summary! your best friend satoru gojo has had a massive crush on you for years, the only issue is, he's pretty slutty. all he wants is you, god, you're the only thing he cares about these days, but he's too insecure to let himself want someone as beautiful and kind as you are.. he feels like he doesn't deserve such a loving person, so he sticks to his promiscuous lifestyle until you two can't handle pretending you're not enamoured with each other anymore. (insecure gojo, angst to comfort, gojo uses sex as an escape (no explicit mentions of said sex between others), toxicity, he's a sweetheart i promise)
satoru was off-his-fucking-face drunk.
he saw you from across the room chatting it up with shiu, a well known plug around campus, and a very attractive one at that, although he hated to admit it.
he knows he probably shouldn't of felt that stab of jelousy that just radiated through his gut, he's supposed to smile, then shrug all nonchalantly, cmon. don’t be weird. she talks to people. you talk to everyone. that’s how this shit works. he thinks.
but then he clocks the way shiu leans in closer, not to the point he's feeling all up on you, but he's close enough that it really, really pisses gojo off.
so, like any good 'best friend' who was almost blackout would do, he stalked over and threw his floppy, muscular arms around your waist with a deadly glare.
"can you fuck off shiu? no one wants you around here fucking up freshman with your fucking sketchy shit." he slurred, clinging to you like a koala.
"good cussing, satoru." shiu smiles with a new cigarette hanging from his lip.
"i hate you."
"i know, buddy..." he replies, winking at you before slipping the back of smiles into his pocket, "well uh, i'll leave you two alone then?" the obviously more mature man offers, you clench your teeth and pull one of satorus arms off of your body.
"sorry, kong. we'll chat another time?"
"no, you won't. go away shiu." satoru quipped, the black haired man just waves with a chuckle and moves on. he knew drunk gojo wasn't to be taken to heart, after all.
good riddance, he thought. everyone knew you were his, so why wasn't shiu getting that?
he sighed, but deep down he hated that part of himself. the obsessive part that wants to pull you away while knowing full well he's never once made any sort of claim on you. he doesn't get to play guard dog when he himself is the one who's taught everyone he's nothing more but a temporary play thing for others to use.
he knows it's pathetic, but still, he couldn't help but cling to you. it was just second nature to him at this point.
once shiu's gone, you exhale curtly. this always happened. despite your and satoru's relationship being nothing more than a tight friendship, he always got disgustingly possessive when you gave your attention to others, especially men, and especially at parties.
you sigh, then pry his other lanky arm off you with a big huff, fuck, he was heavy.
“you’re being ridiculous, satoru,” you groan, yelling over the music even though he's loud enough for the both of you, “i was only asking him how his studies were going.”
“don’t care,” satoru mumbles with his cheek pressed to your smaller shoulder. “don’t like him.”
“you don’t like anyone who talks to me.”
“mhm.”
you groan softly, this has happened so many times it’s become expected at these kinds of things. you reach for his collar and tug it, steering him away from the kitchen before he can latch back on to shiu who was now talking to maki.
“come on,” you roll your eyes. “you’re piss faced.”
he laughs boisterously, a stark change from the pout he was wearing a few seconds ago. “only a bit.”
“you’re literally swaying.”
“and? i sway when i'm sober.”
you can be bothered arguing with this meat head. instead, you turn toward the stairs and brace for impact because right on cue, his hand slides into yours and he pulls you up them.
“satoru,” you hiss, but he’s already halfway up, pulling you along behind him.
“i want to go to my room,” he says bluntly. “it's too fucking loud down there.”
he keeps a tight hold of your hand all the way up the spiral stairs with his thumb brushing your knuckles over and over, a nervous little tic he did when he got overwhelmed.
people smile and shout at the both of you as you walk pass, you think you can make out sukuna yelling his name, but he ignores all of them with a scoff like the dismissive drunk he is.
the moment you’re inside his room he shuts the door with his foot and leans back against it, still holding your hand.
this is always the part that makes your heart go all soft.
satoru looked so much gentler when he was inebriated like this. physically he’s still got that massive muscular upper body, still takes up all of your personal space and all, but he seems so fragile. like he’s set down the flashy go getter version of himself everyone else sees and picked up the one he only lets you have.
“sit,” he says dragging you toward his bed.
you smile at his slightly slurred speech and sit, he drops down beside you with his long lanky knees bumping yours. he immediately scoots closer until his leg presses against your own. his hand itch's until it's touching yours, your wrist, then your fingers, lacing them together.
he was always a little touchy when drunk.
“you okay?” you ask.
“yeah,” he says with a smile, then, “you’re really good.”
you laugh and lean back on your free hand. “that wasn’t the question, silly.”
he shrugs, flopping back onto the mattress and dragging you with him so you’re both propped up against his bashed up and faded wooden headboard. he loops his strong arm under your back and around your waist, pulling you closer to his body. okay, maybe a lot touchy.
you and satoru had a special kind of thing going on.
in freshman he spotted you from across the way at a mixer, he clocked you from the other side of the room and decided, for reasons he never really explained, that you were his person now.
he stole your cup, replaced it with a fresh one, and talked your ear off until you forgot what being nervous actually felt like, he seemed like a suave man on the outside, but this guy poured straight chronically online brainrot humour into your brain for like, two hours straight?.
by the end of the night you were sitting on the curb together, sharing fries he'd door dashed to the frat laughing like you’d known each other forever.
from then on, it was just a thing. you studied together, even though he never actually studied and mostly complained. you slept over, even though you both had comfy beds of your own.
you knew his school schedule, his little moods, the signs that meant he needed to leave a party early and unwind somewhere else. he knew when you were lying about being fine and when you needed him to just sit there and not try to fix anything.
people joked about you two all the time.
geto once asked why you didn’t just date already. satoru laughed far too loud and said that’d 'ruin absolutely everything'. you giggled too, telling yourself it was better like this, that you liked having him without the risk of romantic intimacy.
but like everything, the truth always came out.
one night where the both of you were almost blackout drunk, he took you upstairs after throwing his guts up into the toilet. you laughed at him and he flipped you off back, cleaning up then pulling you into his room like a rag doll.
he held you in the middle of the floor after you'd both toppled over, and he admitted everything to you through very crappy, slurred speech.
he told you how much he loved you, how badly he wanted you all to himself, how no one else could do it for him. you admitted the same, you told him how much you needed him in your life and how you felt more loved with him that anyone else.
you kissed, it was gross and quick but it happened. your feelings were out in the open.
for that night, at least.
morning came and the previous confession felt like small tiny fragments in both of your minds, you just couldn't remember any of it fully.
you went about your little friendship like nothing had changed. from what was left in your brains, you had a semi-clear thought on it all.
oh shit, maybe she/he likes me back?
sometimes, late at night, you’d lie next to him while he talked about nothing, sometimes you thought you caught drawls of that night in how he went quiet when you mentioned another guy, or when his hand squeezed yours that little bit tighter. but then he’d joke it away, or pull back, or remind you with a grin that you were his best friend.
so you stayed quiet, and so did he.
because being close to him like this felt better than not having him at all, loving him quietly was safer than risking losing him.
you didn’t know he was doing the exact same thing, from the other side of that line, telling himself over and over that you deserved better than him and that wanting you meant destroying his favourite thing in the world, your friendship.
now, your eyes drag over his pretty face as he stares up at the celling, letting out a long sigh that smelt like hard solo.
then he starts talking.
“god, this theme sucked actual nut sacks." he announces. “it was so bad, y/n. tell them to never do it again.”
you snort. “hm? weren't you the one hyping it up last week.”
“can you be quiet? i was lying. why are you lying to me?" he was making no sense.
“i feel like that's not... a proper answer?” you shake your head like you yourself were letting it go, he wasn't sober enough to be answering things correctly.
“rude.” he turns his head to look at you. “everyone looks stupid.”
“you’re wearing bright red board shorts and no shirt."
“yeah,” he says seriously. “so fucking stupid.”
you glance at the discarded lifeguard whistle on his desk, the red plastic stark against the silky oak. “you look fine, toru.”
“nah.” he shakes his head, hair flopping into his eyes. “everyone’s dressed like baywatch rejects. i hate it.”
“you hate fun.”
“i love fun.” he squeezes your waist as to prove his point. “this just isn’t fun fun.”
“yeah? what’s fun fun then?”
his face turns and he's suddenly looking happier. gosh, these drunken mood swings.. “like... a onesie party.”
you laugh and sit a bit closer. “of course.”
“like animals,” he adds, gaining conversational momentum. “or dinosaurs. geto would be a gorilla. choso would be like, a wolf or some shit.”
“yeah? what would you be?”
he breathes out an answer before you can even finish your sentence. “a bunny.”
“oh wow, no you would not.”
“i absolutely would. i'd buy ears and everything.” he whines with a forlorn expression, oh we're sad now? perfect.
you picture it and bite your lip to keep from smiling too hard, but he notices.
“see,” he says, now smug (you seriously couldn't keep up). “way better than 'surfer sluts'.”
you look at his shorts, then back at him. “at least the name was semi-creative?”
“tch, only thing creative 'bout it.”
he rambles on, complaining about the trashy pitbull music, about how someone spilled a drink on his nice new grey decarbra's, about how the freshmen are hella annoying this year. his hands wonder as he talks, sometimes he's squeezing your fingers, sometimes drifting to your hip, sometimes tracing the line of your knee cap? he's doing it absentmindedly so you guess it was fine.
you two chat about how shitty the party was for a good half hour, circling back to old gossip and relationship dramas, laughing and spit balling for ages. you'd never tell him but you loved these moments, where he'd laugh and talk to you like you'd known him since he was born, rather than just a few years ago.
he always looked at you like you were the most precious thing in the universe, whether you'd be out on long drives in his fancy car, or over at your dorm making really crappy cupcakes, he'd always gaze at you so lovingly. the bond between two best friends, am i right? you pushed away the thought of his lips on yours.
he sobers up a tad so the conversation is semi coherent on his end.
eventually, he circles the topic back you like he always does.
“so, you talk to shiu a lot,” he says quickly, darting his eyes back and forth from your face to gage your reaction.
“you know i talk to everyone,” you reply.
“yeah, but like.. you talk to him a lot.”
you smile at his badly hidden jealousy, “he’s in my stats class, satoru. nothing more.”
“still.”
you roll your eyes. “i asked how his studies were going. that’s it.”
he hums but it sounds very unconvinced.
“you get so weird about this,” you add. “it’s not that serious, i promise.”
he shifts closer again and his forehead drops to your shoulder. “i just don’t like when guys look at you.”
“they’re going to look at me.”
“i know.” his voice drops. “i hate it.”
you bump his knee with yours. “that’s a you problem, toru.”
“rude,” he repeats, but there’s no real malice in it.
you blurt out quickly, regretting it as soon as it pours out, "you're the only guy i'm this into, satoru, don't worry." fuck why did i say that?!
gojo's heartbeat is now thumping. she means that... in a friend way, right? of course. of course she did. no biggie...
he bites his lip as his hand goes all shake dragging up and down your arms.
you sit in silence for a bit as he and you both process, listening to the muffled frank ocean seeping through the floor boards. his thumb keeps tracing your knuckles, slower than before like he’s losing steam, getting sleepy.
to satoru, his room feels so much safer because no one’s looking at him like they want to eat him alive. not in here, with you. there's no one staring, waiting for him to be alone so they can make a move. sure, he's into it, but sometimes he jsut wants this, with you.
this is the version of him that he loves, sitting. talking. hands brushing without it being a big deal.
he wonders, not for the first time, why this version never feels like it’s allowed to want things. to want things like you.
the silence is comforting, but you make the mistake of opening your mouth. you promise you were only trying to lighten the mood, and/or distract from your almost confession earlier.
“c'mon,” you say lightly, not really thinking, “you should be thriving tonight, not sulking up here in your room. i mean, this theme was basically made for you.”
he lifts his head. “uh? what’s that supposed to mean?”
you shrug. “you know, surfer sluts. pretty fitting, no?"
you don't realise, but he goes stiff at your throw away comment, his fingers pause their ministrations on yours, his grip loosening until your fingers slide apart. he sits up straighter, and his body naturally moves away. his blue gaze dropping to the floor.
he’s heard it all before. much worse than this. louder than this. laughed off in locker rooms and kitchens and group chats.
'he's a slut.'
'a manwhore.'
'gojo’s just being gojo.'
he knows deep down he's built it, with every hook up being another brick. it was easier than being the guy who wanted one girl and didn’t know how to ask without ruining everything.
but fuck, he doesn’t want you to see him like that. that’s the fucked part. he doesn’t mind anyone else thinking it. just not you.
“oh,” he says.
you tilt your head, smiling. “oh, what?”
“nothing.”
you watch as his face turns into a distant blunt pull, you can't tell if he's still going through his drunken emotional switch ups or what.
“hey,” you say. “hey, i was joking.”
“yeah,” he mutters. “i know.”
he doesn’t look at you. oh shit.
without him pressed against you, the room suddenly inflates ten fold, when did it get so cold? the space between your bodies is small but very prominent, like a missing piece to a puzzle you'd spent hours putting together.
