, sweetheart?” he teases, kneading at the soft flesh of your thighs, thumbs sweeping slow, lazy circles—soothing, patient. But there’s a tension in him, the way his breath deepens, the way his hands flex like he’s holding back.

Your lashes flutter. “I… I just… I dunno how to, I—”

“Shhh,” he coos, smirking, “relax f’me, yeah?”

You give him a little nod as your thighs part further beneath the coaxing of his hands, and fuck, fuck, the sight of you like this—open, pliant, so soft and untouched—has his cock aching.

His breath shudders, fingers dragging up your inner thigh. “Mmm… I can already tell—you’re gonna be a dream wrapped around my cock.” A choked whine escapes you, body shivering, and his smirk deepens. “Ohhh, you like that?” he chuckles, fingers slipping beneath the silk of your kimono, spreading it further open. “Like hearing how bad I wanna fuck you?”

And fuck, does he want to fuck you. The restraint it takes to not flip you over and rut into your cunt is damn near unbearable.

It’s been days since Satoru’s had someone in his bed—days of listening to those stiff-ass elders drone on about duty, responsibility, marriage. Fucking is his stress relief. His role—this position as clanhead, as the strongest. God, he acts like he doesn’t give a shit but it’s exhausting. So, he fucks who he wants, when he wants. And now? Now he’s got you beneath him, trembling and breathless, your kimono slipping from your shoulders like a perfectly wrapped gift waiting to be undone.

It’s almost enough to make him say fuck it and take you right now.

Almost.

But he’s not completely selfish—knows you’re untouched, knows he’d probably wreck you if he took you raw the way he wants to. And as much as he loves breaking pretty little things, he’s gotta prepare you. Prepare you for the worst. Because Satoru? He doesn’t make love, he fucks.

“Satoru… I… I’ve never—"

“I gotchu sweetheart,” he drawls, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your cotton panties. “Gonna take my time. Let’s see how filthy my pretty little wife can get f’me, hm?”

You whimper as his middle finger circles the entrance of your slick cunt, teasing, testing, before pressing in an inch, feeling a small taste of your tight heat wrapped around him.

“Mnnh…” your voice wavers as your fingers grip his robes. “S-Satoru.” He groans, dragging his fingers through your slick, spreading it, making sure you feel every stroke. “Shit, baby…” his voice dips, husky, teasing. “Already soaked, hm? Just from me kissing you? Heh… see.” A wicked grin curls against your neck and you’re whining as he parts your folds, circling against your wet heat. “Knew it. You’re a naughty girl. Feels good huh?”

You nod, head tipping back as your cunt drips on the futon, hips shifting toward him.

“I-I… haaa…” you look up at him with pleading eyes as the tip of his finger sinks inside your tiny hole, then retreating just as quickly, playing with you. He groans, “God I’m gonna fucking ruin you… lemme feel how tight this little pussy is f’me…” and then he pushes his finger in fully, sinking knuckle-deep in your entrance.

“Ahhh!” you gasp, body shuddering, face burying into his neck as your cunt clenches him greedily. “Ohhh, shit,” he groans through his teeth because fuck—your tiny pussy’s already swallowing his finger like you don’t wanna let go. Satoru’s cock is twitching painfully in his hakama, leaking, straining against the fabric. He can’t wait to split you open on his thick throbbing dick.

“There ya go, sweetheart,” he coos, lips brushing against your ear. “Nice and easy, baby.” He’s moving now, curling his finger against that tender spot, and you gasp “S-Satoru…” burying further into his neck as you soak his hand, clutching his kimono as you whine, “nngh… s’too much…”

“Aww… s’okay…” he’s pressing wet open-mouthed kisses along your throat, finger slowly fucking into you, “Shit… this is only one finger sweetheart. Poor thing. M’gonna have to stretch you real good, huh?” he pumps through every word. “And you’ll take all of me, wont’cha? Take me like a good girl?”

Your lashes flutter. It’s overwhelming, but god, you love it. Stretching your hot little cunt with his long finger, the way his pretty blue eyes watch you, the way his voice drips into your ears, coaxing you further under. “I-I… nnngh…” your needy pussy’s gushing all over his knuckles, “Satoruuu…” you whimper, squirming slightly, unsure what you’re asking for.

But he knows. Of course he fucking knows.

“Faster?” he croons, nipping at your earlobe, pumping you fast, and fuck, your eyes roll back. The sounds of your sopping slick mix with the hum of cicadas. “That’s it… m’gonna teach you. Show my perfect little slut of a wife how to take cock, how to be a good girl for her husband.”

He curls his finger further, sliding against your tight wet walls. “S-Satoru—ahhh…”

“Shhh, I got you,” he soothes, cock angry in his pants as he pumps you stupid. “Shit, you’re so wet… feel that?” his free hand splays over your stomach, feeling your tiny hole flutter around him. “Ah, fuck… you’re gonna feel so tight around my dick… can’t wait to fuckin’ pound this needy pussy.”

Your breath is stuttering as he’s stretching you faster, making your cunt drool all over him, pretty blue eyes watching you through fluttering white lashes.

“Gonna fuck you so good, baby…” he murmurs in your ear, voice deep, velvety. “Hope you’re ready, gonna milk my fuckin’ dick, be my little obedient, sexy toy for me to use whenever I want. Yeah?”

Your body moves on its own and you arch further into him, desperate for more of his ministrations.

“…satoru,” you pant, and his cock leaps in his pants the moment you ask, “m-more… please?”

“Shit…” he groans, slipping another finger into your sopping cunt. “Knew you’re not as innocent as you look. Gonna pump you so fucking full, paint your insides white with my hot, thick cum,” he pants, finger fucking you faster. “This want you wanted needy girl?”

“Mhmm…” you nod, eyes squeezed shut, legs squeezing around him, a whimper spilling for your lips. “Ohh, fuck yes…” he growls, licking into your mouth.

Fuck, Satoru’s cock is throbbing so much is hurts now.

The thought of fucking you raw? Of splitting you open on his cock, ruining that untouched little cunt, making you stretch around him, crying, gasping, begging? Fuck—he could cum in his pants just thinking about it.

Because that is something he doesn’t do with other women. He’s always careful. Always keeps things clean, simple. Never finishes inside—ensuring there’s something between him and whatever meaningless distraction is spread out beneath him. Because at the end of the day, Gojo Satoru has a lot of meaningless distractions, and none of them are worth that kind of indulgence.

But you? Breeding you? Filling your tiny little hole, stuffing you full, making you drip with his cum until you’re leaking, messy, begging for more? Fuck, that’s more than a perk—that’s a goddamn plus.

A plus that, at least in marrying you, he’ll have someone to fuck whenever he wants. Satoru always gets what he wants. And he loves to fuck.

That’s all this is. That’s all you’ll be. A perfect little wife, ready to spread your legs and take him like you were made for it. Why? Because Satoru hates being tied down. But if the elders want an heir?

Fine. He’ll fucking give ‘em that.

“O-Oh… ohmygod…” you’re whimpering now, nails digging into his shoulders as he’s scissoring your dripping pussy, stretching you wider. “Ahhh!” The moment his thumb finds your clit, your body jolts, and he chuckles. “Mmm… there it is…” he’s rubbing slow circles against your swollen bud, pumping your cunt as your whimper and writhe. “That’s what I wanna see… let it take you… let it break you, baby.”

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you—eyes hooded, lips parted, white hair falling over his gaze. Fuck, he looks ruined just watching you come apart. You’re gasping, chest rising and falling, and he smirks. “S’too much,” you whine, voice trembling, “too much, Satoru… I… ahhh!”

Leaning in, his lips brush against yours. “C’mon sweet thing,” he rasps, “Cum f’me. Lemme see how pretty you look when you fall apart…”

And fuck, you do.

Your pussy clenches, tightening around his fingers as the coil in your stomach snaps, sending pleasure crashing through you.

A choked cry slips from your lips as your body shudders violently, legs squeezing around his wrist, cunt gushing down his knuckles. He groans, feeling every pulse of your release, the hot slick dripping down his hand as he fucks you through the aftershocks.

“Oh, fuck,” he grits out, watching you unravel beneath him. His lips curl, dark amusement flashing in his eyes. “That’s it, baby… look at you, makin’ such a mess on my fingers.” His thrusts slow, easing you down from your high, his free hand stroking up your trembling thigh as you’re panting, gripping the sleeve of his kimono as you look up at him with dewy eyes.

“Mmm… such a good girl f’me,” he murmurs.

Your lashes flutter, hazy and weak, as he slowly withdraws his fingers from your spent, fluttering hole. You whimper, body jerking slightly at the sensitivity, and a thin, glistening string of arousal connects his fingers to your soaked entrance before it snaps, slick dripping down your thighs.

Satoru hums. “Well, well…” he’s lifting his hand to the lantern light, watching you glisten on his fingers. “You really did make such a mess, sweetheart…”

Your dazed gaze meets his just as his tongue slips between his fingers, sucking them clean. “Mmm…” he groans, lashes fluttering, eyes rolling back before pulling them out with a wet pop. “Can’t wait to devour your cunt properly… bury my face between those pretty thighs n’ make you cum on my tongue while I feed you my dick…”

You’re fucking speechless, barely processing his filthy words before he’s shifting, his free hand dipping beneath the folds of his hakama. Blinking, dazed, you look down and—

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

He’s pulling himself free, that thick flushed cock springing up—flushed, red, and glistening with precum. It throbs, slapping against his abs, needy and aching. You look at Satoru’s blue eyes and they’re watching you, amusement tugging at his lips.

Gripping the base, he gives it a slow stroke. “Mhn… see what you do to me?” he smears his arousal lazily over the swollen head, exhaling. “Ahhh… look how fuckin’ hard I am just from playing with your pretty cunt…”

Swallowing, your thighs press together, heat blooming in your tummy. Each pump of his cock is hypnotic, deliberate—like he has all the time in the world.

You can’t take your eyes off it.

Fuck

His fingers were already enough to drive you insane, but that? How—how the hell are you supposed to fit that inside your pussy?

Satoru catches the way you bite your lip, the flicker of uncertainty in your gaze.

He smirks, tilting his head. “C’mere,” and he’s reaching for your hand, bringing it toward him. “Wanna play with it?”

Your fingers twitch. “But, Satoru—”

“Shhh,” his thumb brushes soothing circles across your wrist. “Told you, ‘m gonna teach you.” Lifting your hand, he presses a chaste kiss to your palm—soft, sweet. “You’re gonna be my wife, baby… that means learning how to handle my cock, too.”

“Oh…” your lashers flutter, a blush creeping up your cheeks. “Okay.”

For a fleeting second, the moment feels… almost tender.

But it shatters as he’s spitting directly into your palm—hot, slick, filthy.

“Gotta get it niiiice and wet…” he mutters, guiding your drenched hand to his throbbing dick, smearing the sticky substance around his shaft. “Grip it like this… kay?”

“Okay…” your murmur, thumb brushing against a thick vein. And god, it’s hot—hotter than you expect—twitching in your grip, heavy and pulsing beneath your tiny fingers.

“Mm, good girl,” he exhales, watching you through lidded eyes. “Start slow, yeah? Let me feel you.” He moves your hand beneath his, setting a pace, slow and teasing. A deep groan rumbles through his chest, lashes fluttering as his head tips back. “Fuuuuck… yeah… that’s it, jus’ like that, baby…”

Biting your lip, you look up at his filthy expression. “Like…this?” you experiment, squeezing a little harder, gripping his dick with more purpose. His cock twitches violently and his lips part. “Fuuuuck…” he grunts, grip tightening on your wrist, “y-yeah… that’s it—shit—keep going, just like that.”

God, the way he looks right now has you dizzy—lidded eyes, jaw slack, breath coming short and heavy. He’s falling apart from your touch alone—like there’s a power to it. That realization makes you bolder, your strokes growing more confident.

And fuck, he seems to like that.