“toru?” you try again.
he scratches at his neck, a nervous habit you’ve seen a hundred times but never really questioned. “it’s fine.”
it’s clearly not, but you don’t push. you’ve learned when to stop.
he swings his legs off the bed and leans forward, elbows on his knees. the chatter downstairs seeps up, laughter and shouting coming through the walls. he stares at nothing, his mouth moving like he’s chewing on words he doesn’t want to swallow.
“everyone thinks that,” he says eventually, “so you’re not wrong.”
you frown, then fling your own legs off of the couch and hug into his side. “hm? thinks what?”
“that i’m just… that.”
oh.. you wince to yourself and drag a hand up and down his arm for comfort, “hey.. i didn’t mean it like that.”
“i know.” he huffs a laugh lacking all the humour it usually had. “doesn’t really matter how you meant it.”
he looks down at you, “it’s true.”
you don't know how to answer, because you know it's true, too. you didn't mean to be rash, but he was a slut. this guy averaged two girls a week and bragged to almost everyone about it, why was he getting angsty now? his constant rotation was the main reason you hadn't brought up your feeling for him since that night. who sleeps with that many chicks if they really did like someone for real?
he keeps going, words pouring now that the dam’s cracked.
“i mean, look at me,” he says, gesturing at himself. “everyone here’s fucked me or wants to. it’s kind of my thing now, not that i totally mind, it's just.. not all i am.”
“i don't think that's all you are, okay? you're my bestfriend, satoru. i know you better than that.” you're trying so hard to save this sinking ship.
'bestfriend..' he echoed in his mind, a solemn smile playing at his mouth, he wanted to be so, so much more than that.
"yeah, i know you don't think that.” he shrugs, smiling softer. “you're the only opinion i really care about, anyways.”
you tap his wrist for his hand again and he lets you intertwine your fingers. his heart blips, you don't normally initiate this type of intimacy, it was always him grabbing for your hand.
"of course satoru, don't worry,” you say.
he wants to say something else but whatever it was stays lodged behind his smile, any sadness he had was long gone, he was now hyper fixated on your hand.
"i know you wanna tell me something else."
“yeah but.. forget it,” he says almost too happily.
you squeeze his hand. “c'monn, tell me.”
he shakes his head, hair falling into his eyes again. “it’s stupid.”
“you’re stupid,” you say gently.
stupidly in love with you..
~
satoru stretches and lets out a deep, throaty groan. he somehow didn't have a hangover this morning, that was surprising.
he yawns and rolls over to bury his face into the pillow, his head feels packed with cotton and gravel, but it's not necessarily throbbing.
he's halfway through another groanish yawn when he realises the blankets that are pulled over his chest, when did they get there?
he stares at the ceiling, frowning. his comforter is pulled up to his chest with the corners tucked around his shoulders in a fashion he never ever does himself because he’s lazy and tall and always hangs off the bed. someone even kicked his shoes into place on his shoe rack.
you, of course it was you.
your face floats right to the front of his mind clear as day. your pretty little laugh, your hand in his, the precious way you were looking at him when he knocked out, you looked so beautiful.
he had morning wood and the thought of you was only making it pulsate harder. you were so kind to him, you'd always been there as an anchor, no matter what. he'd crash at your place when he felt like it, he'd squeeze into bed with you and hold you against his body.
shit, your body.. he presses his boner into the bed and groans, draging a heavy hand down his face.
“fuck.”
he's loved you for years, every girl he's ever fucked was a distraction. a distraction from the fact he never felt good enough to have you, all of you, all to himself. he hated it.
he catalogs the evidence like it’s a horrible case against him and his promiscuous ways. the kind words you'd always spewed, the way you can leave him without it feeling like you're really gone..
he racks his brain for every girl who’s woken up here and slipped out before he got to learn their last names. how none of them ever did this. how none of them stayed this gentle with him.
he tells himself thats gotta mean something.
then, he reminds himself that wanting something doesn’t mean he deserves it..
as he's having a deep, 'i love my bestfriend but i'm too much of a whore to deserve her, what the fuck do i do?' crisis for the fiftieth time this month, the door slams open.
“rise and shine, whore,” sukuna bellows, stepping into the room blowing a fat cloud of sweet vapor straight into the air. “get the fuck up. house looks like a dump.”
satoru squints at him. “i hate you.”
“yeah, yeah.” sukuna hits the vape again. “come clean. you threw up in the downstairs sink.”
“that wasn’t me.”
“it was absolutely you.”
satoru rolls onto his side and curls in on himself dramatically. “fuck off.”
sukuna snorts. “get up and mop you insufferable asshole.”
he waits until the door slams shut again before forcing himself to sit up. he scratches at his neck, then glances down at himself, he's still shirtless and in these ridiculous shorts. he grabs his geek bar off the side table and takes a hit, then throws it aside and sniffs.
he grabs a pair of grey sweats off the floor along with boxers from his draw, he strips, poses nakedly in the mirror for a good ten seconds, and pulls them on, not bothering with a shirt. he comes down the stairs barefoot, every step reminding him of how much of a lightweight he is. he makes it to the bottom and, holy fuck, the house was a mess.
empty cups are everywhere, bottles spilt into the carpet, peoples sweaty clothes strewn all over the place, what a palace.
choso is sweeping loads of trash into a big rubbish bag on the floor, nanami is wiping down the counters with a pissed off look, sukuna and toji are flipping the couch back over.
geto spots him before everyone else, "there he is,” he smiles, clapping a hand on satoru’s shoulder. “you okay?”
“no.”
geto grins. “heard you were real fucked up last night.”
satoru sighs. “don’t.”
he grabs a rubbish bag and starts scooping cups off the floor, his mind keep floating back to you, over and over again. he can still feel your hand in his, he can still see the way you'd hugged into his side when he got all quiet.
that’s the last thing he remembers before everything goes black is you.
he clears his throat. “hey.”
no one looks up.
“hey,” he tries again, louder. “did anyone see y/n leave last night?”
ino looks up like hes been waiting for a question like that, “why,” he asks. “you forget where you put her?”
satoru shoots him a look. “shut up.”
“i think she left kinda early,” nanami says without looking up. “before two.”
satoru’s chest loosens just a bit. “yeah?”
“yeah,” nanami continues. “she walked out with-"
toji stood up from kneeling besides the couch,
“shiu,” he says casually, cracking open a beer he had in hand. “she went home with shiu.”
the room goes quiet for exactly a second.
satoru stops and the trash bag slips from his fingers.
“what,” he says.
toji shrugs. “saw them out front walking to his car. sure looked cozy.”
he feels his heart beat thump, his head starts to throb and his eyes feel like they want to water and spill.
“that’s not-" he laughs weakly. “that’s not funny.”
toji takes a sip. “wasn’t joking.”
geto raises an eyebrow, watching satoru a little too closely. “you sure, man?”
toji nods. “yep.”
it feels like someone socked him in his mouth, his ears ring, the house feels claustrophobic, suddenly everything's very wrong.
you wouldn’t.
would you?..
he thinks about the way you held his hand, the way you tucked him in, all 6"4 of him, the way you told him he was 'the only guys you were this into.'. maybe that never happened ? maybe it indeed was just a figure of his imagination.. fuck, maybe his whorish lifestyle had finally scared you off..
he breathes in deep. if you did sleep with him, satoru doesn’t get to be hurt. he’s the guy who taught you this was normal, that this was so right and casual.
if you chose someone else, all that means is you learned the rules from watching him doing it over and over and over again.
his chest tightens and he laughs again. “ha. wow. okay.”
ino bursts out laughing. “are you deadass?”
sukuna snorts. “c'mon bro, you hook up with mad girls. don't be pressed when she does the same.”
geto covers his mouth, he wants to laugh but he knows he shouldn't. “that’s rough, but sukuna's right, satoru.”
gojo wipes a hand down his face quickly, blaming the hangover. “yeah. hilarious.”
“guess surfer sluts really was her thing,” toji adds, smirking.
that one lands.
satoru bends down and picks up the rubbish bag again with his eyes fixed to the floor, “i’m gonna go take the trash out.”
"okay, bro."
~
now, in your defence, while you did go home with shiu, you didn't sleep with him.
you couldn't, not when you were this deep under the satoru spell.
"thanks for letting me crash here, i didn't want to disturb gojo's sleep. oh, and yuki brought higuruma over last night. didn't wanna be up until 4 listening to them fuck."
you're half dressed under the covers, wiping your eyes as he come in with a cup of coffee.
"i got you, don't worry." he smiles from the door of his room, he let you take his luxurious bed while he slept on the equally as nice couch. shiu was surprisingly rich for a collage kid, maybe all that 'sketchy shit' as satoru liked to put it, was really selling.
he brings the cup down onto the table besides your bed and flicks your nose, "just remember your promise, gotta do that last section of the assignment for me, payment for my generosity."
"mm, wouldn't dream of leaving you without proper compensation." you laugh, taking the cup and sipping gently.
he looks from one of your eyes to the other like he's appreciating your presence, then quickly looks away and spins around.
"gotta make a few runs this morning, leave whenever you feel like it, yeah?" he throws over his shoulder.
you give him a thumbs up and he nods, waving while walking out.
the morning scuffles along, you eventually pull yourself out of his beautiful bed and get dressed into whatever clothing you could find that'd fit you in his draws. there were a few women's camis aswell as sweat pants in here, oh no, did he have a girlfriend?
as if being summoned by the universe, who else but shoko walks into the house, with her own key, no less.
she locks eyes with you for a second then smiles and waves like she couldn't care less.
"sh-shoko? what the fuck?"
"hey, y/n. is shiu still here?" she was so calm you just had to pry.
"why? are you two a thing? god, i promise this isn't what it looks like, i was just at a party and he offered to-"
"hush, i don't give a shit if you fucked him, girl. he's not my man."
phew... wait- not phew! you guys didn't even do anything!
you explain to her what went down, and she, in turn, told you why she was there. turns out she and shiu were hooking up on the dl, but she only felt for him physically, so you weren't a bother to her. "yeah, we fuck and he gives me drugs, pretty sweet deal. would recommend."
"yeah, i'm so good, thanks."
after that semi-akward interaction you gathered your stuff and got the hell out of there.
shiu's place was just off campus so the walk back to your own apartment wasn't far. like you did every morning after a party, you tried to give satoru a call. only, after the third ring, the line went dead.
satoru was finishing up the last little chores around the frat when he got your call, he stared at his phone as it rung on the kitchen bench, your name in cute heart emojis flashing on the screen.
he declined.
the last thing he wanted right now was to talk to you after shiu had been apparently digging in you. no way.
"yeesh, that's harsh, man." choso commented from his spot sitting at the breakfast bar.
"it's nothing, just busy right now." satoru tries his best to sound nonchalant but it's obvious he's still very much annoyed.
"oh yeah? you stop training when she calls you, man. you're never 'too busy.'" choso makes air quotes around that last part.
satoru sighs and chucks the last of the solo cups in the recycling bin, then takes off back up the stairs.
he shuts his door far harder than he needs to and falls onto his bed.
shiu.
the name keeps coming back, no matter how hard he tries to shove it away.
he tells himself he has no right to feel like this, none. he fucks around constantly, hell, it’s practically his brand. he’s built this whole thing around being easy, wanted and available. so why does the idea of you choosing someone else make his chest feel so disgusting?
you’re your own person. you always have been. he’s never tried to cage you, never tried to tell you what to do or who to see. that’s not him and he prides himself on that.
still.
you’re supposed to be his person.
not like that, he tells himself. not in a gross way he gets to possess but in the way you always end up together. the way you fall asleep next to him without it meaning anything and somehow meaning everything at the same time.
he massages the bridge of his nose with both hands.
get over it.
get over it.
get over it.
god, he just can't. instead, he unlocks his phone and stares at your pretty contact photo, the stupid nickname. his thumb taps call before he can talk himself out of it.
it barely rings twice before you're answering all giddy.
“toru!” your voice is so bright. “oh my god, i was just about to try you again. are you hung over?”
he feels pain coil up in his tummy.
“no,” he says flatly.
on your end, you're taken back by his bluntness “oh! uh, okay.”
he winces internally at your dejected response but doesn’t soften the blow. if he does, he’ll crack, and he can’t afford that right now.
“what’s up?” you ask, still trying.
“nothing,” he replies. “just busy.”
your heart clips like it'd been hooked onto a fishing hook.
“…hey, uh, are you.. are you mad at me?”
he scoffs sharply. “why would i be mad at you.”
your voice dips. “i don’t know. you’re being kinda blunt, i guess.”
he laughs curtly. “i’m allowed to be blunt.”
“not like this,” you say quietly. “you’re never like this with me.”
that hits him in his throat. he pretends to ignore it when in reality it throws his heart for a loop, "what do you want,” he asks, it's so clipped.
you go silent for a second, clearly recalibrating. “i was wondering if you wanted to hang out later? maybe get food or something. i can come over.”
normally he’d say yes without thinking. normally he’d already be planning how fast he could ditch whatever else he had lined up.
today, though, his jealousy makes the decision for him.
“can’t,” he says. “i’ve got a girl coming over.”
the line goes very quiet.
“…oh,” you say.
gosh, he can picture your face. the sweet little drop in your eyes you try to hide. the way you probably nodded even though he can’t see you.
there’s a mean, awful part of him that hopes it stings. not because he wants to hurt you, but because he wants proof that he matters the way you matter to him.
the rest of him despises that part. hates that when things feel out of control he reaches for the only thing that’s ever numbed really it.
he doesn’t want the girl coming over. he wants you. he always does. but wanting you feels so dangerously hard in a way fucking his feelings out never does.
“right,” you add. “that's okay.”
he should stop. he should backtrack and admit to what he really wants, he wants to talk to you about shiu, why you did it when you know he hated him, why you'd sleep with that fucker of all people, get some sort of closure. instead, he keeps going, so cruel and careless.
“yeah,” he says. “don’t really feel like cancelling either. kinda want good company.”
that’s a lie. he feels like shit. but he wants it to sting, shit, he hates that he wants that.
you swallow audibly. “okay. well. have fun then.”
“always do,” he replies, too fast.
the silence is horribly awkward.
“…i know you said you're fine, but really, toru, are you good?” you ask, one last attempt.
he exhales through his nose. “yeah. don’t bother coming over tonight, okay?”
there it is. the line he knows will hit you deep.
your voice wobbles a little, “i wasn’t.”
“good,” he says. “talk later.”
and before you can respond, he hangs up.
the second the call ends, regret slams into him full force.
“fuck,” he grumbles, slamming the phone onto the bed.
he presses his palms into his eyes and groans. what the hell was that? why did he do that?
you didn’t deserve that. he’s supposed to be your best friend, not... not whatever that was.
he tells himself he’s doing you some sort of fucked up a favor. that pushing you away now is kinder than letting you see how messy he actually is when he cares.
it sounds noble until he admits the truth. he ran because staying would’ve meant being honest with you.
he sits there for ages, replaying your tone over and over until it makes him feel nauseous.
he hates this. hates how jealous he feels. hates that he can’t say anything about it without blowing everything up. hates that he took it out on you because he doesn’t know how to handle it like a normal person.
his phone vibrates, instead of checking the notification he unlocks it, opens a different app, scrolls, and sends a message he knows he’ll definitely regret later.
gojo: come over
her reply is quicker than he'd thought it be.
xxx xxx xxx: omw ;)
he drops the phone and leans back, staring at the ceiling. this is what he does. when things get too much, he drowns them out. replaces one feeling with another until it’s all numb enough to ignore.
a knock sounds at his door twenty minutes later.
he doesn’t give himself time to think it over, he opens it, steps aside, and lets the girl in. she smiles at him, then she reaches for his arm like it's her god given right.
the door clicks shut behind them.
and even as he kisses her, his mind betrays him, flashing back to your voice on the phone, so sweet, so soft and hurt.
he squeezes his eyes shut and pushes it away.
anything to not feel like this.
~
now, the party a few days later is so much worse.
the theme is white out so the crowd looks like a sea of seagulls packed into this seats living room.
you're clad in a pretty little white dress with big white heels and matching accessories, pretty basic yet still jaw dropping.
you're walking past the tv when satoru comes into view, today, not only was his hair white, but his entire outfit was too.
he’s across the room near the kitchen island, leaning back against the counter with a drink in his hand and two girls pressed in real close. one of them is laughing like a hyena at something charming he said, her fingers hooked into the waistband of his jeans like she’s testing how far she can go. the other is touching his arm, tracing up his strong bicep.
he's too busy with them, he doesn't even spare you a fleeting glance.
you try not to look, you really, really do. but it’s just so difficult when that used to be your spot. when that used to be you next to him, stealing sips of his drink, talking shit about everyone else at the party like you were above it all together.
you frown, the conversations you and satoru had lately have been few and far between. he's dry as hell, and suddenly busy every time you ask to hang out.
you keep telling yourself it’s fine, it's all good. people grow apart all the time, it's collage! maybe he’s bored of being your friend. maybe you leaned too hard on a friendship that wasn’t meant to last.. and while you tell yourself it's fine, your chest twists and ticks and throbs with pain.
you step toward a couch where choso, shoko and geto are lounging around, all three of them clock your mood the second you flop beside them.
“hey, you good?” geto asks, passing you a drink.
you shake your head. “i’m okay.”
choso gives you a look. he's not gonna push but he'd like to. “you wanna sit here with us?”
“yeah,” you say quietly. “that’d be nice.”
you sit between them with your legs tucked up, watching the party happen around you like it’s something you’re not really part of anymore. your eyes keep flocking back to satoru like some sort of pathetic magnet.
you loved satoru's company. he was your favourite person on earth, you'd spend every second with him if you could, now he was pushing you away? you'd of at least liked a conversation about it. maybe a warning.
hes getting loud talking like he's the only person worth listening to in the entire room, patting girls on the ass and leaning in close to their necks to hear them properly.
every time he laughs or slings his arm around their shoulders, you feel your heart crack.
you miss him. god, you miss him so bad. not whatever this was.
choso nudges your knee gently. “c'mon, you don’t have to stay if it’s not fun.”
you shake your head again. “i don’t wanna be alone.”
he nods like he understands that more than you realise.
time drags on and an hour passes. then another. you try talking to other people, but it feels so wrong. your attention keeps snapping back to satoru.
he’s still backed against the kitchen island with a drink he hasn’t touched like, forty minutes, he's pretending bf to laugh at those girls terrible jokes, letting them sleaze all over him.
normally he’d lean into the gag. he'd flirt back and say something stupidly charming and let the night dissolve into a forgettable hook up.
but tonight it just feels so weird.
the girl on his left moves in with her mouth near his ear, saying something he pretends not to clock. her breath fans over his skin and his stomach churns, not with excitement but with this dull guilt that keeps scratching his lungs raw.
he looks at their faces and feels a light sense of absence.
he thinks about how easy it would be to disappear upstairs with one of them. how everyone would nod like yeah, that tracks. just gojo being gojo, and the thought makes him want to rip out of his own skin.
he didn’t want this shit tonight. he didn’t want these grabby hands all over him. he’s so tired of being wanted in the most bare minimum way.
he wanted you here.
eventually, after you'd stared holes through the back of satorus head, choso leans down to your ear. “you wanna go upstairs for a bit? i’m gonna smoke.”
you stumble over your words. “oh, i uh, i don’t smoke.”
“i know,” he says quickly. “you don’t have to. just… sit with me. i don’t really wanna be alone either.”
good, you really needed an escape right now.
“okay,” you say. “yeah. i’ll go with you.”
you stand together, weaving through the crowd toward the stairs. you can tell people are staring but you don’t look over your shoulder.
choso leads the way up, your shoulders brushing as he pulls out a pre roll with a smile.
across the room, satoru is midway through a sentence when he spots you. he wants to smile, its his reflex when he catches sight of you, but then he remembers he doesn’t get to do that right now, and the happy pull of his lips dies before it ever reaches his face.
you’re walking up the stairs with choso, close enough that your arms are touching. you’re leaning in to hear what he’s saying, head close to his mouth in a way satoru hasn’t had in days.
his put on smirk falls immediately.
“hey,” one of the girls says, pulling on his arm. “you listening?”
he pulls his wrist free without looking at her. “yeah. go get a drink or something.”
she frowns. “what?”
“look, just go,” he snaps.
both girls scatter away, muttering throw away curses but he really doesn’t care. he’s stalking over to where geto and shoko are now sitting with bottles to their lips.
“great,” he says bitterly, sitting down hard onto the couch. “first she’s fucking shiu and now my best friend? perfect.”
geto thinks for a second. “...what?”
shoko squints at him. “what are you talking about?"
satoru laughs bitterly, “don’t play dumb. i just saw them.”
geto follows his eyes to the stairs and sees you and choso disappearing around the corner. he sighs. “they’re going up to smoke.”
satoru scoffs. “yeah. sure, she doesn't smoke.”
“no,” shoko cuts in, annoyed. “actually sure. choso asked if she’d sit with him.”
satoru’s face drops into a deeper scowl, “since when does she hang out with him like that."
“since always?” geto replies. “they’re friends you just hog her, normally.”
satoru shakes his head. “this is bullshit.”
shoko sets her drink down with a dissatisfied groan. “you don’t get to act like this.”
he snaps his head toward her. “like what.”
“like you own her,” she says flatly. “you don’t.”
geto nods. “man, you’ve been pushing her away all week.”
“because she doesn’t want me,” satoru fires back. “she made that pretty clear.”
shoko raises an eyebrow. “did she now.”
“she went home with shiu.”
shoko’s face twists. “oh my god.”
geto leans forward. “that’s what this is about? you're ditching your best friend because she wanted to get her pussy ate?”
“what- no-,” satoru says. “you make it sound like-" he stop himself from spewing words he doesn't really mean. "it's just the fact she knows i hate that guy. that and everything else..."
shoko exhales sharply. “she didn’t fuck him.”
satoru freezes. “what.”
“she didn’t sleep with him,” shoko repeats. “she stayed the night because she didn’t wanna wake you up at the last function.”
the wave of relief that flows through him is euphoric, but it's followed closely by guilt. because despite everything you still chose him in the quiet ways. and he’d repaid that by pushing you as far away as possible.
geto turns to shoko. “oh, are you serious?"
“dead serious,” she says. “i walked in that morning. she was fully dressed and half asleep. they didn’t do shit.”
satoru feels like the floor drops out from under him and his heart is smudged into the wood.
“she told me herself,” shoko adds. “she was worried about you that morning, too. wanted to go over straight away and see if you were hung over.”
he's taken back by the revelation, satoru feels like he can't breathe.
geto runs a hand through his hair. “man…”
“also,” shoko continues, clearly not done, “she’s been really upset. you know that, right?”
satoru stares at the stairs. your face flashes in his mind. the way your voice sounded on the phone. so hurt.
“i'm gonna be honest, you’ve been acting like an asshole,” geto says gently. “and she’s been taking it like a champ. i'd of socked you in the jaw by now."
the music seems to disappear into the depths of his mind as he reels.
you didn’t fuck shiu.
you weren't up there sleeping with choso.
god, he thinks about the way he spoke to you. the way he brushed you off so calloused, the way he said he had a girl coming over and didn't brush her off for you, like he'd always done.
his stomach drops.
“oh fuck,” he whispers.
shoko watches him closely. “you're a real asshole, you know.”
he swallows. “fuck, i know.”
geto snorts.
satoru rubs a hand down his face, standing abruptly. “i need air.”
he takes off, on his way past he stops at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at them.
for the first time in days, he doesn’t feel angry.
he feels scared, typical gojo reading too deep into things and reacting rashly. he really needed to work on that.
~
"i don't know cho... this is the first time something like this has happened. i feel like he hates me or something... i just don't know what i did."
choso, bless his heart, had been listening to you pour your heart out about gojo for the past half an hour, blowing smoke out his open window. that last part caused his zooted brain to form a coherent thought.
"it's probably because you fucked shiu." he announces in uneven tones, he was more than a little gone.
you stare at choso like he’s just spoken another language.
“uhm?” you quiz.
his head falls to look at you from his spot by the window, he’s so relaxed he looks like gravity might forget about him any second now.
“yeah,” he nods, very sure of himself. “that’s gotta be it. gojo’s dramatic like that.”
your stomach drops, not in guilt, but in pure disbelief.
“i didn’t fuck shiu,” you say with a bitter taste in your mouth.
choso's neck rolls and he rubs his face, “…huh?”
“i didn’t sleep with him,” you repeat, “nothing happened. i crashed at his because i didn’t wanna wake satoru up and yuki had a guy over our place."
he processes this slowly with his face scrunching, the thought is buffering.
“okay,” he says after awhile, “but you went home with him.”
“yes,” you snap. “but that’s not the same thing.”
he hums, then shrugs. “dunno, sounds the same.”
you were gonna punch this loser.
“oh my god,” you mutter. “i have to go.”
“go where?” choso asks genuinely curious.
“i have to tell satoru,” you say grabbing your phone. “not because i did anything wrong, because i didn’t. but because he thinks i slept with someone he hates.”
choso sighs again. “you know you’re allowed to sleep with people.”
“i know that,” you say quickly. “this isn’t about that. it’s about him thinking i did it behind his back with someone he clearly can’t stand.”
choso nods like this makes sense to him, even though it absolutely does not. “okay.”
you pause at the door. “can you not tell anyone else?”
he raises two fingers in a salute. “your secret is safe with me.”
you don’t trust that for a second, but you’re already shutting his door.
you bolt down the stairs two at a time looking over the crowd. the stupid partys still bumping. you look for his pretty white hair, for his broad shoulders, but with everyone wearing the same color it became impossible.
you groan and head for the couch you left shoko and geto at.
“where’s satoru,” you breathe.
“uh. outside, i think.” geto responds surprised.
“yeah,” shoko adds. “went out front. needed air, apparently.”
you nod and make your way to the front door, the coolness of the night sweeps over your face and you notice a very tall man almost instantly.
he’s leaning against the lamp post across the street with his phone in one hand and his vape in the other.
he only vapes when he’s stressed.
stepping closer, you clock just how small this moment feels and how big it could blow up and become if you say the wrong thing.
“toru,” you say softly.
he looks up.
the second his eyes land on you, he feels his heart pulse.
“can we.. can we talk?” you ask.
he doesn’t answer, he gives you the most longing stare you'd ever seen. then, he steps forward and pulls you into his arms.
hard.
his biceps wrap around you so tight, his scrunched up face presses into your hair, his grip is stable and you want to cry at how passionate this feels.
he breathes out a shaky, “i’m sorry.”
you wrap your arms around his waist and squeeze him back.