“There ya go, sweetheart,” his cock’s jerking in your grip as he pulls back completely, pretty blue eyes flicking form your hand to your face, smirk turning pure filth. “God, look at you… pretty little wife, strokin’ my cock so fuckin’ well. Maybe I oughta let you do this every night, huh? Put those soft little hands to good use.”

The slick, obscene sounds of your hand working over his cock fills the space as he leans back, shamelessly reveling in it, hips twitching into your grasp.

“Nnngh… keep strokin’ me just like that…” his lips hover a breath away from yours, panting, desperate. You squeeze a little harder, rolling your wrist, and his brows furrow, a sharp hiss escaping him. “Shit—” his head lolls back, voice wrecked, “fuck, you’re such a quick learner… bet you’d let me fuck that tight little throat next, wouldn’t you?”

You cunt is throbbing at his words, slick pooling in your panties. God, how are you supposed to answer him? He’s filthy. But you love it. Your thighs squeeze together, and Satoru sees the way you shift—his grin stretching, wicked.

“Betcha like strokin’ me.” His voice is rough, thick with need, fingers threading into your hair. “Betcha like feelin’ my cock throb in your hand, huh?”

Biting your lip, you squeeze his dick harder. “Y-Yeah…” your cheeks burn at your own filthy admission, and his smirk is vicious, pure sin. “Knew it. Fuckin’ knew it.” He groans, cock twitching in your palm as his flushed tip drools all over your tiny hands. “Naughty little thing… keep that up, n’ m’gonna cum all over these pretty fingers…”

You swipe your thumb over the tip, rolling the head as you murmur “what if… I want that?” and as the words slip out, Satoru’s eyes snap to yours, blown wide, something feral in those cerulean depths.

“Oh?” His grip in your hair tightens, a sharp, desperate inhale through clenched teeth. “Say that again.”

You breathe slowly, smearing his drooling dick, and Satoru’s cock leaks more, jerking violently the moment you mutter, “I… I wanna see you cum.”

With a primal growl, he snaps—lunging forward, lips crashing against yours, messy, consuming. Breathless, desperate, your strokes turn frenzied as he’s groaning into your mouth, his hand groping your tit, his cock jolting in your palm, pulsing vigorously.

“Fuck,” he pants, forehead pressing against yours, his breath ragged, needy. “Faster—m’fuckin’ close—fuck, baby, don’t stop—”

You obey, jerking him quicker, harder, your palm slick and messy with his slick. The lewd, obscene sounds spilling from his lips are shameless, his hips jerking up, chasing the friction.

It’s invigorating, and so—fuck it.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you lean forward, part your lips—and spit. A long, slick stream dripping down, coating his thick cock, gliding over your fingers as you pump him faster.

Satoru chokes on a breath.

“Shit. Shit. Fuuuuuuck,” he groans, head tipping back, throat bared, veins straining. “Goddamn…” his voice cracks, laughter breaking through. “Look at that. Gonna turn you into the perfect little slut f’me, aren’t I?”

Your hand is a blur now—stroking, twisting, rolling over the ridge of his cock, milking him as he gasps, shuddering, hands roaming over your tits, groping, squeezing.

“G-Gonna cum all over you,” he groans, voice unraveling, grip tightening as his thumb flicks your nipple. “Wanna see it? Fuck—my cum dripping down your hand—” A ragged whine catches in his throat. “Or maybe—m-maybe your tits? Haaa… s-shit… yeah.”

Suddenly, his hand shoves you down, pinning you against the futon as he straddles you, knees pressing against your sides. Your eyes widen as his cock hovers above you, dripping, leaking, his grip tight around the base as he strokes himself furiously.

“Fuck… fuck… fuck!” The wet faps of his fist grow louder, his panting wrecked, desperate. “Gonna fuckin’—haaaa—s-shit, take my cum!”

And then, he’s spurting his thick gooey seed all over you, spilling rope after rope of that sticky white essence, shooting it from the ridge of his pulsing dick as it erupts is messy arcs. It's warm and wet, his body lingering above you, his breath coming in heavy, uneven pants as he wrings every last drop.

Groaning, his head lolls, lazily pumping the last few spurts, blue eyes dropping to the mess he’s made of you—cum dripping down your tits, pooling in the dip of your stomach.

“Fuck…” he exhales, thumb grazing your bottom lip before tilting your chin up. “Just look at you. Drenched in me.”

You blink, dazed, body still humming, skin sticky and dewy with sweat and cum. Satoru watches you for a moment, then huffs a lazy chuckle, shifting off you. You barely register the way he reaches for something beside the futon, only catching the warm press of a damp cloth against your skin a second later.

Lying there, breathless, he carelessly wipes his release off you. He’s not gentle, not exactly, but he’s careful—moving with the ease of someone who’s done this plenty of times before. When he’s done, he tosses the cloth aside, stretches his arms over his head, and flops onto his back with a satisfied sigh.

There’s a beat of silence as you both exhale. The weight of what the fuck just happened, settling in your chest. Then, his smirk returns as he tilts his head at you.

“Welp,” he sits up, rolling a shoulder, cracking his neck, as if already moving past the moment. “S’pose we oughta head back, huh?”

Your stomach knots. “Oh… um. B-Back?” Because how the fuck are you supposed to sit in front of the elders, in front of your mother, after this? After he’s just—after this?

Satoru snorts, already adjusting himself, tucking his cock back into his hakama like none of this just happened. “Yeah.” He grins, fixing the folds of his robes. “I got what I wanted. You had your fun, yeah?”

O-Oh? Your breath stutters. You swallow.

He smirks, glancing over at you, a few stray drops of his cum still drying on your skin. “Besides… can’t have ‘em thinking I already knocked you up before the wedding.”

The implication is clear. The possessiveness is clear. But the affection? That’s missing. It’s like… he’s already moved on, like this was nothing more than a way to pass the time.

Gojo Satoru doesn’t love you.

He owns you.

And as he extends his hand to you, waiting for you to take it so he can pull you up, there’s… no warmth in his touch.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he coos, blue eyes gleaming—calm, unreadable, detached. “Time to go home.”

Home.

But, it’s not a home—it’s a throne. And not yours to claim, only yours to be kept in.

a/n. hiiii welcome to the debut of this fic! i had to set a lot up here before we dive into the angst and the smutfest that's to come. ngl, this is a bit out of my comfort zone bc as a demisexual i crave emotional connection with sex. like, i'm really gonna want satoru to hold me after he fucks me stupid 🥲 but ALAS. this fic is not that (at least... not yet. give satoru some time, soon he's gonna be whipped for readers coochie, hehe 🤭) anyways, tysm for reading. would love to hear your thoughts 🫶🏻 like i said, this is going to be multiple parts. no clue how many just yet tho!

taglist pt 1:

@forest-nymph420 @linabugaboo @enhasrii @indiewritesxoxo @yamagucji

@aerareads @devils-blackrose @starpachinko @sadmonke @sylussss7

@slutoru1207 @satoruxsc @sukunasunflower @reihimbo @madamechrissy

@sleepykittyenergy @artist1936 @eggrollforyou @nishloves @serenxtii

@lastsubstance @sarapherna1ia @7thsthings @merrydoe @earliergrave

@106-94 @propan-3-ol @oromanticism @chxllix @nonamebbsblog

@honeybunnnnie @beereadzzz @moonchhu @bunheadusa @atschii

@cherriee-ee @kiyoko182 @itsinherited @fairygardenprincesss @7haze

@hedgefundmeg @adreamingpendulum @etsuniiru @velvetyshu @genshingeeksworld

@waterfallu @haruhatake @schooki @magnificientscarlett @strychnynegirl

[indiewritesxoxo]

knocked out up!

first taste | chapter index

getting back shots in someone else's bed post-breakup is fun - until you have a bump to show for it a few months later

pairing: baby daddy!Sukuna x f!Reader

content: mdni, pregnancy, friends to strangers to co-parents, messy relationship history, ex-bf!Gojo, leaving a toxic relationship, one night stand, oral (f! receiving), face sitting, reverse cowgirl, multiple positions + povs, condom breaking, sukuna is obsessed, pining

art by @winterrbluess + divider by @bronzewasp <3

Getting dumped and knocked up in two hours was probably a new world record.

Clingy, your boyfriend, well, ex-boyfriend called you. Too fucking busy to text you back half the time and too tired to pay you an ounce of attention when he did make the time for you. You guessed you weren't even worth the effort it took to show up to the stupid date you'd been looking forward to all week - just getting his can't make it message when you were already all dressed up and parked outside his favorite restaurant.

Gojo didn't even pick up your call.

Just coldly suggested you needed to take a break if you couldn't handle his schedule. Like his hours were what bothered you instead of his attitude.

So why should you fight for something he clearly had no interest in saving?

Even if cancelling the reservation felt like nailing the coffin shut on years of your relationship, you blocked his number, but instead of going home to box up his stuff, you pulled up directions to the nearest bar.

You noticed him on drink number three.

But he'd been watching you since you stepped inside.

If he recognized you (he absolutely did), you couldn't tell, his piercing gaze looking straight through you before going back to scanning the crowded room. It's not like he'd have any interest in you outside of your now non-existent connection to Gojo. So what if once-upon-a-time you'd all went to college together? If you shared lunches and test answers with him before everything went to shit?

Those two had issues.

The sort that usually got settled in bar fights rather than social media comment sections. You didn't know how it started and Satoru Gojo refused to ever share, but the competition between him and your former friend hadn't died years after you all graduated, it seemed. They went into the same industry post-college, worked at competing companies, a rivalry both refused to put an end to long after they stopped playing the same sport.

Gojo kept you out of it though, but you guessed he'd been keeping you out of everything lately too.

You were painfully aware of how not-drunk you were, the buzz not even there, the warmth in your chest feeling more like a fever than a pleasant fuzz. You nudged your still unfinished drink forward, starting to consider this as just another terrible idea to wrap up a terrible day, about to push up off the counter to stand when you felt the pressure shift, the weight of someone's presence lingering behind you suddenly choking the air out of your lungs when you glanced back over your shoulder just for him to practically tower over you.

"Your boyfriend know you're out here drinking alone?" Sukuna scoffed, his disgust dripping down at you. His muscled arms were folded across his chest, veins bulging against his smooth skin, a tight scowl on his lips.

"He's not my boyfriend anymore, so if you want to be an asshole, go bother someone else," You returned his glare, shrugging your purse higher up over your shoulder.

"Yeah? You finally dumped that loser?" He actually laughed. "Or is he even dumber than I thought?"

You weren't about to answer and throw the last scraps of your dignity in the trash to explain to Sukuna that you just got your heart crushed via text.

But your silence was enough to clue him in anyway.

"No fucking way," He chuckled again, low and gruff, the warm overhead lights of the bar casting an amused glint in his eyes as his lips curled up in an almost cruel smirk.

"Shut up," You grumbled, sliding off your barstool to stand up, wobbling a little in your too-high heels just for one of his annoyingly strong arms to steady you.

"Poor princess," He teased, mocking your pout, a hand planted on your waist to pull you in. But there was a low vibration to his voice, almost a purr, like he was flirting with you.

Which was absurd.

Ever since you started dating Gojo, he'd been nothing but nasty. Snide comments about your awful taste and remarks about how long it'd take before you realized what an idiot you were. Each jab only fracturing your friendship more, the distance digging itself deeper in the years after school. It'd gotten annoying enough that you'd stopped talking to him entirely a couple years ago after Gojo kept pestering you about answering his texts. Although, you couldn't exactly say Sukuna missed the mark now.

"So you're finally done with him?" He murmured, leaning in enough for his warm breath to send a shudder down your spine.

You could feel the blush burning under your cheeks, but the real warmth was pooling elsewhere. You shifted on instinct, pressing your thighs a little tighter together.

And okay, it had been a while since the last time you had sex. Your bed was probably as cold as the rest of your relationship. But the more you tried to convince yourself that was why he was having such an effect on you, the less you were sure.

"Guess I'm just too clingy for him to handle," You shrugged, feeling a little pathetic even as you excused it. Too needy just for needing him to act like your stupid fucking boyfriend and put you first for once.