“i’m so sorry,” he repeats. “i was a dick. i shouldn’t have been so rude. i should’ve talked to you, communication and all that shit.”
you move back to look up at him. “hey. hey, it’s okay.”
he shakes his head. “no, it’s not. i acted like a stuck up cunt. i thought you slept with shiu and i just… i lost my mind.”
you sigh. “i didn’t. i swear. nothing happened. i should of told you that.”
he nods quickly. “i know. shoko told me. i just… god. i’m sorry i made you feel so shit.”
you reach up and rub your thumb under his eye. a sweet gesture you’ve done a hundred times before. “i’m sorry you got that impression.”
he leans into your touch for half a second before catching himself. “i had no right to be mad even if you had slept with someone. i know that.”
you nod. “yeah. you didn’t. but i get it's because you thought i did it behind you back, especially with someone you really hate."
a beautiful, silent moment exists between you two before you step back, forcing a small smile. “are we all good?”
he lets out a weak laugh. “yeah, you're so good.”
“that wasn't the question, silly.” you add, gently.
after that, you'd both agreed to ditch this lame party and stay at yours for the night. yuki was at higuruma's, so the place was all yours.
at your apartment, you both shower separately then change into comfy sleep clothes. his essentials hoodie ends up on you without either of you talking about it. when you come back into your room, he’s flopped onto your bed with his big arms spread, staring at the ceiling.
“c’mere,” he says, patting the space beside him.
you smile and crawl in next to him, turning onto your side so your head rests against his chest. he adjusts automatically, one arm coming around you, fingers threading through your hair in slow, relaxing strokes.
it feels like safe, blissful warmth. like coming home.
you lie there in silence for a while, listening to his breathing even out.
then he speaks again.
“hey, uhm.. sorry for blowing you off for a chick, the other day, by the way.”
you lift your head. “huh?”
he grimaces. “i lowkey didn’t even have plans. i invited her over after i hung up. just wanted a distraction.”
your chest does a confusing little blip.
“would’ve liked to see you instead,” he adds quietly.
your heart aches and swells at the same time. you press your face back into his chest, “it’s fine.” laughs at your adorably muffled voice, then sighs. “i shouldn’t have done that.”
you shrug. “you’re allowed to see people.”
he hums. “yeah.”
you hesitate, then say it anyway. “i don’t care about the girls you hook up with. doesn't really effect our friendship, right?”
the words feel so distasteful and strange, but you push through.
he smiles a forlorn smile. "right.”
he pulls you a little closer, brushing his lips against your temple in an almost kiss. he threads a piece of your hair through his fingers like a coiled ribbon, feeling the individual stand's texture against the pads of his fingers. this was his therapy, the soothing lull of you, with him.
he can feel your soft breathing slow down as you knock out, the way you always do when you know you can trust him to stay with you.
and god, that trust truly destroys the last bit of careless arrogance he carried in him.
because just hours ago he was so sure you’d replaced him. that you’d looked at someone else and chosen them.
but you no, didn’t.
you never did that.
every girl he’s ever dragged into his bed flashes through his mind in quick, ugly snapshots like those old black and white movies.
they've got faces he can't remember, voices that sounds distorted and wrong, and their bodies look like every other persons. it's surreal.
he tells himself, not for the first time, that he never meant for it to get this bad. it all started as some quick fun. then it became a boarder line addiction, one he desperately wanted to break.. he feels sick at how it turned into something people expected from him, something he leaned into because it meant no one would ever ask him for more.
no one except you.
you wriggle around adorably in your sleep, your knee hitting his thigh, and it smacks him all over again how easy it would be to lose this bliss. how close he came. how close he kinda still is.
he’s been hiding behind it for so long. the flirting. the girls. the persona. acting like he doesn’t care.
but lying here with you? knowing you didn’t do anything wrong, knowing he almost burned the best thing in his life because he couldn’t get over his own shit, something in him finally snaps into place.
he doesn’t want to be that guy anymore.
he wants to be someone you can choose without any hesitation. someone who doesn’t make you doubt where you stand. someone who doesn’t reach for distractions the second things feel too hard for him to handle alone.
i’m gonna fix this, he thinks.
he’s not stupid enough to think it’ll be easy. habits don’t disappear overnight. insecurity doesn’t vanish just because he wants it to. but he can stop hiding behind other people. he can stop pretending he’s fine with the left over crumbs when what he wants is everything.
he wants to earn you.
not with big gestures or revolting drunk confessions he can’t really back up, but by showing up differently to what hes been doing. by choosing you the way you’ve always chosen him.
he was gonna stop. he couldn't be labeled a good for nothing playboy anymore,
~
"so bro, did you figure shit out with your girl?"
"what, you mean y/n? yeah, man. that's all sorted."
gojo was back at the frat the next day after a very messy, long night of staring at your sleeping face, (and fighting to overwhelming urge to kiss your pretty nose.) he was chatting it up with toji who had heard about the drama through shoko.
"just curious, are you two like.. a friend with bennies kinda situation? or what." he asks, shaking his banana protein powder violently in it's can to break apart the clumps.
satoru starts drumming his fingers against the kitchen bench, trying to sound nonchalant. "nah, man. she's just my friend. i've got other girls for that shit." he winces at that douchey response... hm, if he wanted to stop the slut allegations he needed to work on how he talked to guys like toji.
"yeah, and she's just fine with that?"
"i dunno, bro."
toji shakes his head and chuckles, then geto interrupts from the couch.
"ever think of like, oh, i don't know. telling her you're into her?"
gojo lets out a fake groan like he's sick of the question, not like he's obsessed over that very idea for around a year now. "can you two lay off? i'll tell her eventually."
"yeah right. you're gonna waste away your life fucking hoe's you don't even like, and she's gonna get a guy hitched. like shiu." sukuna chimes in from the stairs. fuck, was everyone coming down to clock his shit?
"fuck off with the shiu shit, they didn't do anything."
"yet."
he was seriously about to throw hands.
the chaos is interrupted when nanami walks through the large front door holding a piece of paper.
"i just got the theme for the next function." he says, holding it in the air. "it's that stupid white lies thing we did last year in june, remember that?"
oh, they remembered. everyone in white or coloured shirts with sharpie on the front spelling out a little white lie about each person. so much drama came from that, it was insane.
satoru faintly remembers sukuna's shirt saying, 'i'm not cheating on my girl.' and getting his wallet set on fire not long after said girl got to the party.
"sweet, that's easy to set up." toji commented. all satoru was thinking was how you were the first person he had to invite, his hand itching for his phone.
he smiles at your response and pockets his phone, his mind reeling with what he was gonna write on his shirt, as he taps a finger to his chin, the most big brain, amazing thought pops into his head.
god, i'm so suave.
his promise to himself was about to become really real after this party, he just hoped it didn't all go downhill..
you on the other hand, you were contemplating whether or not what you had planned for your shirt was too much. the instant you'd read his text about the theme, the idea immediately popped into your head.
being brave enough to actually go through with it? that was another story..
~
11pm saturday, the frat.
okay, you're really nervous now. you stand outside for way longer than necessary, your jumper covers the secret writing on your shirt, you can't embarrass yourself, yet.
you take a deep breath and walk into the familiar house you'd crashed at so many times.
it's still early, so only the people actually in the frat are there so far. you walk through slowly and the first one you clock is sukuna.
he’s got a beer in one hand (already? smh.), his white shirt is stretched across his muscly chest with thick black letters that read, i hate milfs.
you snort before you can stop yourself.
toji’s near the tv wiring up the music, his shirt says, i’m not a felon.
these guys weren't real, what the fuck.
shoko’s leaned against the counter nearby, one of those big chunky choofs in her hand. her shirt reads, i’m not addicted to nic.
you love her.
you pull out your phone and shoot satoru a text letting him know you've made it, you barely have time to lock your screen before arms wrap around you from behind.
big, hard, comforting arms.
gojo buries his face into the side of your neck, "there you are,” he says, pleased. “you smell good.”
the blush that covers your cheeks is embarrassing. “well, hi to you too.”
he pulls off and beams down at you, although, you can't help but see a slight hint of nerves in his eyes.
“missed you,” he laughs.
before you can overthink that, you notice that his shirt is covered by a loose flannel, hanging open but covering the writing on his chest.
he notices your eyes flick down and smirks. “don’t look yet.”
you scoff. “oh, so you’re hiding yours too.”
“maybe,” he says. “what about you?”
you tug at the strings of your jumper. “mhm.”
his eyes narrow playfully. “suspicious.”
"you love it."
he grins. “yeah. i do.”
he’s tugging you along by the hand, weaving you through the house toward the kitchen the next second.
“come onn,” he says. “it’s still early. let's pregame before it gets all sweaty and gross.”
the kitchen is devoid of people, satoru hops up onto the counter, then contemplates ad corrects himself.
“wait,” he says. “no. you sit.”
before you can argue, he lifts you and plops you on the bench, your face feels hot but you blame it on the lack of air flow.. or the way he’s standing way too close.
he pours you a drink keeping in mind you’re not trying to get wrecked tonight, then puts it beside you.
“there ya go, sweets,” he says.
“perfect.”
you sip, then notice his fingers tapping against the counter like a drum, oh yeah, he's definitely nervous.
you tilt your head, flashing him that gorgeous smile that always made him weak in the knees. "so.”
he looks at you. “so.”
you smile. “what’s your shirt say?”
...
his laugh is strangled and just a little too loud. “oh, uh. straight to the point, huh.”
“you know it."
he rubs the back of his neck. “it’s stupid.”
“uh huh.”
“and you’re gonna laugh.”
“probably.”
he squints at you. “you go first.”
you shake your head. “nope.”
“c’mon,” he whines. “you’re way braver than me.”
you giggle, heart doing that annoying thing again. “mm, absolutely not.”
he rolls his eyes, then comes up with a compromise.
“okay,” he says. “same time, then.”
you pause. “uhm?.”
“we'll both reveal it at the same time,” he continues. “y'know, like one, two, three.”
you stare at him. “c'mon.”
“you're so lame, pleasee,” he plead.
you roll your eyes. “okay, okay, fine.”
he grins, wide and oh so nervous. “really?”
“yeah,” you say, with your fingers are already curling into the fabric of your jumper. “on three.”
he nods. “okay.”
the moment stretches. neither of you moves.
“you count,” he says.
you swallow and nervously laugh. “one.”
his fingers fall into the edge of his flannel.
“two.”
your hands slide to the hem of your jumper.
“three.”
both of your fabrics lift.
his flannel drops open as you tug your jumper over your head, both of you frozen for a good minute as the truth finally, finally stares back at you.
i’m not in love with my best friend.
on both shirts.
identical. same handwriting style.
you stare at his chest.
he stares at yours.
then you both lose it.
you're both toppled over laughing at how ridiculous this was.
“no fucking way,” he gasps.
you wipe your eye, “are you kidding me.”
he steps closer, closing the space until he’s right between your knees, caging you in gently. his smile softens as he looks down at your shirt.
“wow,” he murmurs.
you feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with fabric.
“guess we both lied,” you say quietly.
“guess so.”
his hands caress your face ever so slowly, like he’s giving you time to slap him off but you don’t.
you stare up at him with big, wide eyes. he smiles and inches toward until your noses touch.
he leans in, “can i?” he asks, quietly.
you nod smiling harder than you ever had before. “yeah.”
then, he kisses you.
it’s soft and warm, nothing like that sloppy drunk one you both pretend you forgot.
you kiss him back deeper, your fingers drift through his hair pulling him closer, and the sound he makes against your mouth is almost whiney, wrecked.
the bliss is interrupted by someone yelling from behind you.
“about fucking time,” sukuna bellows.
you break apart laughing again, foreheads still touching. satoru groans and drops his head to your shoulder.
“i’m killing him,” he mutters.
he hops you off the counter, taking your hand. “we’re leaving.”
“where.”
“my room. like, now. these assholes are not ruining my moment.”
you follow him up the stairs both of you grinning like idiots. he's pulling you softly but quick enough the moment isn't lost.
his door closes behind you. the room is dim, only lit by the lamp on his desk, nice and moody.
he doesn’t rush you and he doesn’t pounce like he did with other women. no. he reaches out and tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, “hi,” he says, dumb and fond.
you smile. “hi.”
satoru literally can't fight this urge any longer, he pulls you into his chest and wraps his arms fully around your body. your cheek presses to his chest, right over his heart, and it’s beating oh so fast. one of his hands slides up to cradle the back of your head with his fingers threading through your hair, stroking slowly.
“i’ve wanted this for so long,” he says into your hair. “like, embarrassingly long.”
you laugh softly. “yeah?”
“yeah,” he says. “i just didn’t think i was, like, allowed to? if that makes sense”
you look up at him with a confused smile. “why wouldn’t you be?”
he swallows. his eyes flick away, then back. “because i’m kind of an asshole, if you couldn't tell.”
you knew what he meant. the women, his not so shiny reputation, his arrogance.
“you're not the only one, i didn’t say anything either.” you rub the side of his face.
he smiles into you hand, “why?”
you stop. then take a breath and decide to be brave. “because you sleep with everyone. and i thought if you wanted me, you would’ve... i don't know, stopped.”
ouch, but deserved.
“fuck,” he says quietly. “i hated that you saw me like that.”
“i mean,” you shrug weakly. “it’s kind of hard not to.”
he laughs. “yeah. fair.”
he presses his forehead to yours. “that shit was never about wanting other people, y/n. it was about not knowing what to do with wanting you.”
your head just went really fuzzy at his poetic expression.
“i made a promise to myself,” he continues. “after i realised i was gonna lose you if i didn’t get my shit together. i’m done with it. all of it. i don’t wanna be that guy anymore.”
you search his face, looking for the joke, but he's dead serious.
“i didn’t think i deserved you,” he admits. “so i kept proving myself right.”
for a moment, neither of you speak. then you reach for his hand and hook your pinky around his.
“okay,” you say. “then let’s just… talk. no more of this back and forth.”
“pinky promise.” he smiles and seals it, then leans in and kisses you again. he pulls back for a second then begins to pepper your face in sweet little pecks, making you giggle at the ticking movement.
“i’ve wanted to do this,” he says between kisses, grinning like he can’t stop himself. “just whenever. whenever i felt like it.”
you laugh, hands in his hair now, tugging him back down. “you’re so silly.”
you end up tangled on his bed, just talking. his legs are weaved through yours as he kisses your face occasionally. you tell him you'd been feeling for the past, what, two years? you tell him how the women always made you jealous, how you'd wish it were you he wanted. he spills his guts just as much. he tells you how they never meant anything, how he knew he had a problem and he was working on it, for you.
three hours of straight yap fly by.
he eventually goes really quiet and clears his throat out. “hey.”
“hmm?”
“would you wanna,” he hesitates, suddenly adorably shy, “go on an actual date with me? like. flowers. dinner. me trying really, really hard.”
you smile so hard your cheeks hurt. “yeah. i would.”
his grin is blinding, him and his stupidly perfect teeth.
“holy shit,” he laughs, pulling you close again. “i got the girl.”
you smile, then drift off wrapped up in each other, both of you finally feeling secure in your feelings for one another.
"night, toru."
"good night, sweetheart."
A/N: i'll be writing some spicy/dating headcanons for this fic !!
immediately after an interaction: i have GOT to get more normal oh god i need to get more normal immediately i have to get more normal or they're going to hunt me down they're going to hunt me down and flay me for sport
during an interaction: and why not put a little spin on it? why not add some conversational zest?
arguing with annoying neighbor bakugo and you get so mad at him to the point where you pull his hair but he moans LOUDLY and now you're both awkwardly standing there while he's in denial of what just happened
✩ ꒱ noise complaints — ft. katsuki bakugou .ᐟ
🏁 ꒰ ✩ suggestive ⋆ mdni ⋆ music major katsuki bakugou & fem!reader. college au, enemies to lovers, hair pulling. you finally confront your neighbour and make a complaint about the noise he creates after hours. this time, he surprises you with a different kind of noise.
imagining a really specific scenario with college!bakugou where your dorm/flat is across the hall from his. you’re constantly complaining about the noise coming from his place cause he’s always crashing out at his roommates or playing music kinda loud when it gets late and you’re trying to study.
you’ve sent him notes, asked his roommates to keep it down and even told the staff in reception but every attempt at keeping some semblance of peace is ignored. your flatmates tell you to give up since there’s only a couple months left until graduation but you argue this is the most important time to respect the people on your shared floor since you’re all trying to study and work hard and get the hell out of university.
im thinking katsuki is a music major so he’s always playing guitar late and night and everyone’s too scared to ask him to stop so one night he’s working on his final piece and you stomp your way over to his flat, eyes tired still dressed in your skimpy silk and pj set and slam your fist down on the door until either kirishima or izuku open up. they barely get out a hey before you’re storming to the blonde’s room and nearly busting down the door with your fist.
“oi you fuckin’ nerds can’t you see ‘m trying to practice—!”
“do you mind shutting the fuck up?”
and for like the first time ever katsuki’s rendered silent because not only is there a hot girl cursing him out at two am but he can also see right down your lacy camisole. he’s quiet for like all of two seconds, lips twisted into a scowl and red eyes narrowed before his expression turns snarky and sleazy.
“what’s in it for me?” he rasps, cocky. “i don’t do that shit for free.”
you jab a finger into his chest. “my foot up your ass that’s what’s in it for you. you’re not the only one who has to study late. keep the noise down.”
then he catches your wrist in his hand peering down to your height, glasses sliding down his nose and katsuki is sooo annoying so full of himself definitely just trying to piss you off more because you’re hotter when you’re mad at him. “don’t tell me what to do.”
“don’t be an asshole!” you snap, attempting to yank yourself free.
“you’re the one bustin’ down doors, screamin’ your head off. pretty sure that makes you the asshole.”
“oh please.”
“yeah? maybe if you use your manners i’ll consider. say, ‘please katsuki, keep the house down.,’ yeah?”
his breath fans over your fave like a smog of desire that clouds your senses. you watch as his eyes trip and stumble to follow then curved lines of your body; the plushness of your thighs and the soft fat at your hips. he’s tearing your clothes apart in his mind instead of focusing on the problem at hand.
“my eyes are up here, dickhead!” without thinking, your fingers reach up and pull hard on straw blonde hair. to piss him off for grabbing you or just to get him to let you go. you’re tired, cranky and pretty sure you have some dumb pop quiz tomorrow but you’ve had enough of him teasing you and enough of him staring at your boobs and thighs like you’re some kind of hunk of meat. yet when you pull, the world slows down and all the tension buzzing in the atmosphere stills.
…because the sound katsuki lets out is far from his usual low, gravelly voice.
instead it’s high pitched, whiney like he’s desperate for something more. like weak, defenceless little animal crying for help. it comes out strangled and a little hopeless in a way that makes your eyes widen and an emotion darker, hungrier than annoyance pull at your internal organs.
“did you just—?”
“s-shut up!” bakugou flails, red in the face. “i’ll keep fuckin’ quiet just don’t—!”
he releases you and you stagger backwards — dazed and amused. “don’t tell anyone that you like having your hair pulled? that you absolutely do whimper when you’re told what to do?” you tug again just for good measure, watching his eyes roll back and his bottom lip wobble. “i don’t kiss and tell.”
“whaddya mean by that?”
“it means the next time i pull your hair, katsuki, you’ll be underneath me rather than in front of me looking down my top.”
end ! likes are appreciated, but just liking doesn’t do much on tumblr! to support and motivate myself and other writers, reply, reblog and comment if you'd like to see more!! — asks are open to thirsts and thoughts! join my taglist ! love you!
Hiiii I’ve really been wanting a bakugo katsuki x fem reader where they do anal i can NEVER find one if you can find it I’d def want them to have already done it before plenty of times so it’s like a normal thing for them I just want Katsuki to be mean 😛
ouuu yes nonnie — bakugou would absolutely have you facedown, face shoved sideways into the mattress with your ass tilted up and katsuki kneeling behind you looking about as unbothered as a man getting ready to ruin you can possibly be — not that you're complaining though.
gym shorts on the floor, hand on your lower back, two fingers working into your ass slowly and deliberately, like he's got nowhere to be, even though the way he watches you squirm says he's clocking every single twitch. your anklet clinks when your legs jitter — he definitely noticed.
"quit clenching," he orders flatly, almost bored, like you're being dramatic on purpose, even though his thick fingers keep spreading them apart slightly whenever he gets deep enough to feel you tighten, just to make the noise happen again, the little whimper you make into the sheet. which you do — right on schedule.
bakugou doesn't say anything. just keeps going.
"m' not," you insist, muffled, such a lie that your body punishes you for it immediately — clenching down harder around him, and he makes this low sound that isn't quite a laugh but has no business being that smug.
his thumb circles slowly, just outside your rim, and your hips stutter back without consulting you. he notices that too. two-second pause. then a third finger, no warning, and the squelch of it is so fucking loud and embarrassing — you shove your face into the mattress like that'll help.
"yeah— you are," he says, working you open with that same unhurried patience that somehow feels meaner than roughness would. "every fuckin' time. same thing." his eyes are on where his fingers disappear into you, you can feel the weight of it, and when he speaks again, his voice has dropped just slightly, "look at you takin' it though." not quite praise. not quite anything. just an observation, delivered like a verdict, and your untouched pussy throbs from the nothing of it because you're hopeless. his free hand presses your lower back flat when you try to chase friction, "said still."
you don't stay still. he knows you won't stay still. that's not the point.
the point is the noise you make when he pulls his fingers free and lines his cock up against your ass, and that first slow push in that makes your brain go temporarily, humiliatingly blank.
he doesn't rush it, sinks in inch by inch while your toes curl and your hands fist the sheets — nothing coherent makes it past your lips except for a long, helpless exhale that trails into something that's almost his name. almost.
his hips finally press flush against you and he stops there, thumbs spreading you wider, just looking, just taking stock, and the indignity of those few seconds would bother you more if you could think clearly.
"tight every time," katsuki mutters, "every fuckin' time like i haven't done this almost every. single. day." his cock throbs inside you and you feel it everywhere, the stretch of him sitting right at the edge of too much, and he still hasn't moved. you make a noise. embarrassingly needy. he tilts his head, "yeah?" another throb, intentional this time, and the way your walls squeeze around him in response pulls a short breath out of his chest. "thought so."
"mm, katsuki—" you start.
"what," he asks, sounding bothered.
"please move, please, i need you to move—" and your hips are already doing it for you, already rolling back trying to get something, anything, and he lets out a slow breath and grips your hip to stop you.
"needy," he mumbles, and rolls his hips forward once. the drag of him pulls a sound out of you that bounces off the walls. "always s' needy." he does it again and his hands settle on your ass, thumbs still spreading you apart so he can watch, and he starts talking the way he does when he's paying very close attention to every reaction, that low even voice that shouldn't work on you as well as it does, "she's already soaking f' me and i haven't even touched her yet," directed down at your cunt — slick and completely ignored, dripping onto the sheets from nothing but the stretch of his cock in your ass — "look at that."
"d-don't—" you moan, which is not a real sentence.
"don't what." he rolls his hips again, a slow grind that seats him fully and holds, and you feel the crown of him bully its way so deep your eyes roll back. "she misses gettin' touched, huh." you whimper and your ass pushes back helplessly and katsuki makes a sound low in his chest, "yeah. yeah i know. s' okay." which is the most obscene thing about this whole situation, the way he talks to your pussy like it's a sad thing that deserves comfort while he is actively, methodically taking you apart from behind.
his pace picks up. not fast, not yet — just steady and mean and deep enough that every thrust knocks a small sound out of you, plap plap plap filling the room and your face burning with it. his hand finds your hair, gathering it at the root, not yanking yet, just holding, and he leans forward enough that his chest is warm against your back and his mouth is close to your ear. "you gonna keep bein' a brat about it," he asks, calmly. "or you done."
"done, 'm done, i was never— katsuki, right there, right there, please~" and your voice breaks on the last word in a way that would embarrass you if you had any capacity left for embarrassment, which you don't, because he's found an angle and he knows it and the way he adjusts to hit it again with that same deliberate calm is cruel, it's so cruel, "please please please—"
"there she is," he breathes, and now his voice has something in it, something rougher that he hasn't entirely gotten a handle on, hips snapping forward sharply, "f' me, yeah, jus' like that." his free hand slides around to your front and finds your clit, two fingers pressing down against your soaked folds, rubbing fast and mean, and you dissolve. practically babbling his name. "katsu— katsuki, i can't, i'm gonna— m' gonna~"
"you're gonna," he agrees, strained, movement getting sloppy at the edges, jaw tight when you twist to see his face, "she's squeezin' me— shit— stop that, you can't—" directed down again, at the way your cunt is clenching around his fingers in response, fluttering around nothing while his cock stays buried in your ass, and he sounds wrecked by it, actually wrecked, "greedy— f-fuuck... both of you. both so greedy f' me—"
you cum with your face in the mattress and both his hands on you and his cock still moving through it and the sound you make is borderline embarrassing and he catalogues every second of it, slowing just enough to feel it, jaw dropping slightly. "good girl," he says, rough, and then he's pressing his face into the back of your neck and his hips go erratic and sloppy.
three thrusts later, and he's groaning into your hair, cumming with his teeth grazing your skin and his hand pressed flat against your stomach like he can feel himself from the outside, like he's checking, like he's making absolutely sure.
he stays there for a long moment after. breathing. the chain on his neck is cold against your spine. you can feel his heartbeat through his chest.
"you good, baby?" he finally says, gruff, pulling back to look at you properly.
you are face-down and approximately seventy percent conscious. "yeah," you manage.