"And what'd I tell you years ago?" Sukuna hummed, and you didn't need to look over your shoulder to know he was rolling his eyes.

"Don't be a dick," You scolded, stepping away and towards the exit.

"Don't act like you didn't miss me," He scoffed back, his shadow sticking to you like a second skin, his thumb dragging over the outline of your panties barely visible under your dress.

"I didn't," You bluffed.

"Liar."

"If you try to say I told you so again, I swear to God-" You started to threaten, scowling at him before his lips landed on yours to interrupt.

He was a few years too late.

His possessive grip shifting around to your ass, cupping and squeezing like no one else was around - although, no one was even looking, and you were pulling away with your mouth still hanging open.

"You're just as bad as him," You mumbled, wiping the corner of your mouth and slipping out of his grasp to hurry out the front door.

So what if he was right?

You had missed him. But he wasn't any different than Gojo. Both self-absorbed and self-obsessed. And maybe you had feelings for him way back when, before he'd let someone else sweep you off your feet, but you knew this was just some petty ploy to get back at Gojo. Fucking you to fuck him over.

Your body was betraying you though - the taste of bourbon on his lips and the heat of his hands on your body tempting you to let him. An annoying little voice suggesting you should fuck him, take a photo splayed out in his sheets and unblock Gojo's number just to send it.

He followed you outside, grabbing your wrist almost gently before spinning you around.

"C'mere," Sukuna sighed, his scowl softening for a second when you paused.

"What do you want from me?" You huffed, trying to stand tall, not shrink back under his searing stare.

"Everything," He answered easily, broad shoulders shrugging up. You scoffed right when he started talking again. "But I'll start with you in my bed first."

"Why?" You rolled your eyes. "Let me guess, you just wanna rub it in his face that you fucked me too?"

Sukuna clenched his jaw, the thick tendons in his throat flexing as he swallowed.

"I want you," He echoed, stepping forward to cage you in, backed up to a car you still recognized as his. Your heart skipped a beat, the nerves in your stomach twisting and curling at how close he was. How many times has you dreamed of him being inches away from you like this? Or reminisced on the days where he'd drive you around with one of those veiny hands on your thigh? "And I think you always wanted me too."

"Yeah?" You sarcastically shot back, like your pulse wasn't pounding in your ears, eyes flicking back down to the lips you used to long for.

He hadn't been interested in you then, so you moved on with the pretty blue-eyed boy who was, even if you regretted all of it now.

But why should you let Gojo dictate what or who you did anymore?

"Yeah," He grunted.

This was wrong and he was unfortunately so right but you kissed him before you could keep lying to yourself. Pulling him down to your level by his shoulders and letting his tongue slip between your lips to explore your mouth.

"Admit it," He murmured before tugging your bottom lip between his teeth, your back pressed against his car. The sharp edges of his canines nipping at the spot you'd already been chewing on all night, a massive hand sliding up under your dress to ghost over your thigh, the foreign feeling of his calloused palm making you shiver.

You didn't answer him though - couldn't formulate the words to fit the feeling sitting heavy on your chest, trailing messy kisses down across his jaw to his throat. You let your own teeth scrape the tendon there, press your tongue against the pulse as you sucked a little spot just to see how much he'd tolerate from you.

A lot, considering he let you leave a handful of hickies before his jaw tensed again.

His free hand grabbed your chin between his thumb and his fingers to stop you, tilting your head up to meet his intense stare. You could sense the demand waiting on his tongue, wanting to ask more of you than you could give.

So you interrupted him this time.

"Do you want me in your bed or not?"

He was bending you over the edge of it half an hour later, ripping your panties down your thighs and prying them apart with greedy hands. Thick fingers dimpling the pliant muscles and soft skin, skimming over every inch. Impatiently tugging the zipper down your dress and readjusting you to toss it to the floor until you were stripped bare in his sheets.

"He didn't deserve you," Sukuna murmured, pausing as he traced over the curve of your ass like he was actually admiring it. "This."

Deserved was a word that had never felt comfortable in your mouth. Not when you'd heard it directed your way a thousand times before, from people who thought you never deserved Gojo.

What difference did it make it was already over?

Who dumped who and how things ended didn't change the fact your heart was the one that'd gotten crushed in the aftermath.

"Can we not talk about him?" You huffed, glancing back over your shoulder and swallowing hard at what you saw there.

Sukuna's jaw was clenched tight, his eyes dark, pupils blown with lust (although the low moonlight streaming in from his window could've tricked you it was love) as he just stared at you.

You pushed your bottom lip out in a pout, flipping over onto your back and starting to sit up. But he didn't move a muscle, even if his eyes followed every minute movement.

Watching the bounce of your breasts and the way you tucked your hair out of your face while you grabbed his wrists and tugged him closer.

"You've got me where you want me," You reminded him, tilting your head to the side. "So what are you going to do about it?"

You'd forgotten how fast Sukuna could move - one second standing still in front of you, and the next he was on the bed, dragging you up with him until he was the one on his back and you were straddling his lap.

He was still clothed, but you could feel the hard bulge throbbing through his dark jeans, face flushing at the thought it was because of you.

Sukuna's hands squeezed your hips, dragging his stare over your body one more time before he pulled you up higher, a surprised little squeak escaping as he settled you over his mouth and held you down there. His breath was cool against your exposed entrance, your own mouth falling open and about to protest before he spoke up.

"Shoulda done this years ago," He murmured, his tongue flicking out to lick a long stripe over your slick slit, tracing up to wrap his mouth over your aching bundle of nerves, another strangled noise ripped from your mouth at the sudden contact.

"Wh-why didn't you?" You choked out, trembling as he sucked harshly at the bud, barely giving you time to adjust as he licked and lapped at your clit. Your hand shot out to tangle your fingers in his hair, roughly tugging at his roots right as his own hands yanked you even closer to the warmth of his mouth.

He laughed, but it was more like a small huff, his breath alone making you shudder.

"Guess I thought I had time," Sukuna drawled, the edge of his nails starting to dig into your hip, but there's was something intoxicating about the way the pain heightened the pleasure as his tongue returning to drawing messy circles and tantalizing patterns of someone who was clearly practiced at it.

You hated yourself for hating that.

As if you had any right to be jealous or insecure when before tonight it'd been what? Two years since you'd last seen him? Three?

While someone he hated had easy access to every inch of you?

His tongue pushed in, pressing flat and dragging his taste buds inside like he wanted to properly explore you. You whined as he swirled it around, savoring all of you.

He moaned, pulling you in impossibly closer while your thighs started to shake, biting down on your bottom lip to muffle the whimper that wanted to leave.

"O-oh," You murmured, barely catching your breath, the air getting stuck in your throat every time you tried to exhale as he prodded deeper.

He didn't reply, too busy planting open-mouthed kisses against your cunt, diving his tongue in-and-out, picking up the pace just to slow down once he felt you start to stiffen, your grip tighten on his hair as you grinded down on his face.

Forgetting to breathe, lips damp and glossy-eyed as he returned his skilled mouth to your sore and swollen clit, like he'd be content suffocating as long as it was under you.

You were so close it hurt.

Burning with the desperation, your muscles starting to tense in the build-up, the pressure stretching your already hazy mind too-thin. You wanted to focus on him, focus on the way his tongue rolled back over your clit, how one of his hands had snuck around to cup your ass, squeezing right as he sucked hard on your aching bud.

It was his teeth that did you in.

One careful nip. Just barely grazing over, applying the perfect amount of pressure to make you snap, bent too far to do anything except break in his hands, crying his name out when you came for him.

"Kuna, fuck fuck fuck," You whimpered, lips staying parted while you tried to suck in enough air to fill your lungs while the pleasure crashed around you.

But he didn't stop, working you until you felt like putty, legs still trembling when he tossed you onto your back, the soft mattress sinking around you as he hurried to rip his shirt up over his head. Fumbling for his zipper and tugging it down before groaning as he stood up, struggling to get his jeans down past his erection.

Sliding his boxers down just for his cock to spring back up, red and leaking already, so hard it had to be painful. Palming it with a few desperate strokes as he glanced around looking for something.

"Fucking hell," He muttered, letting go to walk over to his nightstand and rummage through the drawer for a condom. "Sorry, shit, been a while for me."

"It's um, kinda been a while for me too," You admitted in a breathless stammer when you finally pulled yourself back together, watching him sheath his cock inside the condom and thinking he was putting a lot of fucking faith in its ability to stretch around him.

Sukuna glanced up, brows furrowed like he didn't quite believe what he heard.

"Seriously?"

"He's busy," You excused. Or was. You weren't used to thinking of him in the past-tense yet.

You knew what Sukuna was thinking.

That Gojo was probably busy fucking someone else if he didn't have time for you. You'd considered it a few times yourself. Despite how often he stayed over at yours, he'd never gotten rid of his old apartment, kept his own place bringing up rings and marriage without ever mentioning moving in. Had driven yourself the kind of crazy to the point of checking his phone while he showered, waited by the door for him to return home, sniffing his collar to see if it'd reek of perfume, if it'd have lipstick stains.

But you never found any proof.

Would never know either way now.

For all you knew, he could already have his tongue down some other woman's throat. Maybe he hadn't cheated on you. Maybe he was waiting for the excuse to break things off without feeling like the bad guy so he could move on.

Things hadn't been going well for a while.

You just couldn't convince yourself you were okay pretending everything was fine for an entire lifetime.

"You were wasted on him," Sukuna murmured, climbing back on the bed over you, sliding his hands over your body again, slower this time. Dragging his warm palms over your thighs, tracing the faint scratches he left on your hip and skimming over your waist until he cupped your breasts.

Tracing over your peaked nipples, rolling them between his fingers before leaning over to plant a kiss against one, dragging his tongue over it and testing how it felt to scrape his teeth across it too.

His kisses continued up your sternum to your collarbone, trailing a delicate line over the tendons of your throat to your jaw. Making his way along your body like it was a point he was proving.

"The least he could've down was worship you," Sukuna dryly muttered under his breath, a hardly disguised hint of anger lingering under the surface, the heat of his palms seeping though your skin as he finally cupped your cheeks.

"You think you could've done better?" You huffed, but your voice was too small, too nervous when his stare was so intense, his focus entirely on your face.

You didn't think so. Not really.

He might've remembered it differently.

You never forgot.

All the times he'd been cold or dismissive. All the moments he'd caught your stare and turned his head. All the seconds you spent in his arms just to be the girl he only ever claimed as a friend.

"I don't know," He confessed, a tiny glint of regret reflecting back at you in his somber stare. "But I could now."

You were so swept up in whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean to pay attention to him lining himself up with your entrance.

Then his mouth was back on yours, covering up your needy moan for more when he slipped the his swollen tip in, your tired thighs shifting to make space for him.

He tilted your chin back to deepen the kiss, like it'd distract you from the biiiig stretch of inch after inch of him, itching for all he had to give you. You were wrapping your arms around his back, holding onto his shoulder blades, tempted to leave long scratches just because you knew he'd let you.

So that he'd feel the sting in the shower and think of you in the morning after you left. Would feel it when he tossed and turned at night, when he pulled a shirt back on.

Possessive and petty and probably terrible, but you wanted to take a photo, frame it and post it to the apartment you guessed Gojo would be going home to tonight.

The tattoos alone would tell him whose place you ended up at.

You tested the skin, running the edges of your nail lightly over his shoulders, eliciting a shiver that had his head dipping down into the crook of your collarbone, groaning as he froze halfway in. Stuttering to a stop, sucking softly on your neck like you wouldn't notice he needed to compose himself so he wouldn't cum early.

"You okay?" You teased, tracing a star over his muscles as he grunted his reassurance.

"Jus' fine," He grumbled.

You weren't sure who he was trying to prove it to by bottoming out, your nails actually scratching him this time when you almost jolted, gasping as the force pushed you up on his bed. He yanked you back down, his cock forced deeper as you made a sound that was more like a mewl than anything else.

"Make that noise again," He hummed, although it seemed like a demand when his eyes were practically piercing through you, brows drawn together in concentration, spearing into you the same way and holding you in place like he could recreate it.

"It, fuck, wasn't on purpose," You murmured, eyes staring to glaze over, tears pricking at the corner, starting to get overwhelmed by the constant plunge of his cock. Muscles squeezing tighter and beginning to spasm around him, body begging for more despite how sensitive you still were.

His hips smacked harder into your skin, the bed starting to creak and whine under the weight and force of each thrust, but it was his stare that was making it hard for you to focus.

"K-Kuna," You protested, lip jutting out in a pout as you clawed at his back. "Stop staring."

"Can't," His voice was gravelly, rough as he barked out the single word.

"Why not?" You whined, loathing the soft plea it came out as when his cock was pretty much lodged in your throat.

"I like looking at you."

It wasn't the answer you expected. But that was how it went with him, you guessed.

He never said what you thought he would.

You could feel a few pricks of panic start to set in, that uncomfortable heavy weight returning to suffocate your heart at the apparent sincerity despite his gruff tone, his low pitch.

"I wanna be on top," You muttered, interrupting the moment.

He chuckled, pausing mid-thrust to raise an eyebrow.

"Now?" He asked.

"Flip over," You insisted, and he obliged.

Pulling out with a little shake of his head, laying his head back on the pillow and letting you sit up on your still unsteady legs, watching you like he didn't think you'd be able to manage it.

You flipped around so you didn't have to face him or his scrutiny, adjusting until you were slowly sinking back down, bracing yourself for the new angle.

His hands returned to your hips, letting you take the lead until you were almost halfway down, thighs shaking harder with every consecutive inch.

"Need some help?" He taunted, running his thumb over your skin in slow semi-circles.

"S-shut up," You gritted your teeth, steeling yourself to take the last few inches, already feeling too full to fit anymore from this position.

He started to laugh again, a soft sound that made the knots in your stomach pull and tug, and you dropped all the way down just to shut him up.

The deep groan you tore from him only fueled the flames of satisfaction, soothed the burn from the stretch. But his hands were suddenly no longer just accessories adorning your skin, roughly guiding you up-and-down to bounce on his lap, splitting you open until you were making noises just as loud as him.

Muscles aching for relief, thighs trembling and shaking with each thrust upwards, his cock pressing kisses to your cervix every time he speared it deeper.

"Kuna, I-" You started, shutting yourself up before you could stutter and stammer through half-incoherent nonsense.

You couldn't form sentences anymore. Eyes going glassy as you scrunched them shut, grabbing onto one of his sturdy thighs to hold yourself up.

"Nod if you need me to take over," He murmured, soft and serious, no hint of his usual condescension.

You shakily nodded, a small whimper escaping as he suddenly picked you up and placed you on your stomach, lining himself back up and slipping back inside with ease as he left another path of kisses over your back.

"That's it," His low purr was filled with gravel, his tone rough but relaxing all the same.

One of his massive hands slipping underneath your front to feel for your clit while his cock throbbing inside you. He was close, probably only holding off to make sure you finished a second time before his first.

Rolling the sensitive bud between his fingers this time right as he angled himself to find the soft spot had you almost drooling onto his bed, thankful the comforter muffled your needy moans when he pinched and pushed you over the edge.

Snapping as your body betrayed you by making a strangled sound that barely even resembled his name, melting into the mattress when he finished too. Letting his teeth sink into your skin and mark you as his while he groaned your name back.

You hadn't even realized a few stray tears had started to leave makeup streaked trails down your cheeks until you went to lift your head and noticed the dark smears on his white bedspread.

Sukuna started to pull out, the weight lifting from off your back before he froze.

"Shit." His tone was off. Crossed between concern and surprise.

"What?" You huffed, straining to force your exhausted body to shift as you twisted from his hold to glance over your shoulder.

"The condom broke."

"The fuck are you doing here?"

Really, what the fuck was Gojo doing here?

"Don't think it's your business," Sukuna snarled. He dragged his attention down from the stuck-up pout and icy blue eyes down to the big bouquet of flowers in one hand to the bag of takeout in the other, a key pinched between his fingers like he was getting ready to unlock your front door.

You had scribbled your address down on a receipt you'd found in his room the morning after when you left, throwing on your dress before he insisted you throw on one of his sweaters too. Saying you should get a plan b since the condom breaking hadn't exactly stopped you from having a second round.

Told him he should come over sometime. If he was interested.

So he did.

A week later than he planned, stuck wrapping up work issues so he'd be able to devote his free time entirely to you.

But he hadn't expected you to have company.

Or maybe intruder was a better word for the white-haired idiot in front of him.

"Of course it is," Gojo huffed.

It was easy to piss him off when it came to you. To reduce him into the sort of blind seething rage that usually ended in shoves or punches.

"Last time I checked, you lost boyfriend privileges," Sukuna smugly reminded him, a cruel smirk on his lips.

"Last time I checked, she wasn't speaking to you," Gojo snarled back, a few stray petals falling off the flowers as his hands clenched tighter around the plastic-wrapped stems.

"Yeah? I mean, would you consider moaning my name speaking?" Sukuna sarcastically replied, watching his rival's already pasty face grow whiter the moment his taunt set in.

"You're lying," Gojo breathed.

He could pull down the collar of his shirt, rub in the bite marks and hickies still staining his skin. But he settled on slipping his phone out of his pocket, showing off the photo of your pretty face asleep on his pillow instead.

"Can see why you tried to keep her all to yourself," He dryly mocked, wondering if Gojo recalled the time he once said the same words to Sukuna. His arm had been slung around yours at some stupid party, hoping to provoke Sukuna into hitting him again, like he was dumb enough to risk getting his scholarship revoked after he almost got suspended from their first real fight.

Gojo steeled his face, his usually expressive eyes freezing over to something icy and cold. Skin stretched thin over the bones of his knuckles as his hands instinctively formed fists.

"The face she makes when she cums is just so cute, right?" Sukuna hm-ed, drawing it out and watching Gojo's mouth twitch into a deeper frown.

"Hope you enjoyed it," Gojo scoffed. "Not like you'll get to see it again."

Sukuna wondered what it was like. To be so stupid and so overconfident. And yet, Gojo always somehow weaseled his way into getting whatever he wanted. Even you.

"That's up to her," Sukuna grunted back.

You wouldn't go back to Gojo. Couldn't.

Sukuna had waited years for you.

One night couldn't be all he had to show for it.

"I'm her boyfriend, so-"

"Ex," Sukuna corrected him.

"We're back together," Gojo almost spat at him, shoulders stiff as he took a step closer. To block Sukuna from the door rather than a sheer intimidation tactic. The latter wouldn't have worked anyway. "We were just on a break."

Sukuna briefly considered breaking his nose.

An assault charge was nothing he couldn't get bailed out of. Although, he'd rather not give Gojo another excuse to play the victim and run crying to you so you could kiss his fucking boo boos better.

"Does she know that?"

"Why else would I be here?" Gojo scoffed.

Sukuna didn't want to believe him. Didn't want to think you'd ever be the type to accept the bullshit he threw at you.

But he'd heard the hurt in your voice before. Seen it in your eyes, the way you shied away sometimes, self-conscious.

It wasn't that inconceivable.

You had belonged to Gojo longer than you'd ever been his in any capacity. It wasn't like Sukuna ever held your heart.

You'd offered it once, held it out and hinted at wanting him to have it, but he'd let Gojo steal it instead. Convinced that you'd see Sukuna was the better option, that you'd dump that prick and show up at his door one day.

He was a fool then. Probably now too for thinking you'd choose him this time.

What was that stupid saying from Jurassic Park?

Life finds a way?

Apparently a broken condom and a failed plan b was still proving that point years later.

You still hadn't believed the four positive tests on the bathroom counter, the swollen breasts and morning sickness you'd been doing your best to ignore until you finally forced yourself to make an actual appointment, choking out the reason over the phone.

It wasn't until you saw the blob on ultrasound that it set in.

Wasn't until they told you how far along you were that you realized whose it was.

It would be one thing if it was Gojo's. He was an asshole, but you knew what you were getting with him at least. He'd been trying to get back together anyway. Leaving gifts at your door after you changed the locks and slipping apology letters through the crack when he noticed you blocked his number. He'd probably propose, make promises about being a real family that he might even attempt to keep. But it wasn't his.

It was Sukuna's.

You had no idea how he would take it when you told him.

If you could even tell him.

The number you used to have for him didn't work. You waited for him outside his apartment one night, but he didn't come home. The longer you stood there, tapping your foot like an idiot for someone who had no idea you were even there, the worse you felt about your whole, uh, situation.

Still, it was what lead you to standing in front of his work on your lunch break, studying the tall building front, shielding your eyes from the almost blinding glare of the sun reflected in the windows.

The last time you were here had been one of the last times you spoke to him. Well, before he put a fucking baby in you.

But that had been back when he had just quit his job to start his own company up, getting a grand tour of the then empty office building. Gojo had insisted on tagging along, so of course, it ended with the two of them bickering so much you practically had to drag your then-boyfriend out of the building.

It was bustling now, people cramming in the elevators probably in a rush to clock in from their own lunch breaks. You had to wait for another one to come down, barely avoiding getting elbowed by employees bumping into you while you pressed the button for the top floor.

By the time you actually reached it though, the rest of the elevator was empty. The hallway it opened up into was quiet, big windows letting in light as your heels clicked on the linoleum.

All the nerves you'd been shutting down were back, sucking in a sharp breath as you forced yourself forward with every step.

"Do you have an appointment?" She glanced over her computer screen at you, offering a polite smile like she already knew the answer.

"No, but I need to speak with him," You tried to return her smile, to force yourself to not sound nearly as stressed as you felt.

"Sorry, but you need an appointment," She insisted, head cocked to the side.

"I'm sorry, but I know him, and-"

"You could set it up over email, or put in a request-"

"Listen, considering I'm carrying his child, I would really appreciate it if you told him I was here," You gritted your teeth, unable to keep the sharp edge from your voice as you snapped at her interruption.

It was bad enough you felt like a fucking stalker showing up like this, but what the hell were you supposed to do?

Wait outside the building like a creep for him to get off?

"I wasn't aware he had a partner," His assistant cooly said, eyes flitting down to your stomach. Even if you were showing, you doubted she'd believe you.

A more rational part of you understood.

There probably wasn't a page in the employee handbook for what to do when someone shows up saying your boss knocked them up.

"Could you please just call and give him my name and save us both the time and trouble?" You forced a tight-lipped smile, nails digging into the inside of your palms as sweat pricked on the back of your neck.

All you wanted was to get this over with and get the hell home.

You doubted he'd even fucking want it, but you figured you'd do your due diligence so you could at least say you tried.

She sighed, reluctantly picking up the phone and tapping buttons with manicured nails.

"Hi sir," She greeted, frowning as she hesitated over how to inform him. "Someone's here to see you."

It was funny how fast her expression flickered at his response once she finally spit your name out.

And how quickly the door behind her swung open.

You wanted to blame it on the baby hormones when your first thought was Sukuna looked cute.

Brows scrunched together, his usually intimidating squint traded in for something well, stunned, pink lips pushed together as he readjusted the collar of his button-up.

"Come in," He practically barked, his voice scratchy as the door creaked open wider.

You swallowed hard, shrugging your purse up higher on your shoulder and walking around his assistant's desk to follow him inside, feeling his stare studying you the entire time. He shut the door behind you with a soft thud, one of his palms pressing against the small of your back once you were close enough.

"Have you ate already?" He asked, a little awkward if anything. "I could order lunch."

This wasn't a bar or his bed. No drinks in his system and nothing to hide behind.

"I don't plan on staying that long," You muttered, glancing around his rather pristine office. His nearly kept desk and the diploma on the wall, no framed photos or personal touches scattered around.

"Yeah?"

If you weren't completely delusional, he sounded disappointed.

You couldn't tell him that if you ate, you'd probably just throw it back up.