"good— good girl." he presses one brief, unbothered kiss to the back of your shoulder, like this is a thing he does casually, like it means nothing. "drink some water."
you are most likely going to think about the way he said both so greedy f' me for the next six to seven business days.
synopsis:bakugou’s got a serious case of fomo. or there was no way he was about to miss out on you prancing around in a tiny bikini with your ass hanging out.
contents: minors dni, 18+, female reader, established relationship, fucking against the wall in your room, kaminari, kiri and mina are all outside, horny in your swimming pool, handjob, tbh i think kaminari has a crush on you but that’s on you if you wanna believe it :), bkg in loooveeee, unprotected sex, kissing.
notes: this was commissioned by @katsukisfriend who’s been so so so lovely!!! this picture inspired me in his black swimming shorts and yeahhhhhh!!! hope you all enjoy :) (also green for the colour of his crocs :))
bakugou thought always thought fomo, fear of missing out, was a childish thing. something that little brats feel when they aren’t able to go out with their friends due to being grounded or missing the latest episode of a show that everyone was watching. fomo is childish in the world of adult responsibilities. it isn’t possible to do everything you want to do when everyone’s on your back asking for this and that and the other. especially with a job as busy and important as his, it was something he just accepted over time. some things he’d have to say no to.
and that was never a problem for him. he always trumped work as being more important than what other activity was offered. most of the time it was a lucky excuse when his parents begged him to visit his family out of town or kaminari begged him to go on a double date with this girl he liked. “can’t. got work.”
but now bakugou katsuki had a girlfriend and honestly, he was beginning to get a little pissed off at having to say no when you offered to do things. his “can’t” comes out apologetic and his “got work” comes out envious of all the other people in the world that didn’t.
so, the reason why bakugou used way more force than necessary on his last villain of the day, dumped his paperwork on his assistant’s desk and speeded past at least three red lights was because you, his pretty little girlfriend, asked if he wanted to hang out in your new pool with your friends.
⇢ in which you and bakugou still gravitate towards each other despite having broken up months ago.
small deaths ┋amajiki x reader
⇢ the corruption of amajiki tamaki.
childhoodfriend!bakugou┋part two.
⇢ quirkless!au. bakugou is your guard dog turned...something more.
⤷ get set, brawl!
⇢ set in the chf!bkg universe. bakugou gets into a fight, marring his squeaky-clean student record.
⤷ being your friend
⇢ set in the chf!bkg universe. in progress.
arms┋pro hero!bakugou x reader
⇢ katsuki was never one to ‘sit with his emotions.’ the fuck is he gonna do with them? but then there’s you. or, you put your arms around him and he’s home and all that corny shit.
pit stop┋pro hero!bakugou x reader
⇢ in which bakugou insists on stopping by a cafe post-mission despite being injured.
in moderation┋pro hero!bakugou x reader
⇢ new relationships have that type of fragility that requires care, patience, restraint, and temperance. and, well…katsuki has never been known to be gentle. or, katsuki struggles with the thought that he’s being too much, too soon.
shorts
6:43 pm
9:35 pm
i love patient men
katsuki and his aversion to getting his pictures taken
amajiki i will eat you
ex bf!katsuki, unfortunate shirts, and an unfortunate run-in at the grocery store
girls night out without katsuki
katsuki hates seeing you cry
katsuki’s daughter has a new favorite hero
headcanons
bnha boys when you bite them (ft. midoriya, todoroki, bakugou, aizawa)
bnha boys as bodyguards (ft. bakugou, aizawa, amajiki, kirishima)
summary! you've been fucking your fratboy-friend suguru for ages. you've always wanted your relationship to be more than casual sex, but he always shuts that down. then, like a god with a really nice cock, choso, the schools most reliable plug, tries to swoop you out of that assholes grip. you finally have a man who's willing to give you the world, but will suguru fuck that up for you? (SMUTTTT, p in v, oral: f receiving, fingering.) a lil angst, mostly sexy choso tho 🤞🏼
"f-fuck! sugu, oh god, i can't!"
your cries only fuel the cocky man to thrust harder, deeper as he grunted like an animal in your ear from behind.
"c'monnn, be a good girl and fucking take it, i know you can, baby." he teased, slapping in and out in long strokes, hitting your womb over and over with each tantalising push.
this arrangement blossomed some time after highschool.
both you and suguru always had a thing for each other, even then. you'd share headphones in class, study late at night until the sun came up, and took on projects together as an excuse to be in one another's presence. gojo and shoko always made fun of you both, calling you love struck idiots with no sense of self respect to just admit you liked eachother.
now, in collage, that wishy washy bond seemed to amplify ten fold, with nothing relationship wise being set in stone but the actions always there. right now, in the form of his relentless pounding.
you were an art major at the university of jujutsu, scraping by on your salary from your dive bar job as you navigated the occasional ragers on weekends at suguru and satorus frat, sigma chi, along with the stress of creating.
your dream is to become a free lancer, taking commissions from big names and spending the rest of your life as a dignified artist. but, like all good careers, study and your minimum wage job came first.
the job you were working only an hour ago before suguru waltzed in and whispered lowly in your ear, "been thinking bout' you all day, baby. what time d'you get off?"
now, he's got your hair in a messy bunch as he hits it from behind, moaning and groaning like a fucking porn star. his cocks pushing the nastiest whines from your throat, but his pace never settles.
"fuckkk— you're a pro at takin' this dick, keep fluttering around me sweetheart, just like that." he pounds into you extra hard that time, letting you know exactly who has you wrapped around his finger.
he hovers over your body reeling with that hot afterglow, panting. the room now smells like his strong cologne and sex. he doesn’t rush to pull off of you, suguru never does that. instead, he stays there breathing steadily, his head dipped toward your shoulder.
“you good?” he asks, looking through your eyes deep into your head in that penetrating suguru way.
“yeah,” you say too breathless. you clear your throat and try again. “yeah– yeah. i’m good.”
he smiles contently and rolls off to the side, tugging you with him until you’re half draped over his big, bare, muscular chest. the bed creaks under the movement. his hand comes up to your back, the pad of his thumb pushing slow lines into the muscles.
it's moments like these when your mind starts to wonder why you feel so attached to this guy when all he really takes from you is sex, and all you get in return is an unstable sense of stability and a few party invites.
suguru lets out a stretch and a long groan, resting his chin in the top of your head as your tucked into his chest. “do you work tomorrow?”
“mhm, a morning shift,” you answer. “then gotta finish a com.”
“mm. that's rough, honey.”
honey..
you smile a little at that, even though he can’t see it. he always says that, like it’s a given that your life is busy and hard and worth acknowledging in his eyes. it’s stupid, but it matters to you and he knows that.
he gets a call from the bedside table, but hangs up the line immediately. that small gesture makes your brain go numb.
you hesitate, then speak before you can talk yourself out of having this conversation.
“hey, suguru?"
"hm?"
"you ever think about… i dunno. doing things differently?”
“different how?” he asks carefully, his massaging hand slowing down a tad.
you gulp. this is the line you've never crossed. the one you circle and circle and never, ever step over. “like… i don’t know. not sneaking around. not pretending this is just–"
“hey,” he cuts in gently, lifting your chin so you have to look at him. his expression isn’t unkind. if anything, that makes it worse. “you know where i’m at.”
you nod, even though your chest feels constricted. “i know.”
“i’m not looking for anything serious right now,” he says. it’s not mean. it’s not supposed to be dismissive in any way, shape or form, it’s just true. “i don’t want to give you the wrong idea, love."
then stop calling me that...
“i know,” you say instead, “i’m not asking for anything. i was just... thinking about it, i guess."
he watches you for a second, eyes searching your face like he’s checking for any excess damage. then he moves in and leaves a brief kiss on your forehead.
“you’re important to me,” he says. “you know that?"
you do, and you don’t. both at the same time somehow.
eventually, he falls asleep. you stay awake a little longer, staring at the ceiling, thinking about all the things you could never ask for from a man you'd been so indulged in.
~
monday's on campus were hot, long, and so, so boring.
you had a lecture on influences on modern art this morning, eugh.
you had your lecture materials and laptop tucked into your bag as you dragged your feet to the art block. the path curves around the science block, concrete stained and cracked from years of foot traffic. you slow your pace a little as you round the corner, adjusting your grip on your bag.
that’s when your wandering eyes land on a guy you'd never seen before.
he’s leaning against the wall just out of sight from the main path. his long brown hair shoved up into a messy man bun as the tattooed line across his nose stuck out starkly against his fair skin. he's toweringly tall, with baggy dark jeans held up with a leather diesel belt, campus 00's that'd seen better days, and a white beater adorning his muscular body. on his meaty arms, various detailed tattoos snake up and down in twisted patterns, with thick chained bracelets and leather studded cuffs wrapping around his wrists.
holy shit, this guy was your ever wet dream re-imagined.
his various face piercings and thing chain around his neck caught the morning sun as lyour steps slow down without you noticing.
this mysterious man isn’t alone. a guy you vaguely recognise from around campus stands off to the side yet still close, talking quickly with his eyes darting around. you look away instinctively, staring at your shoes, pretending you’re just another student late for class.
voices drift through the air, shoes scuff, then the other guy leaves in a hurry with his head head down.
when you glance back, the tall, grungey one is counting bills. a lot of them. he folds them without any sort of panic, then tucks them into his pocket like it’s nothing.
oh.
you look away again, heart jumping, suddenly very aware of how obvious you must seem. you tell yourself to keep walking. mind your business, you didn't see anything.
but when you pass the corner, you feel it. his eyes, all over you.
you risk a small glance over, and he’s looking at you openly, those brown irises almost choking you up. when your eyes meet, he smiles softly.
that was a surprise.
it isn’t suggestive in the gross way guys usually looked at you, it isn’t cocky or smug either. it’s warm and a little boyish like he’s amused yet slightly embarrassed by being caught, still, it's like he doesn’t mind it at all. like he thinks you’re cute for staring.
you rip your eyes away from the majestic looking boy and grab your bag tight.
you don’t look back at him, because you know you don't need to.
a guy like that stays engraved in your head for at least a week.
~
a few hours later, beta theta phi.
the house is weirdly quiet, everyone’s either in class, at the gym, or passed out somewhere upstairs.
the sun still burns hot as it squeezes its way through the blinds onto the leather couch choso's lounging in.
he’s got his legs spread and his boots planted flat on the floor, a thick stack of bills resting on his thigh. he counts slowly, he likes the feel of the paper, the weight of it, the reassurance that it’s all still there.
a cigarette sits loosely between his two fingers with white smoke floating upward as he exhales through his nose.
beta theta phi isn’t flashy by any means. the house isn’t huge or pristine, and to be honest, no one’s tryna pretend it is. it’s solid, very old money mixed with modern features. heavy, trusty furniture, scuffed floors, various trophies shoved onto wooden shelves without much care. it was a spot where loyalty mattered much more than appearance.
choso slots perfectly into this frat, like it was built from the ground up just for him.
he flicks through the last of the bills, taps the stack against his leg to even it out, then slips the money into a thick envelope. it joins two others already sitting on the coffee table. today was good. but when it came to choso, today was always good.
his brain start to wander, his mind flashing images of you this morning, your face all blushy and shy. he knows he only saw you for a few seconds, but he thought you were really cute.
he's knocked out of the day dream when the front door swings open and two rowdy brothers pour inside.
toji’s big booming voice wafts through the halls first, talking shit about something dumb with sukuna, who follows close behind. they've both got a towel draped over their shoulder, hair damp from the gym. they smell like sweat and cheap soap, muscles still tight from whatever they’d just put themselves through.
“yo,” toji says, spotting choso. “look at this guy. always sittin’ here so pretty.”
choso glances up, a corner of his mouth lifting. “yeah? ladies like pretty boys, js' look at gojo.”
"ain't that the truth, that guys drownin' in pussy." sukuna laughs.
they drop onto the couch beside him, the cushions dipping under their massive weight. sukuna reaches out, clasping choso’s hand in a quick dap. toji copies.
sukuna leans back, stretching his arms over the back of the couch. “you look relaxed.”
“that’s because i am,” choso replies, taking another drag before tapping ash into an empty can. “money’s good today.”
toji snorts. “when's it not?”
choso’s smile deepens, “that's true.”
toji eyes the envelopes on the table. “what’d you clear?”
“enough,” choso says easily. he doesn’t give numbers unless he feels like it. most of the time, he doesn’t.
sukuna whistles low anyway. “campus still eatin’ outta your hand, huh?” that gets a quiet chuckle out of him. “pretty much.”
it isn’t bragging, of course. choso was humble like that, it’s just fact.
everyone knows him. not in that loud, showy, gojo way, but in the way that keeps his name out of problems and his product moving cleanly throughout everyone's pockets. he doesn’t advertise his stuff, and he definitely doesn’t chase clients. people come to him because they trust him, because he never cuts corners, never shorts anyone, never brings problems back to his frat, to his brothers.
most of the frats on campus run through him. beta theta phi, obviously. but sigma chi too. alpha delta, kappa nu, even a few of the smaller houses that pretend they don’t need a plug until friday hits and everyone’s scrambling for grass no one bothered to get.
he keeps it all so organised and respectful, that’s why no one fucks with him.
he’s made more money than most people their age could even imagine. stacks on stacks tucked away, accounts spread out across multiple banks, investments already working for him while he lounges on a couch counting cash. he could’ve left school ages ago, perhaps disappeared to some holiday country and never looked back,
but he didn’t.
college is just so easy. it's nice and predictable, a cover as much as it is a choice. and beta theta phi gave him brothers who don’t ask questions they don’t need the answers to. he really liked that.
sukuna shifts, rolling his shoulders. “oh, speaking of sigma chi.”
choso glances at him. “hm?”
“they’re throwin’ some function this weekend,” sukuna says. “gojo was runnin’ his mouth in the locker room earlier. said we could all get free entry if you supply some dope.”
toji laughs. “classic.”
choso exhales smoke, considering it for half a second. “yeah. that’s fine.”
sukuna raises a brow. “that easy?”
“why not,” choso shrugs. “i can afford to lose a little.”
sukuna smiles. "it's a glow party, that rave kinda thing we never do because it gets too messy. so, gojo also wanted some molly, said he'd pay for that tho."
"done."
toji grins and leans over, clapping him on the back hard enough to jostle the envelopes. “fuckin’ legend.”
“seriously,” sukuna adds, nodding. “you’re so good to us.”
choso waves it off, already flicking ash again. “what can i say? i love you guys.”
toji lets out a loud laugh, leaning back so far the couch creaks under him. “listen to this guy.” he mocks, throwing his head back.
sukuna snorts, shaking his head. “shut up, toji. y' just mad he's not as emotionally immature as you are. love you too, cho."
choso rolls his eyes.
toji stretches, arms over his head, muscles pulling tight beneath his skin. “anyways, we’re grabbing food. you wanna tag along? i'll pay.”
choso opens his mouth to answer, then pauses. somethings been nagging at him, hell, might as well pick at these meat heads brains.
“hey,” he says instead.
they both look at him.
“you guys ever hear of a girl,” he starts to explain as his eyes float towards the window, “she's an art major, i think. always got a bag full of paints or something. looks like she wandered onto campus by accident.”
toji squints. “that’s… vague.”
sukuna tilts his head, thinking. “art major, huh?”
“yeah,” choso says. “real pretty, doesn’t look like she knows how hot she is.”
there’s a hum that comes from sukuna, then he snaps his fingers. “oh. her.”
choso’s attention sharpens up. “yeah?”
“[name],” sukuna says. “she’s always around sigma chi stuff. parties, events, whatever. went to high school with gojo and his friends, i’m pretty sure.”
toji nods. “yeah, i know who you mean. really nice girl.”
choso hums quietly, absorbing it. “friends with gojo,” he repeats.
“yeah, pretty much family, from what i hear,” sukuna shrugs. “why?”
toji eyes him for a second longer, like he wants to push, then grins instead. “sure you are.”
they head for the door, laughter trailing behind them as it swings shut.
the house falls quiet again.
choso leans back into the couch, staring at the dangling light, the name turning over in his head.
“[name], huh?”
~
sigma chi looks like a cyberpunk futuristic fantasy with the amount of glowing neon paint smeared across everyone's bodies.
big blacklights are bolted into every corner of the room, splashing the walls and dancing bodies in radioactive colours.
paint splatters glow like constellations across bare arms and collarbones and the heavy hitting music penetrates every ear drum.
you’re stationed in the kitchen wearing a pretty, tight dress you almost didn't wear. it hugs you perfectly, so short gojo whistled when he saw you earlier. small lines of neon paint streak horizontally across your cheeks, you hadn’t planned on doing your makeup like this but of course, shoko insisted. her steady hand painted you up while you both giggled and tried to stay still.
right now, you’re posted up in the kitchen with her and that white haired idiot, plastic cups full of jungle juice sweating in your hands. it looks scarily neon aswell, which sorta freaks you out.
“this shit is gonna kill me,” shoko mutters, taking another sip anyway.
gojo laughs, throwing an arm over your shoulders and leaning his weight into you like he always does. “you say that every time.”
“because every time i’m right.”
you smile leaning into gojo. he trys to whisper something flirty in your ear but you shove his face away with a scoff and he fake pouts.
shoko nudges aaid with her elbow. “you got any molly?”
he grimaces. “not on me.”
you glance at him, curious. “but you said-”
“relax,” he grins. “choso’s bringing some.”
you blink. “who?”
they both look at eachother, then at you. "you don't know choso?" they say jointly.
before either of them can answer any further, scuffling near the doorway catches your eye.
your breath gets all hault up in your lungs, because its him.
the guy from earlier this week. he's tall even among the crowd of athletes, his black clothes look beautifully fitting for his vibe. neon paint traces a line across his nose, glowing exactly where that tattoo you'd seen had been. his eyebrow and nose piercings have been swapped out for neon pink rings that glow vibrantly in the backlight.
he looks so perfect it's almost nauseating.
he stalks straight up to gojo, and without a proper greeting, he throws an arm around his neck, pulling him in close like they’ve done this a bajillion times.
“took you long enough,” gojo laughs, slapping a hand against choso's chest.
the guy grins nice and wide, then shoves a bag full of weed into gojo’s arms like it’s nothing more than candy. “don’t get greedy.”
“you’re actually the best,” gojo beams.
shoko leans in close to you, whispering, “that’s choso.”
oh.
choso laughs with gojo shaking his pretty head, then reaches into his pocket again. this time, he pulls out a small baggie with five pink pills gleaming.
from beside you, shoko makes a tiny, triumphant sound. “yes!"
gojo fishes out cash and hands over four fifty dollar notes without counting. choso takes them, counts them, then stops for a sec. he plucks one back and presses it into gojo’s chest with a wink.
“hundred fifty,” he says. “consider it a favor.”
gojo looks like christmas came early. “i fucking love you.”
“yeah, yeah,” choso laughs.
they bump shoulders, laugh together for a few minutes, then step apart. gojo claps him on the arm. “enjoy the party, man.”
“always do.”
choso turns to leave, but then he stops.
because his dark, now completely blown out eyes catch on you.
you're fully exposed in your staring. for a small moment of time, he freezes still. like he didn’t expect to see you here, like the room had dropped out from under him.
then he laughs. awkward and quiet, scratching at the back of his neck.
you smile back shyly, it’s adorably small, but hell, it wacks him in the head like a brick.
he straightens a little, smile turning nervous in a way that doesn’t match his size or his nonchalant reputation. he looks like he’s about to say something. like he’s weighing his options, deciding if he should come over, if this is his moment.
you tilt your head, waiting for something to come of this, then,
“choso!” someone yells from across the room.
a guy with short dark hair and a pedo stache named shiu, a man you'd seen before hanging around toji.
choso glances back at you. then at shiu.
“c'mon, kamo!” shiu calls again, much louder this time.
choso exhales, running a hand through his hair. he gives you one last look and it's apologetic, almost regretful.
then he turns and disappears into the crowd.
you're a little confused, and sigh.
gojo sidles back up beside you, following your gaze. “damn.”
“what?” you ask.
he grins. “if i was gay, choso’s the first guy i'd crack.”
shoko rolls her eyes "if?"
~
some old zara larsson song keeps bumping over the speakers whether you’re into it or not, so you decide you might as well be in it.
you drain the rest of your cup and let shoko drag you back toward the living room where everyone's bodies are slotted together, neon paint streaking across skin every time someone brushes past. someone hands you another drink without asking and you take it, laughing when shoko raises her brows at you.
“c'mon girl, pace yourself,” she says.
“i amm,” you lie, sipping away.
you try to dance like usual, your hips moving with the beat, shoulders loose, smiling at people you barely know. a few guys spin you as some freshman's yelling over a group of girls, and someone else bumps into you and apologises with a drunken smile. it’s fun. it’s loud. it’s everything a party should be.
and still, your head just won't stop obsessive over that guy, over 'choso'.
you begrudgingly catch yourself scanning the room between songs, between laughs, between drinks.
it’s stupid! you don’t know him. you don’t know his major, his year, his anything.
you shake your head and take another drink.
then, just as you're about to flop into whatever leather couch is closest and contemplate your enter existence, big, firm hands snake around your waist.
you lean back into the man you know is behind you without second guessing yourself.
“there you are,” he murmurs near your ear.
you turn your head just enough to catch his pretty grin. “i've been here for ages, suguru.”
“yeah?” he says. “could’ve fooled me.”
his body pressed up against you flush as he grinds his hips into yours, his mouth kissing at your neck.
he wraps his forearms around your chest as you sway with the music. "you look so fucking good,” he adds, eyes dragging over you. “that dress is just... wow.” he grabs your ass briefly before laughing as you smack his hand away.
you laugh, tipping your head back against his shoulder. “you’re drunk.”
“a little,” he admits, then dips his head to your neck again.
you dance together, two bodies screaming sex appeal as others point and grin at your fluidity.
he murmurs your name into your neck, his perfectly straight teeth nipping at your skin again, and you forget about the neon paint and the blacklight, along with the mysterious man that had that soft smile.
you’re here now, with suguru.
after awhile of sex heavy music, it changes over to something geto doesn't like, so with one kiss to the bottom of your ear, he whispers, "come on, let’s go mingle a bit.” then pulls you over to your friends with an arm
“oh look, they're not upstairs yet,” gojo calls when he sees you. “thought you ditched us.”
geto just smirks, squeezing your side. “wouldn’t dream of it.”
yuki raises a brow, eyes flicking between the two of you. “you guys look cozy.”
“don’t we always?” you say lightly.
sukuna watches the two of you draw closer, and his mind drifts off to what choso had asked him the other day. he studies you for a second longer than necessary, his eyes sharp even through the fog of the party. then he straightens, arms crossing over his chest.
“so,” he says, blunt as ever. “are you two dating or what?”
oh, okay.
you feel choked up at his bluntness, caught off guard. before you can answer, you feel geto’s arm drop from around your waist.
he steps half a foot away.
“nah,” he says quickly, waving a hand like it’s nothing. “we’re just hooking up right now.”
just..
there’s a weird, awkward silence. gojo clears his throat. yuki looks away and sukuna sucks his lips in trying not to laugh, like he's noticed how bad that question was.
“right,” you say, forcing a smile. “yeah.”
geto doesn’t even spare you a glance.
yeah, this is too much. you were never good in awkward situations.
“i’m gonna go see what shoko's up to.”
you weren't going to see shoko, but you still step away, desperately needing some fresh air.
you push through the back door and onto the porch, whatever screeching drill music you'd assumed yuji put on fading behind you.
as you clicked the door shut, you swivel around and notice that you're not the only one on this porch.
the guy you'd learnt to be choso, leans against the metal railing just a few feet away, a burning blunt between his ringed fingers.
the glow from inside spills across his back, outlining him in soft purple light.
crap.
he hasn’t noticed you yet, you consider retreating, stepping back inside and pretending you didn’t see him. but, as you step back, your heel clips a large pot plant.
it rattles in its plant tray creating a ruckus.
“shit,” you hiss.
choso looks over his shoulder.
for a second, he seems surprised. then his mouth curves into a small, crooked smile.
“stalkin’ me now, hm?” he says teasingly.
gosh, how utterly pathetic could this night get.
"no- no! i was just- getting some air and i didn't know you were-"
you're cut off by his fond laugh, he's staring at your with half squinted eyes.
"don't worry, it's all good. m' only teasing."
his voice...
you hesitate, then breathe out a relived laugh with him. "i'll leave you to it then, m' sorry."
but before you can step back again, he chokes out a, "no, no. you should stay." it comes out louder than he'd planned, and you can tell by the way his next sentence comes much softer. "i don't mind company, y'know?" he rubs at his neck almost shyly.
laughing lightly at that, you slide into the spot next to him and grip the railing, your shoulder brushing against his.
he turns his body so he's facing you, then, holds out his veiny hand for you to grab. "choso, it's nice to finally meet you." he waits.
you humor him and let your smaller hand slip into his. "[name], it's nice to meet you too."
unexpectedly, he brings your hand up to his lips, looking you in the eye as he presses his lips to your delicate knuckles.
"pretty name for a pretty girl."
then he reaches up and brushes a loose strand of hair away from your cheek with the back of his fingers.
he's intoxicating. he's somehow so flirty while looking so shy. you wanna dissapear with him, something about the man was screaming at you to take him by the belt and let him take care of the rest.
but you know better. you really do.
this is choso. and sure, you'd only really become aware of him this past week, but he couldn't be good news. he was the campus plug, a guy with a reputation that trails behind him like smoke wherever he went. bad news wrapped in real good looks and his adorably shy chivalry. you shouldn’t barter into this, you really shouldn’t smile like you were as he smiled back, shouldn’t feel this pull towards him.
and yet, you let him wrap his pointer finger around yours as he stood leaning against the rail, keeping it there as he blew smoke into the sky.
"already so touchy? we just met, y'know." you quiz with a blushed out smile, wriggling the finger he has trapped on his own like a link.
"yeah," he turns to face you again, "but i already know i fuck with you. i like moving at a pace that feels right."
"and this 'feels right?'" you laugh.
"the right-est."
"huh." you reply, like it was a small yet significant revelation. you wriggle your finger again, but this time it's to hold his tighter, earning a smile from him.
"hope you don't have a boyfriend." he asks, looking down at you slyly.
"it's... complicated."
"so no, sweet."
"i-" he taps a finger to your lip.
"if you had a good man taking care of you, that answer wouldn't have any of that wishy washy bullshit. you don’t have a boyfriend, let's leave it at that."
"yes sir." you joke, and his pants tighten a lil.
somehow, you feel like you'd known this guy you only properly met ten minutes ago since freshman year, no, screw that, since grade school. he was conversing with you like how one might talk to their long term on again off again. it was captivating yet also terrifying.
he inches closer to you, "i wanna get to know you, [name], should stay out here for a while, hm?"
you nod, and that was that, you end up talking to him for hours.