"You changed your number," You said, smoothing out the ends of your dress. Uncomfortable was an understatement. Where to stand, what to say, none of it came naturally.

"Didn't think you still had it," He replied, amusement taking over when his hand drifted around to your side. An arm wrapped around your back to lead you to his side of the desk, and you couldn't help but wonder if he'd pull you in his lap or try to bend you over it.

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Figured your boyfriend made you delete it," He scowled, his frown returning as he sat in his chair, trying to tug you on top of him. "How's he doing?"

"I wouldn't know," You shrugged, keeping your feet planted in place. "Haven't spoken to him."

His expression shifted to confused, his shirt pulled tight across his broad shoulders when he let go of you to fold his arms over his chest.

"I heard you got back together," He clenched his jaw when he spoke, irritation bleeding through his voice.

"From who?" A laugh slipped out.

As if Gojo's pride would be able to handle the fact you fucked his rival less than a few hours post-breakup if he actually found out. As if he'd be happy to play stepdad to the offspring of it either.

"Him."

"And you believed him?" You giggled.

There were plenty of words you'd pick to describe Sukuna. You never would've guessed gullible would be one of them.

Sukuna's face went slack, his palm going to cover his mouth before he buried his face in his hands to hide his embarrassment.

"God," He hissed. "Fuckin' moron."

You couldn't decide if he was referring to himself or Gojo.

"Uh-huh," You stifled another laugh, looking around his office one more time before you felt your stomach flip, a sharp wave of nausea striking you as you forced yourself to swallow the spit pooling in the back of your mouth.

Reminding you why you were really here.

"Look-"

"So you're single?" Sukuna started talking again at the same time, and you could practically feel the atoms hanging in the air between you buzzing.

Tension pulling you in, a hand sneaking it's way up your thigh underneath your skirt. Your breath hitched. Your body wanted to just melt, to give in and sit down and just sleep at the first hint of safety.

But Sukuna wasn't your boyfriend or even your friend anymore, just a stranger whose condom broke while he was buried inside you.

"I mean, yeah," You nodded, not sure how exactly to break the news that you felt like you were bursting with. The ultrasound was sitting heavy in your purse, the proof of a baby he probably wouldn't even want.

The phone rang on his desk.

He let it get to the third ring before he even glanced at it, his eyes narrowing before they shot back up to your face. You recognized the look, the one he used to have when he'd chew on the ends of his pens when he was solving a problem.

"Shit."

He sighed, one of those big ones where he forced all the air out of his chest before he begrudgingly let go of you and answered the phone.

"Yes?" He gritted his teeth, obviously disgruntled at the interruption as he grinded his back molars together. Whatever he heard irritated him more, nodding to himself before he reluctantly opened his mouth to speak again. "Fine. I'll be there."

The clatter of plastic hitting plastic echoed in the empty office as he hung it back up, the coiled cord tangling together in his hurry. You just watched him gather the stuff on his desk, studying his long fingers and flexing tendons on the back of his hands.

"Listen, I have to attend this stupid meeting, but it won't take long. Stay here, or if you have to go, my assistant can give you my new number," Sukuna was already picking up his laptop, tucking it under his arm and starting towards the door, only stopping to squeeze your wrist like he was tempted to take you with him.

His intense eyes flickering away, sucking in a harsh breath. Your chest hurt. Ached with the anticipation that the second you spilled the secret all the softness in his face would harden again.

"Actually, I'll come over ton-"

"I'm pregnant."

reblogs/comments are super appreciated <3 ily guys

mini a/n: check out this amazing fanart for the prequel part of this here eeeek !!

tags: @getosugurued @evieluvsjamie @nylve @theaterrat @msheds0519 @emochosoluvr @evieisbetter @chckn-pi @kissprincess @smolasianwinterbean @distractionforyourthoughts @uselessbitch8008 @dreamingoftomorrow @rie-star @baepsays @starmapz @mrswanggae @howmanytimesamigoingtotrythis @patheticgirl127 @psoycy @disappointedpeaches @haneybunny @selleshine @wallsfu @villainsevilandhot @killerrxger @sadrna @catladythoughts @stefbroo @kvzcs @seizecherry @lahiswah5 @alexiusva @blueyesuguru @lashaemorow @inthedarkshadows000 @chsuguru

[neovillains]

finding equilibrium ── a series.

FEATURING CHAT NOIR!GOJO & STUDENT!READER.

syn. under a disguise, it’s easy for gojo to portray the confidence of a superhero. after all, he has to gain the trust of civilians. but when it comes to his ordinary life, he’s still trying to find his equilibrium of the ordinary vs. extraordinary.

── fem-bodied!reader, college!au, miraculous ladybug!au, fluff, angst, eventual smut | each chapter will include its own individual warning.

note. new chapters will posted once a week. however, there will be a small intermission between seasons! nonetheless, expect consecutive updates every saturday at twelve pm est.

SEASON ONE : EPISODES 1-5.

PLAY EP. 1: PILOT.

PLAY EP. 2: GIVE ME A MEOWTINI.

PLAY EP. 3: THE TIME OF HIS (9) LIVES.

PLAY EP. 4: PURRFECT TIMING?

PLAY EP. 5: CRYING ANGEL.

SEASON TWO : EPISODES 6-10.

PLAY EP. 6: ──

PLAY EP. 7: ──

PLAY EP. 8: ──

PLAY EP. 9: ──

PLAY EP. 10: ──

PLAY SEASON THREE : EPISODE 11-15.

PLAY EP. 11: ──

PLAY EP. 12: ──

PLAY EP. 13: ──

PLAY EP. 14: ──

PLAY EP. 15: ──

vip access ── thank you for your interest in the series. for better services & to receive notifications for chapters, please subscribe to the series !

film credits ── thank you so much, @chrollogy, for providing the netflix template.

alternative readings ── you can also read the series through archive of our own.

[madamechrissy]

Took you Like a Shot

Pairings- Rich Frat/fuckboi Toru x Preppy Sorority reader

Summary- One VERY drunk encounter between your greatest rival ever - on your last day of college- leads to you being knocked up. Satoru Gojo, a fuckboy, fratboy, rich little jerk, has been a rival of yours since you all met in College, every damn grade you fought for he got with ease. He crashed every Sorority party you threw. The two of you are so infamous in your rivalry, your friend groups were rivals, and for some reason, life is playing some damn joke on you both. Now... you have to tell him the news - but how Satoru takes it surprises you. Can you both raise a baby together!? And do you even really know each other?

Contents/Warnings- gonna be flashbacks to the rivalry/that night, nerdjo but make him a fratboy, enemies to kind of begrudging partners, but then as the pregnancy progresses, they fall in love hehe (gojo is an idiot) - fluffy and smutty, MDNI -will have explicit sex etc- 4 parts (I THINK) in this chap- flashbacks of explicit sex with dirty talk, weed smoking (Satoru and his boys aha) mentions of sex, lots of humor, enemies to loversss- WC- this chap- 8k- art in the banner by Yuana on X

Playlist (so far)- Comments and reblogs so appreciated if you enjoyy <3

Chapter One

It had been an absolutely filthy night, that led to your doctor coming in and informing you three months later-

'You're pregnant'

You came in for a normal checkup, you're on the pill and you have no sex life, aside from one encounter almost three months ago. A filthy, questionable ass encounter with what so happened to be your former 'bully' - rich boy, frat boy, pretty boy, pretentious boy- Satoru Gojo.

For years, the two of you were rivals, not just academic either, since you were both top of your class all through college, but at everything. He'd hold your notebooks high and laugh at you, he'd try to ruin and crash every sorority event he could. Known as the Queen and King of the campus, you ran the rivaling Sorority to his Fraternity. The amount of times you all had gone toe to toe was literally notorious, even your best friends hated each other on your behalf, starting an entire war between you all.

You have no clue how it happened, still, how the two of you had the best sex of your life at that damn party, fueled by drinks but also something you'd never admit- you've always wondered. Hearing those stories about his... skills, seeing his perfect body and the way his pretty lips smirked so cruelly in your direction, even after all these years- how it all led to this moment.

'Hah, sweets, ya finally admit I'm good at something?' Satoru had murmured in your ear, while he'd had you bent right over some bed at some party- both of you were seniors in college on your last and final party, finally you thought you'd be rid of him, of this ass of a man. He was going to live the rich life, working for his family, and you were moving on to a whole different career.

'One t-thing... that's it...' You had cried out when his cock had shoved in so deep, making you cum all over him, his fingers gripping your hips while he'd pumped deeper and deeper, impossibly until he'd been right on your cervix. 'F-fuck!'

'Fuck... you had a pussy like this and we've been fighting!?' Satoru is whispering, resting his snowy locks against your neck, biting it with sharp teeth as you milk his cock. 'So greedy, huh?'

'S-shut up, mnh- just... keep... there, there shit!' Satoru had slammed right against your cervix, feeling you pulsing around him, it had been too good, too tight, too fucking wet, he'd paused then, looking at your arched ass, your skirt shoved over your hips. 'Keep g-going, please...'

'M'gonna cum, tho-she's too tight- shit can I?' 

Your drunk ass had said- sure. You're precise on that pill, every day your alarm goes off in the morning, you take it. How could...

"Pregnant!?" You repeat. Unbelievable. No fucking way. You...

"Yes sweetie I suggest prenatal and an ultrasound, hmm?" The nurse says so sweetly, as you feel sick to your stomach, which your hand goes down to touch.

Pregnant. With rich, notorious fuckboy Satoru Gojo’s baby- now you would have to tell him!?

Shit.

You take the results in a shaky hand, mind swirling as the doctor goes on and on, some crazy distant humming in your head, there’s no way, it can’t be. You’re literally starting your journalism career, thinking you’d maybe gained a few pounds from stress and ramen, the interning was absolutely brutal, you’re never regular on your periods, hence the birth control in the first place.

Running coffees here and there, grabbing this and that for everyone above you, but you were now officially hired, and you were making good money for once, finally able to pay down some of your pesky student loans and get a nice car. You worked hard for it, for everything, despite many thinking leading a sorority meant you came from money, you were a scholarship girl.

That’s a huge reason you and Satoru always clashed, born with a silver spoon in his mouth, easily acing every test that you busted your ass for, things came easy to him, you worked for it. Achieving the highest you could in your graduating class, the little shit that came to school hungover grinned right next to you, like a goddamn plague, and you hoped that finally he was gone for good.

What bonded two people like you now?

Well…

“Do you need to go over your options, hunny?” One of the nurses says, touching your shoulder with a gentle smile, you shake your head then, clearing your throat.

“I just need to… think.”

You’re pacing back and forth in your apartment, feet padding gently along the hardwood floor, cell phone in your hand, staring at the phone number that just got sent to you by Shoko. She was Satoru’s friend and yours, which was rare given the ongoing student warfare zone you all created. You’d texted her a simple- hey do you have Gojo’s number- not going into details.

How do you even tell him?

What do you say!?

You psych yourself up, finally dialing it, when he picks up the phone after the second ring, murmuring - “Hello.” God, even him answering what he assumes is a stranger is snarky.

“Um, hey.” Gojo pauses at the sound of your voice, faltering just for a moment, as his friends bounce a basketball around a court outside, he sits down on the bench, vivid images filling his head. “It’s-”

“Think I don’t know your annoying voice by heart, sweetheart?” You roll your eyes, sighing and plopping down on your couch.

“Yeah, well… I got your number from Shoko.”

“Need a second round? Should have guessed.” He’s gesturing to Suguru and Sukuna, who roll their eyes at him, and he puts his voice down an octave. “I could be convinced.”

“Jesus christ, Gojo.” You almost hang up, feeling your tummy tighten then, almost nauseous, realizing you had to talk to him. “Are you, I don’t know, um… free for lunch or anything?” You despise the words falling from your lips.

“Asking me on a date, huh? So bold, I like it.” Satoru winks now at his friend’s shocked expressions, muting for a moment, telling them it was you.

“No fucking way.” Sukuna says, Suguru snorts in laughter and Satoru just grins, unmuting you again.

“I guess I could be convinced.” He purrs out those words, chuckling. “Hmm, we could go to that nice place on Hollywood ave hmm? Perfect Sushi.”

Your tummy growls, but then you frown, remembering that Sushi is on your damn list not to eat, you curse internally, peering at this list of everything you should never do or consume, and it specifically says raw fish right there. “Do they have cooked Sushi there?”

“Pshh, you’re such a prissy ass, can’t eat raw huh? Didn’t mind it raw from what I remember.” You hate this man.

“You know what never-”

“Shit, I was just kidding.” He panics, thinking you hung up, hearing your irritated sigh then. “Yeah I think they do. Why do you even wanna hang out, ya wanna nag me in person?” He spins his basketball effortlessly on his finger, acting all calm, as if he wasn’t dying to be buried in your perfect pussy again. “Miss being bitchy to me so bad?”

God he wanted to have you on his face, have you sucking him, he wanted for so much more than you all got to do, drunken fingers and your muted cries as he’d had a big hand tight over your mouth. His cock twitches under his basketball shorts just remembering how slick and hot you were, god how you fucking felt gripping him so damn tight.

Satoru had felt you pulsing around him as he reached his arm around you, pressing his fingertips to your clit in circles, as you’re crying out against his palm, practically drooling against him. ‘There you go, cumming so easy f’me huh?’ he taunts, as his own eyes roll back, feeling your pussy drool against his hand.

‘Mnh!’ was all you managed to murmur against his hand, as he feels your gummy walls spasm around his cock, his blue eyes roll back at how perfect you feel, how long he’s dreamed of this.

‘F-finally got you to shut up, hmm?’ He taunts you, normally you’d have something smart to say, but not as he’s overstimulating your little clit, pulling it away as you damn near collapse on the mattress, your thighs shaking, he wants to kiss you so bad, but you’re burying your face, arching your ass.

‘F-fuck you, Gojo- ah!’

The memories are so vivid Satoru can barely calm his thoughts, hearing you say his name in that irritated little voice, the one that drove him insane from day fucking one, the moment he’d met you. Prissy little thing with so much to prove, he thinks you still feel that way, which the biggest secret Satoru had for you had almost spilled on that last drunken night, the night he was inside you was…

He's always wanted you, not that he'd ever admit that however.

Ever.

“Is like three okay?” You're interrupting his thoughts now, as he clears his throat.

“Three rounds?”

You’re scowling at the phone as you question your life’s choices at this very moment. “Three o'clock, my god, for lunch.”

“Sounds good, it gives us time later, to… you know.” You glare at the phone, unbelievable, he’s ridiculous! 

“Time for what?” Satoru chuckles at your high pitched question.

“Don't be shy, sweets, no need to pretend. I remember it all in vivid detail, every little bit.” Your cheeks heat up, hand clutching the phone tightly, trying to calm yourself and focus.

“Just lunch, that’s all I’m asking you for. Sounds good?”

“Want me to pick you up in my-”

“No, I'll meet you. Okay um…. Bye.” You hang up, breath coming quickly, you couldn't just tell him on the damn phone, this needed to be in person.

The thought of his pretty yet annoying ass presence damn near makes your head spin… would he think it's all a joke? Some scam to get with him or get money?

You're fucking terrified, standing and staring in the mirror, rubbing your tummy and frowning as you do. A damn baby… Likely raising it alone, knowing Satoru all these years, partying, insane and so immature. Even on the phone, he’s so damn cocky and self sure, that this must absolutely be what you want, to have him, as if you are over here pining away.

The sex was amazing to put it lightly, and sure if he was a decent guy, and not a fucking ass of a man, you’d have done it again, but the walk of shame that morning had been the most embarrassing day of your life. His little smirk after you woke up, plump lips too damn glossy for his own good, yawning and stretching half naked, cock already hard as he’d tapped his lap.

‘Another round, sweets? Come to daddy.’

You scoff even at the memory, at the audacity of fuckboi Satoru Gojo, you had run out so quickly he hadn’t had a moment to speak, and you swore to yourself never, ever again. Who cared if his cock was so big it hit places you didn’t know existed, and who cared if you’ve never felt that way, fuck you wish he actually wasn’t as good at it as he was.

Perfect at everything, infuriatingly, even fucking.

You get a text from the guy you were currently at least flirting with a bit here and there, the one you suggested going on a date, and then it all starts to hit, you’re pregnant and quite likely going to be some single mom. You couldn’t just go on dates, everything is completely different, maybe forever truly.

“Twenty Two year old single mom.” You grumble, sighing a bit as you text him you’re busy.

Busy.

*****

Satoru waits nervously at the restaurant, he doesn’t really do dates, he usually spends his time in the bedroom with a girl then runs right off. Shit, he’s never even gone without a condom before you, but when you’d said hurry up and put it in, who the fuck was he to tell you no? Not only had it felt superb, he never wanted to leave that perfect pussy.

Of course you would have the most perfect pussy.

You had to be the best at everything, all the time, didn’t you? Always competing for that top spot, but Satoru always just barely got past you, that .01% of that GPA, winning every contest over you always by just a tiny bit. From the moment you glared up at him and crossed your arms, he knew it, he had to do everything he could to win against your cute little ass.

Here’s the thing… Satoru never hated you, but he loves to say he does, you both say you do, or… well, said. Considering you slept with him and didn’t say a single word after, it’s not like he’s hard to find, but each of you actively refused to add each other on socials, though Satoru will admit he stalks your IG, you’re too fucking pretty not to do so, not that he’d ever like a post.

Once he accidentally did, god he wanted to be like those pathetic simps in your comments, but he’s not that, he’s Satoru Gojo. Women come to him, women come easy too, you of course were never one to come near him in that way, no you’d look at him getting smacked in the face on campus with a grin, vowing to your friends that you’d never be one of his conquests.

That night, though, it was like he lost himself, the most stupid, corny shit Satoru could think of, that last night of his freedom before being forced to take over his family’s business. You and everyone probably thought he wanted to, but of course he fucking didn’t, he didn’t want a part of the Gojo corporation in any way, shape or form.

Satoru felt lost, honestly.

Self sure, confident, conceited clearly, talking far too much shit and laughing, picking on you every chance he got, showing up to all your sorority parties in various stages of undress to lure your friends to him. He’ll never forget him, Sukuna and Suguru crashing your ABC party, wearing nothing but cut open beer boxes, and you so happened to have some white claw box made bikini.

God you’d been sexy, but when he stole all the attention? Oh he’s never seen you more mad.

Well no, he has.

Gojo loved to make you mad, because you’re so damn cute when your nose scrunches up, when your pretty eyes narrow, there was nothing like your huffs as you would cross your arms and shift your hips just so. And if there was anything Gojo was absolutely perfect at, amongst well damn near everything, it was making you absolutely furious.

Finally Satoru sees you, dressed in this pretty blue summer dress that juts out just a bit at the waist, making his heart race for just a moment at how pretty you are. It’s not like he forgot… but god. Are your tits bigger he wonders, or is he just obsessed with them, as always, looking too hard. Your cheeks are this beautiful color, your eyes so bright, like… some damn glow about you.

How corny is he lately.

He puts on a smirk as he leans back, waving with his fingers to gesture you over, and you look at him so damn seriously, sitting across from him, hands entwined together in front of you on the table for a moment, as you eye him carefully. “Gojo, um… how are you?’

Who the fuck is this girl in your body!?

You don’t nervously ask shit, you tell Gojo to fuck off, you glare or scowl while he smirks, what’s this… shy ass shit? He frowns a bit now, you exhale and slide off your purse, letting it sit on the seat next to you, he can’t stop staring at your lips, clearly bitten to fucking hell.

He tries to feign that he’s fine, that he hasn’t missed you, but it couldn’t be further from the truth. He missed your daily arguments on campus, he missed you being a total brat. He misses your scent, god that vanilla sugar body spray was haunting his very dream.

He acts as if he hadn’t died to hit you up, but he stopped himself. He couldn’t go that far, not with you, not with what you did to him, how you’ve damn near destroyed any game for himself any longer. That one night with you had sunk into him so deeply, he wishes it was just good pussy, and not whatever this was.

He’s jerked it off to you every fucking night since, to the point is damn dick doesn’t even work, he sure also wouldn’t admit that he can’t even fuck a girl because you were so good. Some evil witch that did something, it must be, he has at this point just given up trying, until whatever curse you gave him falls the fuck off.

But god you look good in front of him.

He should tell you, but instead he swipes a hand through his silky white locks and smirks right at you. “Missed me so badly, sweets?”

You roll your pretty eyes as the menu comes, smiling and thanking the hostess, a smile reserved for anyone in the world but him, even when he’d had you cumming all over him, you weren’t smiling. No, but you were drooling then.

‘Ah, look at you, so fuckin pathetic f’me, huh? Thought you hated me, sorority brat’ Satoru had huffed, as he’d fingered your cunt, curling inside of your slick walls, watching your pretty fucked out face. ‘Just from fingers?’

‘I do h-hate you- mnh!’ Your sparkly manicured nails dug into his broad shoulders as your tight walls convulsed around him, as he hit that spot that no man had ever found in a moment.

Perfect at everything, stupid Satoru.

‘Feel her, god she’s so desperate, huh?’

“Fuck you I- there, shit!’ you’d rolled your hips, grinding right on his hand, pussy drooling as you came from his fingers before he’d even put his cock inside you, and Satoru’s cock was leaking against his boxers, twitching as he pictures how perfect you’d felt around him. ‘Fuck you for being so g-good at that!’

‘Oh, I’ll fuck you, sweetheart.’ He’d turned you then, whispering a ‘bend over, just like that, gonna be a big stretch, hmm?’

Satoru struggles to calm his memory, focusing on that sexy mouth of yours moving, realizing words are coming out of them, blinking to focus.

“How are you doing, Gojo?” You ask softly, always Gojo, you never called him Satoru, and he always called you sweets, short stuff, your last name, also never your first.

But he wanted to call you a lot of things, one of them being-

Stop that Satoru.

“I’m doing great, of course, miss me so much?” He teases, winking at you and sipping on the sickeningly sweet Shirley temple he’d had them buy, you just grab a water, hand flitting to your tummy for a moment. “You’re not sick are you?”

“No, not sick just… yeah we needed to talk. Is that okay?”

Satoru leans forward, raising a thin white brow. “You seem weird, everything okay?”

“Well… shit. I guess I’ll just say this. Um…” You tuck your hair behind your ear, looking out the window at the bustling city for a moment, before looking back at him. “Remember that night?”

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to do all this to have a repeat.” His hand comes to your thigh, and that’s when you curse this pregnancy, because your nipples tighten, your cunt gets hot and wet from that.

Fuck hormones.

You take a breath, glaring as you always do at Satoru, the only time you never had was when he’s had your face with a slutty O for your mouth, your eyes rolled back, nails gripping those sheets. You shove his hand off, hoping he couldn’t feel your heat that quickly, as your body responds stupidly in a damn sushi restaurant.

“It’s not that, it’s important. Can you ever be serious in your life!?” You say quietly, and it’s his turn to glare, taking his hand back, sipping his drink again.

“Well just spit it out. What is all this, then?”

“It’s… I… You…” Shit, if ever you needed a drink it was now, and you damn sure wouldn’t have one for a good six months or more.

“It’s… I…. You…” He mocks, and you stand then, so furious your heart is racing, snatching up your purse.

“Never mind, I should have known you’re-”

“Shit, just sit. Sorry. Okay?” He grips your delicate wrist in his big hand, and even that is wrecking you, against your better judgement and everything you feel. “I’m sorry, it seems… serious. Just sit down and spit it out.”

You sit back down now, shifting as you both make your orders, a thankful distraction. As the waitress leaves, you sigh. “I don’t want anything from you, first off, so don’t think that.”

“What?” He blinks in confusion.

“I don’t need help, I can do it myself.”

“Do what!?”

“But you have to know… it’s the right thing to do, to tell you.” You look up at the ceiling, gathering your thoughts.

“Is this… are you in love with me, because of how good it was? Shit, that’s okay baby, everyone-”

“I’m pregnant.”

“What!?” You just sit there, seriously staring, as he blinks, looking at fuller breasts, your damn glow, thinking of every dumb thing he’s heard. “You’re… by who?” He whispers, and you flush then, shifting in your seat, sipping more of your water, condensation cool on your hot palm, your skin is burning, heart is racing.

“I was on the pill, religiously, I swear, I never missed one. Shit, until I found out I never missed… I… never would have done it like we did if I knew.” You feel sick as he gapes at you, his pretty blue eyes bulging out damn near, his mouth dropped open. “I expect no help, no involvement, we’re young. I just-”

“This a joke, right?” You take another breath, hand gripping the glass, eyeing those around you all, engulfed in conversations.

“It’s not a joke.” He’s laughing now, smacking his thigh, and your jaw tenses as he does.

“It’s you and your damn friends, someone recording!? Hah-”

“It’s not a joke.” You clear your throat now, leaning in your purse and pulling out the papers, with your name, the results, watching his expression shift, brows drawing low, his jaw tense. “It’s only been you, no one else for an entire year.”

“A whole year?” He eyes you again, and you flush under his gaze, as his hands shake, hands you’ve never seen shake, hands that dribble basketballs, that tossed footballs, all with ease.

Hands that…

Fuck, don’t think of it.

“I’m not… I was too busy.” Besting Gojo, competing with Gojo, you had no time for shit with him, your anger at him shone so brightly it was hard to think about men. “As I said, you don’t need to pay for anything, this isn’t that conversation, this is just me letting you know. I’m keeping it.”

Satoru continues to blink at you, staring open mouthed, at your face, then your body, then back to your face, over and over, while the waitress brings out the food, smiling curiously at the two of you. Satoru doesn’t make a move to touch his food, running his hand through his now messy white locks again, as his mind spins.

“I know you’re wealthy, I don’t want you thinking I want some piece of it. I’ll take care of them alone, please don’t worry.” You touch your tummy, the motion making Satoru fucking feral in some way he can’t put together, just continuing to stare at you in utter shock as the sushi sits in front of the two of you. “I can leave, now, we don’t have to do this.”

“Do what?” He murmurs finally, voice hoarse.

“Act like we are civil, act like we’re anything but college enemies, fucking rivals, not even friends. God I know you hate me, I know this was a mistake.”

“A mistake?” He whispers.

“Yes, for both of us. You don’t deserve your life uprooted, sure I can’t stand you, but this is my fuck up. I said those words…”

‘Cum in me, f-fucking cum in me, mnh…’ you’d arched your back, as his long fingers wrapped your throat, god he’d never felt anything like you.

‘Want me to fill your pussy s’good, huh lil brat?’ you just whine, muscles clenching on his cock, and he’d groaned in your ear then, shoving deep inside your drooly cunt. ‘Beg for it, then’

Oh, you had.

You hated him for it.

“It’s my fault, so don’t worry. But I wanted to be transparent, but I am… indeed, pregnant.”

“Pregnant, like, with a baby?” Satoru whispers, and You giggle then, for the first time since you found out, covering your mouth just a bit as he just stares.

“Yeah, a baby.”

“Mine…” His words send something through the both of you.

“Yours, but only if you want to be involved. I know it was a hate fuck, we’re young, we have lives-”

“You got a… like that scan shit set up?”

“Ultrasound?” He nods, nervously, hands clenching the table so hard you see the veins popping up through his thin skin. “I do, next week. I mean it is a couple months already, so I will see something, not like… the sex but…”

“Can I go?”

You blink in shock now. “You want to?”

“Yeah. I mean… why wouldn’t I?” He rubs the back of his neck, as the life he thought, the mundane one of following his damn family, of being a pawn in a bigger scheme, everything flashes.

It changes.

He’s scared shitless, but…

“I want to be involved. If you want me to be.” You blink back tears, but you fail, and if it’s one thing, Satoru Gojo has never seen his preppy ass Sorority rival cry, not fucking once.

He falters as those tears run down your cheeks, he leans over, hesitantly, the only physical contact aside from that fateful night was him shoving at you teasingly, or you smacking at him. Shit you all hadn’t hugged, you never even kissed aside from that night, sloppy and messy. But he doesn’t stop, until his thumb brushes your cheek, and you gasp.

“Shit I’m crying. Stupid hormones.” You huff now, swiping at your own eyes with shaky little hands. “You really wanna go?”

“Yeah if it’s cool?”

Satoru’s shocking you, the world tilts on its axis, like you’re having some insane dream. This can’t be real, can it? It’s fuckboi, frat boy Gojo, the man who goes through girls like they’re candy, the man who takes nothing serious, who has the world handed to him.

“Gojo, if you want to go of course you can, to any and all appointments, but you’re under no obligation, and please know I can cover the costs.”

“I know you’d never take my money, shit even if I offered, stubborn ass little brat that you are.” You manage a breathless giggle, the second one, realizing he is still brushing that thumb against your cheek, before he clears his throat. “So, tell me what day, I'll be there.”

“Yeah, are you sure? It will make it so… real, you know?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Now eat your cooked sushi, aren’t you like eating for two or some shit?”

You take your chopsticks with a shaky hand, exhaling. “I was reading, I think they are like the size of a pea maybe. But, this is yummy looking.”

“Gonna be a huge ass baby, shit.”

“Oh god!” You eye his lanky body, and he’s grinning, Satoru is grinning!? Shocking you further.

Maybe you don’t know him like you think?

“Tits are gonna get so big.”

Never mind.

*****

“An ultrasound!? A baby? Fuck…” Suguru Geto inhales the blunt, sucking the smoke into his lungs as Satoru nervously paces Sukuna and Suguru’s apartment, Satoru chose to live in his own place, closer to work. But he frequently gets shitfaced and crashes out at their place.

“Sounds fucking insane, shit.” Sukuna chuckles, as he’s hitting a bong, inhaling and exhaling, broad shoulders shaking as he coughs. “You look like you could use a hit or something.

“Before the ultrasound? Shit I need more than weed. I’m freaking the fuck out right now.”

“Imagine you as a dad though hah!” Sukuna smacks his thigh, as Satoru glares now, stopping his pacing while the music plays, the same music Satoru remembers doing keg stands and playing beer pong in togas to, only to now have the possibility of being responsible for a whole human being.

“Can’t even keep a plant alive, shit.” Suguru says in between laughs, and Satoru raises a white brow at the two of them on the couch.

“You two are so supportive.”

“Well shit, she said you don’t have to be involved, you can always just like… send money and shit? Do you really want a whole kid?” Sukuna asks, and Satoru takes a breath, pacing once more as he runs hands through disheveled hair over and over.

“Do I want a whole kid, no, I never even… I mean I figured eventually, as the Gojo heir, blah blah blah.” Satoru slumps in a nearby recliner, as Suguru hands him the blunt, frowning a bit now.

“You do need a hit. You’re young, it’s not time to give your family fuckin’ heirs yet, is it?”

“They’d probably be delighted.” Satoru rolls those cerulean eyes, inhaling the smoke into his lungs and leaning back, staring up at the ceiling, as the black fans above them swirl, moving the puffy clouds of smoke all around. His nostrils fill with the scent of the Sativa, wishing he could make sense of his thoughts. “Not delighted that it’s out of wedlock and unplanned.”

“Imagine her marrying you.” Sukuna and Suguru laugh loudly again, as Satoru hits the blunt again, not passing it.

“The fucks that mean?”

“She hates you. God I think more than anyone.” Suguru says, and Satoru smirks just a bit.

“She sure didn’t hate this dick.”

“Oh!” He’s slapping hands with his friends as Sukuna and Suguru start to make the most obscene gestures, while you call, and he shushes them quickly, trying to compose himself.

“Hello?”

“Gojo, hey. Um, ultrasound is in an hour, I’m heading out soon if you want to meet up?”

“Why don’t I have my driver pick you up?” He asks, and Suguru and Sukuna continue the gestures, making Satoru snort in laughter, the weed starting to enter his bloodstream.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I just thought it would be more convenient in this traffic.” He shoots a wink at his friends.

“I mean… sure?” Satoru mouths yes, pumping his fist, clearing his throat now.

“It’ll be easier this way, alright send me your addy I’ll head out.”

“All right.” You just hang up, such a rude little thing. Satoru has changed your name to Sorority Brat in his phone for a good reason.

“What are you gonna do though, man?” Suguru murmurs thoughtfully, his dark violet eyes narrowed, clearly blitzed. “Gonna like… be with her?”

“Could cum in her whenever now.” Sukuna bursts out in laughter as Satoru glares at the two of them.

“Grow up…” They blink at him, then Satoru grins wide. “Nah, that would be a perk, because her pussy my god.”

They both scooch up, elbows on their thighs, avidly staring at Satoru now. “Details, man, it’s like the one girl you never told us about?” Sukuna asks.

“Because you’re in love.”

“Pshh, in love!?”

“Haven’t seen you with anyone since.” Suguru earns Satoru’s middle finger, as he puts out the blunt, stretching and earning their pouts.

“Bet she’s so good, though, all angry and shit, bet she’s a freak.” Satoru doesn’t even know if you’re a freak necessarily, but as Suguru agrees, he glares at them both, crossing his arms.

“This has been the worst pep talk in fucking history.”

“Shit, what’s your decision?” Suguru asks, and Satoru’s mind races, peeking at his watch now.

“I think I’ll make it when I like… see it?”

“Alright big Daddy, then if you decide to be involved we’ll be like… their uncles and shit.” Suguru says, and Satoru grimaces.

“God no, you’ll ruin my kid.”

“Fuck off now.” Sukuna starts hitting his blunt again, Satoru walks out away from them and spritzes cologne all along himself, he knows your prissy self never smoked weed, no you were a little goodie goodie. He thinks the only time he saw you drink was a little at parties, but never like that last night.

He remembers just looking at you asleep when he’d woken up, and the tenderness he felt when he had brushed your hair off your pretty face, and you’d stirred a bit. For a moment he felt his heart hammer in his chest, stone cold sober, seeing the bite marks he’d left on your delicate skin, feeling affection like he couldn’t describe, Satoru never felt that way.

He didn’t cuddle, he didn’t linger.

He ran out before they could wake up, he ran out like you did to him, perhaps he was a little nicer about it, though, you’d given no fucks when you darted out the damn door in a hurry. He had acted cocky though, full on hard just by the damn thought of your slick sticking to his cock, but instead of perhaps kissing you, he’d patted his lap and been a little shit.

He hated the recognition on your face, like he’d been a mistake, so he decided to shove you out of his brain, though he clearly failed.

Jogging down the stairs, he has his driver sent in your direction, and you get the text he’s there, stepping out in front of your little house, cute Satoru thinks, it’s small but it’s immaculate from the exterior. You have pink flowers and succulents all over the front of it when he steps out, eyeing your pretty dress, nerves starting to eat at him, but he puts on an easy smile.

“Ready to go see this little parasyte?’

“A what!?”

“Technically, it sort of is. Right, you’re like its host.” Your mouth is wide open, as you touch your tummy, and he curses. “Shit…”

“A parasyte, you’re calling our… I mean I guess my… the baby a-”

“I’m sure it’s a cute parasyte? It has a pretty host.” Satoru tries to put on the charm, the smolder, as you stare at him in shock.

Was it shocking, this was Gojo.

“Dear God.”

How’d you end up pregnant with this idiot’s baby?!

You slide into the car as you shake your head, and he covers his face, grimacing as he realizes he just told his… god what even were you, a baby mama!? That his baby was a… parasyte. Well, it is, and Satoru would typically just argue with you and let you know he’s correct and you’re wrong, but he keeps quiet, feeling you seething.

“Fire signs.” He mumbles, you look at him again.

“What?”

“You’re a fire sign, it’s why you’re so feisty. I am too, you know.” You relax just a bit, curiously.

“You believe in astrology?” You ask in shock, for as long as you’ve known Satoru Gojo, the two of you don’t really know each other.

“Baby I’m the most Saggitarius man there is.” You giggle again, fuck that’s three giggles Satgoru has counted, and how it lights up your already glowing makes him ache for you, suddenly realizing one of his long legs is brushing against you. Your warmth alone makes him throb, the vanilla sugar filling the space in the car.

“You certainly are the epitome of a Saggitarius. Don’t call me feisty, yuck.” You shove at him playfully almost, pausing a bit when you realize his body feels far too good against yours.

You may or may not have masturbated last night, and he may or may not have popped in your head, over and over. But, don’t worry, because Satoru has spent months jerking his thick length to the thought of you, not that either of you would admit that it may or may not have happened.

“This baby would be a fire sign.” You murmur then, letting your hand fall, and nervously fidgeting, Gojo’s long limbs take over so much of the car, as big as it is, Gojo’s always taken over everything, even apparently your senses.

“Would it?” He asks quietly, for once just a little serious it seems.

“Yeah, an Aries if it comes when it should.”

“So it’ll be a brat like you.”

“Psh, like you.” You roll your eyes, and the two of you fall into a bit of a silence, so much unspoken between you. “Do you know if…”

“That’s why I want to see. Make it real?”

You actually nod in understanding, surprising him then. “I get it.”

The ultrasound tech is rolling the wand over cold gel soon, as you’re embarrassingly propped up with your feet in stirrups, and Satoru stands to the side, glaring at the man who’s inserting this wand in you. He gets angry that he’s getting such a view, he doesn’t even think he saw you that much.

What he remembers…

Your pussy is very pretty.

You wince a bit as the doctor smiles up at you. “Tight muscles, huh?”

Satoru snorts in laughter, and you glare. “What!?”

“You are so tight.”

“Gojo!” You glare, and even the doctor laughs, also earning your scowl, which makes them both sober up.

“Sorry, Miss. Alright… relax, would you?” How do you relax as a doctor is shoving a wand in your coochie and your enemy, who got you pregnant somehow, is turning red holding in his lewd thoughts!? “Look at the screen.”

You and Satoru both look over now, your breath catches then, as does his, when the doctor begins to tap keys on the keyboard, and you hear it for the first time, this little… heartbeat. It’s a heartbeat.

“There it is, congratulations you two. About… ten weeks?” You’re enamored as you stare at the screen, and he moves the wand inside you. “Look there, that’s the little baby.”

Baby.

A baby.

It’s all real.

Satoru’s completely silent as tears fill your eyes, a myriad of emotions, some that you’re so connected already to a little peanut inside you, some that you don’t know how you’ll do this, some of your life. How will it alter, how will it go, what will people think… and what does the man next to you think? What will he do!?

But overwhelmingly as you feel yourself begin to cry, and the screen turns off, you feel warmth spread, touching your tummy in wonder, there’s a damn baby in your body. Your baby. Something you never considered or thought of, you figured much, much later in life, not now.

And you’d likely be…

Alone in this.

“I’ll go get a picture printed for you two.” The doctor smiles kindly, as you’re left alone, with a for once silent Satoru Gojo.

You hesitate to look at him, a stunned expression on his face as you sit up, closing your legs and biting your lower lip, he finally looks at you and exhales, seeing your tear streaked cheeks. A girl he never knew to cry or giggle has done both, and a man you never thought to be serious or quiet… was.

“Satoru um…”

“Satoru?” He asks quietly, and you flush.

“Sorry…”

“No, I don’t mind, just… crazy. This is crazy. There’s a whole life inside you!? And we made it?” You sigh, nodding then, and he shocks you as he leans down, as you’re sitting in the bed, coming so close to you, eyes swirling storms of emotions.

“You can back out now, it’s okay. I won’t put this on you, keeping it is an insane idea but… it feels right to me?” He tilts your chin up, leaning closer, to where you can taste the sweetness of his breath, as your heart pounds right in your chest. “But if you’re backing out, do it now, it will hurt… fuck it will hurt more if you get too involved, okay? Do it now.”

“I’m not backing out of shit.” You gasp, and he exhales, wiping your tears away. “We both did this. I’ll not live in some world knowing my baby is raised with no help of mine in any way, fuck that.”

“But you-”

“I get it, we… aren’t… together. But in this I will be.”

“Satoru, I think I may have a cardiac arrest  before I get this baby out.” You sniffle and he smirks a bit.

“So unbelievable that I’d want to?”

“Yes. The Gojo I know…”

“You may not know me as well as you think. And maybe I don’t know you that much… aside from I agree about that tight-”

“I swear!” You shove at him, as he snorts in laughter, still a little shit, as they bring in two pictures, and Satoru takes one thoughtfully.

“That’s it, huh?” He tilts his head curiously. “Looks like me.”

“It looks like nothing yet, what?” You’re taking tissue and cleaning up a bit, as they give you privacy to pull back on your panties, but Satoru gives you no privacy, just looking. “You could turn?”

“Why, that’s one benefit you know.”

“What?”

“Could fuck any time, cum inside whenever.”

“Oh you wish.” You shove at his chest, and he’s grinning and wiggling his brows, grabbing your waist, pulling you against him.

“Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it.”

“Shut it.” Yes.

“Sex is good for pregnancy.”

“You’re so full of shit! I can’t with you. Rizzing me up at a gyno?”

“Perfect place, see that doctor, he wants a piece.”

“You’re so dumb, I swear.” You look at the picture then, thumb brushing against the baby’s… maybe it’s a face?

“Are we gonna live together?”

“I mean… what?” You eye him in shock.

“When the baby’s here.”

“No, we don’t have to do all that, we live close. Can you imagine us living together, we’d kill each other.” He envisions it, the fights surely but… the sex, and seeing you in the morning?

“Or fuck. Alot.”

“That’s how this happened.” You mumble, and soon you’re back home, and trying to ignore your body’s insane responses while he stands on your porch, looking far too fucking sexy. “Thank you for being there.”

“You thanking me? the world is ending.”

“Hush. I appreciate this, you standing by me. You don’t have to.”

“I… want to. Um, what will we say?”

You bite your lip more, until he gently takes it out from under your top row of teeth, brushing against the indentations. “We could say we’re together, if you don’t mind, dating I guess? My parents would trip if they knew it’s like…”

“Same. My parents would be happy for a Gojo heir though.” You hear it, the surprising resentment in his voice.

There’s a lot you don’t know.

“Well, I can act like I like you for them if you want.” You tease, and he leans against your doorway, so fucking tall, just looming over you, and you have to clench your hands not to give in to the temptation of touching him.

“Act like you like me- you?”

“I could! If you could act like you like me, in front of my family.”

“How will we explain the whole not living together thing?”

“It’s new, it’s 2025 Gojo, not 1810. We’ll be okay. You're so old school huh, gonna marry me?”

“You’d leave me at the altar.” You both laugh again, as he straightens up now. “Alright, so when should we tell them?”

“When you want to. So work on those acting skills. I’ll set up brunch with mine, you set up dinner with yours?”

“Sounds good. Alright don’t miss Daddy too much.” You snort and roll your eyes, turning away now.

“Daddy? Whatever.”

Satoru presses you against the door, wrapping an arm around your waist, pressing a hand gently on your tummy, splaying the expanse of it with long fingers, as your breath comes quicker and quicker. “Could swear you called me daddy when I beat up that pretty pussy hmm?”

You falter, whining softly, hating your body’s reaction, scowling right up at him, your hand on your doorknob, while this tall ass of a man makes your body light up. “Never called you daddy, no way.” Your voice is a pathetic whisper, why does he do this to you, you want to arch into his damn touch, press against his length, to the point you make yourself stiffen.

“Oh? Must have been the liquor.” He caresses your face, leaning so close you wildly think he’ll kiss you, and you know damn well you can’t handle that, not with your pussy soaking your damn panties just from this.

You hate Satoru Gojo, and he hates you.

This is… because you both are having a baby.

Right?

“It must have been.”

“Ah, I see. Good night, then sweetheart.” He leans his lips up, kissing the top of your head, a gesture so oddly sweet it doesn’t even fit him. “Text me the details, Sorority brat.”

“Sure will, Frat boy.” He sticks his tongue out as you do, walking in and leaning against the door, overwhelmed by the scent of his cologne, the feel of his hands, the memories that surfaced. You slide down it slowly, burying your face in your hands, as your body trembles with this insane need.

Shit. A baby with your enemy?

A baby with Frat Boy Gojo?

Faking that you like him, would it really be that fake?

Satoru’s leaning against it too, for just a moment, trying to compose himself… finally he’s in the back of the car again, as his driver looks  in the rearview mirror curiously, tired eyes focusing as Satoru looks at the picture again. The little peanut that’s apparently a…

A baby.

With his enemy.

An enemy he really wants to be inside again.

“Everything alright, Mr. Gojo?” Kiyotaka asks, Satoru runs a hand through his hair now, leaning back in his seat as he peers out the dark tinted windows.

“I’m having… a baby with a girl who hates me.”

“Why does she hate you?” Kiyotaka asks, driving off, as Satoru chuckles just a bit, remembering bits and pieces of college, out of order, out of sync.

“Because honestly, I was kind of a complete dick to her?”

“That’s… oddly self observant.”

“You saying I’m a dick to you?”

“No Mr. Gojo!”

“I’m kidding, relax.” Kiyotaka’s tense shoulders relax when Satoru leans forward, hand on his shoulder through the little divider that’s opened. “Do you know shit about kids at all?”

“I have nephews, they’re pretty good kids. But babies, not really.”

“I could ask my parents but they basically had nannies raise me.”

“Many nannies, I heard.”

“Well, I was a menace to be honest. Where do I learn about these… things?”

“Babies?”

“Mmhmm.”

“I think there are books?”

“Hmm.” Satoru pulls out his phone then.

Fratboy Gojo🙄(yes that’s his name in your phone now, no you’re not sorry): Should I order us baby books?

Sorority Brat💦😻(of course that’s your name in his phone): Yes, if you want to? That would be good. Thank you… for today.

Fratboy Gojo🙄: Two thank yous!? That baby is making you a mush.

Sorority Brat💦😻: Whatever!

Satoru snorts then, but when you’re in your bed later that night, nibbling on a bag of hot cheetos that have been screaming at you all day, how is that your first craving!? He writes to you again, and you pick your phone up with your clean hand, sans hot cheeto dust, rolling your eyes.

Fratboy Gojo🙄: Need some nudes for your spank bank?

You’re gonna kill him.

Sorority Brat 💦😻: Good night, Gojo.

Satoru frowns, because his dick is already in his hand, but for a moment you think about it, and would it be so bad to-

No, no no.

You aggressively eat those hot cheetos, wondering just what you were in for with that damn boy in your life now, shit forever.

“Fuck.” You’ll never drink again.

I say four parts but I feel like this is gonna be long aha, bc god Gojo is a lil shithead hehe (as I like him) this just a teensy bit similar to the Knocked Up movie premise so expect a LOT of humor here! <3

Taglist one- @jannythewriter-pt2 @gojosoups @lycoris-radiata-4-sale @cutiepi-iee @poisonousspiderlily @closerbutnevertogether @myahfig4 @shokosbunny @coq1myun @rinny27 @abibliolife @coq1myun @megumisthirdog @p4lli @turtlebangtan @webshooterrr9 @aldebrana @msqudo18 @s0ulsnatchaaa @ovela @midnaamethyste @nearlyfuckingwitches @shibataimu @msniks @missthatgirl @fantasy1nightmare0 @maddyhehehehhe @yourst3pm0mmy @haithamsbb @rentheannihilator @ilovebeansyay @lemonswirlz @dilfkentolover @evelynxxo @bkgnotsuma @suki91 @burntasian @nakiich @hyunjinsruinedpainting @miniv1x3n @minascasket @ihrtmack @contaminatedcupcake @girlwithn0j0b @tokyi999 @vamqyx @queenofthekill @verriees @vullzo @jkslaugh97