“i’m kinda surprised i haven’t seen you around more. you’d think i would’ve noticed a guy like you.” you say halfway through your little moment. he lets out a soft laugh, glancing back toward the party through the glass door. “a guy like my? huh? yeah, nah. i don’t come to these much.”
“really?” you tilt your head. “but you and gojo seem close.”
“we hang out heaps,” he nods. “just not here. sigma chi gets too messy n' it's not really my scene.”
you hum in agreement. “fair.”
“what about you?” he asks. “you always here?”
“more than i should be,” you admit. “occupational hazard.”
that gets a grin out of him. “oh, so you work?”
"yeah, i work at a-" you're cut off,
"a bar?"
you blink. “how’d you know?”
he shrugs. “you’ve got the look.”
you laugh. “and what look is that?”
“like you can handle drunk guys without losing your mind.”
“barely,” you whisper under your breath. “i work at the sway bar, it's just off campus.”
“hm,” his brows lift. “might have to stop by sometime.”
you look up at him smiling. “i’d really like that.”
“what frat are you in?” you ask him next, and you grin at the way his face lights up.
"beta theta phi, with sukuna and toji, y'know them?"
“ahhh i see,” you smile. “yeah, i know them. i can totally see that.”
“see what?” he asks amused.
“you sorta just, match their vibe? i guess?”
he leans over to you, then, in a smooth motion he's bracing one arm on the railing behind you so your back would touch his chest if you leaned back. “and what vibe’s that exactly?”
you get choked up for a sec before grinning. “like, dark. kinda edgy.”
he lets go of a breathy laugh. “yeah? you into that? dark n’ edgy?”
your face blushes pink as you nod. “yeah, kinda.”
that seems to please him, because his smile is satisfied and content.
as you're talking about everything and nothing simultaneously, you slowly start to realise you haven’t thought about suguru once. not about how shitty he'd made you feel or the way he would probably be expecting you back inside and in his bed right about now.
your world has narrowed completely, honing in on the man beside you.
"i think you're really cool, [name]." he says from his spot behind you, his chest now fully hugging into your back as his arms have migrated from the pole to your waist. for some reason, where this would usually feel weird, too fast or sexual with most other men, it felt causal with him. like, instead of a rapey gesture meant to swoon you into bed, it was an action that felt so natural and grounding. you were definitely leaning into him.
"i'd hope so, you're kinda hugging me like we're a thing right now."
"would you be into that?" he speaks into your ear, his chin now pushing into the crook of your neck from behind.
"into what? us being a thing?"
"lowkey."
wow, you went from chasing a guy who would turn down being 'a thing' at every turn, to a man far more endearing suggesting it like it was an obvious want.
still, you had to be at least half cautious. "maybe."
he laughs at that, then lets his arms turn you around to face him.
"i'd love to take you out, ma. you're real funny, real sweet. my kinda girl, i can't lie to you."
this almost seems too good to be true. sure, a lotta guys ask you out, but none of them give off the same kinda vibe as choso. "y'sure you're not just saying that to sleep with me? you don’t have to go through all that hassle, you know, we can just-"
"no." he cuts you off, looking you deep in your eye. "i don't want that. i really do wanna see where this goes, okay? have ever since i saw you walking t' class on monday."
that makes you still, because he'd been thinking about you as much as you'd been thinking about him, from one little smile. if this wasn't some fated lovers arrangement then you didn't know what was.
you took in a soft breath before smiling, "sure, you can take me out."
you feel him smile against your skin, then he pulls away and you mourn the loss of body heat.
"perfect." he says, pulling out his phone, giving it to you gently. "if you really want this, put in your number. if you don’t , just spam the keypad and i'll figure it out later that you're not into me. no awkward shit."
he was perfect, god, he was perfect.
you grin and take it from him, putting your phone number in instantly under the name, [name] 💘.
~
he'd kept his promise.
around two days later, you'd had a shift at the bar from afternoon til late. you'd been working for around three hours when the door to the small, yet cozy establishment swings open, revealing a very well dressed choso.
he had a nice shirt and jeans that looked classier than the one he wore to the party, and fitting jewellery littering his every body part. he was a little overdressed for this dingy dive bar setting, but the low lighting complimented his aesthetic perfectly.
he greets the girl at the door kindly, before stalking up to the bar in which you stood behind. he smiles gently as he spots you.
"you really came, that's cute." you smile, wiping up a wet glass with a tea towel.
he takes a once over of your attire and smirks to himself before sliding into the stool, still somehow towering over you despite being sat. "i keep my promises, sweetheart. couldn't turn down seeing you looking this fine in you're little uniform."
that makes you blush a pretty pink, earning a soft chuckle from him as he scans the rack of bottles behind you. choso rarely drank heavy, but when he was in the mood, he'd always preferred the more expensive liquor.
"you guys have any jonny walker? the blue label?" he asks, trying his own hand at spotting the scotch on the rack.
"just ran out, the next one up from that would be some pappy bourbon, but you're looking at $120 a pour." you don't expect him to chose your most expensive bottle, the one only really old timers reach for, so you're preparing to grab for a bottle of beer in the fridge behind you.
"cool, i'll have that then." you almost choke.
"you uhm.. you sure?" you ask, incase this was some joke and you were gonna make a fool of yourself reaching for the top shelf for nothing.
"positive, hun." he smiles back.
you nod, then grab the step stool and reach for the golden liquor.
you pour it up and slide it over. he thanks you sweetly and takes a sip, nodding to himself like this was a good investment. as he drinks, you notice a silver ball of metal shooting through his tongue, a piercing there as well? imagine all the things he could do with that...
unaware of your less than appropriate internal thoughts, he folds a few fifties up and slips it into the chest pocket of your apron. "good recommendation, honey." these pet names were getting more and more bold, not that you minded.
"you're so welcome." you wink, earning an upwards twitch of his eyebrow in appreciation.
he's sitting in the spot many a men had before, all flirting and trying their luck with you. but with choso there, you felt engaged, you actually wanted to talk to him not just laugh and nod along like you cared for his useless conversation.
you quickly cashed in his money, he'd given you $200 so you pulled out his change, handing it out for him to take.
"no, no. that's your tip, pretty girl." he smiles, imitating your wink.
you're dumbfounded. "an $80 tip? we don’t- you don’t- tipping isn't even a thing here! please, take this back, i seriously can't take it, i-" he cuts you off with a wave of his hand.
"shh, you're such a sweet tender, you deserve a little get back."
he watches you fluster and fumble with the change like it’s the best thing he’s seen all night.
“hey,” choso says easily, leaning his forearms on the bar. “i promise i won’t miss it.”
you glance up at him, brows pinched. “that’s still a lot of money.”
“it’s not,” he replies, gentle yet firm. “and even if it was, i wanted to.”
you hesitate, then sigh, slipping the bills back into your apron like you’re conceding a battle you were never gonna win anyways. he smiles at that, pleased, like he enjoys when you finally let him do things for you.
“thank you,” you say quietly.
“anytime,” he answers. “that’s what i’m here for.”
he stays right there for the rest of the night,
he doesn’t drift off and he doesn’t get pulled into a loud conversation with anyone else.
he orders a few non alcoholic drink because he needs to drive. but the thing captivating his attention the most is you. his body stays angled toward you like it’s the most natural place for him to be.
you keep working, of course. wiping down glasses, taking orders, sliding beers down the bar. but every time you glance back at him, he’s already looking at you.
you’re aware of him the whole time. the way his eyes follow your body everywhere, the way he straightens when you come back, like he can’t help it.
he pulls out every conversational skill he'd ever learnt from collage and puts them all to work, trying his hardest to swoon you as best he can. he compliments you over and over, tells you you're such a good worker, slips tenners in your left pocket when you're distracted. he watches you exist like you were the most incredible, hard working being on earth, because to him? you were.
he talks to you when it gets quiet, he has you toppled over belly laughing at one point from across the bar as he tells you stories of his geeky high school days, or ones where his runs didn't go exactly as planned.
god, you’re hot.
that’s the thought looping in his head, over and over again until his cock feels a little too snug in his pants.
the apron. the way it sits so tightly around your waist. the way you lean forward when you laugh and the neckline of your top dips down to reveal your pretty cleavage. the way your hands move with such confidence even when the bar’s loud and messy. he’s seen a lot of girls. slept with some on occasion, none of them felt or looked like this. like you.
it’s annoying, honestly. quite distracting. he finds himself wondering what you smell like up close. would you smell differently to what you smelt like at the party? if it was just the two of you at the bar, would you speak to him soft and sultry like he'd imagined in his recent day dreams? everything about you allured him to such an agonising standard, he felt like grabbing you from behind the bar and driving you back to his off campus place, wrapping you up in his sheets and keeping you to himself, forever.
so we're weird stalkers now choso? perfect. he shook his head at the intrusive thought.
"you okay, choso?" you ask, suddenly right infront of him, pulling him from his you obsessed thoughts. "ah, yeah, y'know. just day dreaming' about my pretty little bar tender friend."
"oh, we're friends now?" you quiz, smirking at him, he laughs and rests his cheek in his palm. "oh, i wanna be much more than that, baby."
you know he said he wanted to see where this went, but fuck, you wanted him all up in you right now..
hours pass by quickly, just like that.
the flirty conversation flows so easily. you talk about different music, about how shit the school's schedule is. about dumb campus drama (mostly revolving around gojo, surprise surprise.) he tells you stories about sukuna and toji without saying too much, painting them as loud but loyal, which you can picture.
you catch yourself laughing more than usual. leaning close to him when he talks. forgetting to check the time.
once, though fleetingly, suguru crosses your mind. he’d texted earlier asking what time you finished, he’d probably expect you to come over after. you hadn't replied yet, wanting to make the decision of whether or not he deserved you later on. choso's little visit was really letting you know you made the right decision, because right now, there’s only him. his sexy, deep voice, his expression that never diped into that bored look you'd sometimes see on suguru, the way he was talking to you like anything you said was worth acutely listening to.
“you ever think about gettin’ outta here?” he asks eventually, gesturing vaguely around the bar.
“all the time,” you admit. “but it’s temporary. just until i finish my degree.”
“oh, shit yeah. you do art, right?”
“yes sir.”
his eyes light up. “that's sick, y'should show me.”
you breath out a laugh. “show you what?"
“your art,” he says. “you talk about it like it’s your whole world.”
it kind of is.
you’re about to answer when you both glance up at the clock mounted above the liquor shelf.
12:18.
you groan softly. “shit.”
he checks his phone. “damn. i’ve been here f' ages.”
“same,” you laugh. “i gotta close up soon.”
he stays and helps you clean up as best he can, then walks you out if the bar like the gentleman he is. you both begin your walk down the street where his car’s parked right by the curb, and your bus stop sits a little further down.
“you bussin’ it home?” he asks, surprised.
“yeah,” you shrug. “car’s not really in the budget.”
he nods, like he has to remind himself of that reality. not everyone lives lavishly off of drug money like he does.
you pull out your phone, opening the travel app, but choso notices how your pretty face falls.
“what's the matter?” he asks.
“all the buses are delayed,” you sigh. “road closures.”
you start to type something out, probably to see how long the delay is, when his hand grabs around your wrist.
it's not demanding or tight, no, it's like he's softly taking control.
“i’ll drive you,” he says.
“oh, wow, no! you've already done so much for me tonight, choso. you don’t have to,” you start. “i can walk, it’s not that far.”
he shakes his head. “no. get in the car.”
and you did, you let him open the door and usher you in, then say through his admittedly good playlist as the gps told him where to go. he was really pulling out all the cards, and it was making you hotter and hotter with each passing moment.
as you approached your apartment, you began getting antsy. you didn't want him to just drop you off and leave. you wanted him inside, both you and your apartment.
"here you go, sweets. safe and sound." he smiles, the door open as he stands outside his car letting you out.
“hey,” you say, looking up at him now that you're standing.
he looks at you attentively, like he too is expecting you to say something.
“do you wanna…” you trail off, letting your eyes do the rest of the sentence, falling over his chest, his arms, his hips.. “come inside for a bit?”
it's so utterly suggestive without you saying 'i wanna fuck' outright, and he seems to click on pretty fast.
he knows he told you at that party he wanted to see how things played out, preferably take you on a date before he even thought about fucking you, but shit, if you weren't looking at him with the widest, most eager eyes.
“yeah,” he says after copying you, looking at your body up and down. “i’d like that.”
he grins at the way you look away shyly.
he follows you up the steep steps, trying while heartedly not to stare straight at your ass. your apartment door clicks open, and you step aside to let him in.
the space is dark except for a lamp you flick on near the window.
choso stops dead in his tracks.
your apartments like an art critics wet dream. his eyes move rapidly over the hundreds of different works, some unfinished and some looking old. theres large canvases leaning up against every wall, pottery and clay dust on the coffee table, sketches and watercolored studies taped up wherever there was free space. the place feels so lived in, messy in a beautifully creative way, so full of you.
“holy shit,” he murmurs.
you smile, suddenly very shy at the fact you should've cleaned up abit. “it’s... uh, a lot."
“nah,” he says, stepping further in. “it’s sick."
he walks around carefully, he’s afraid to bump into something important to you. leans in close to a large canvas, squinting a little as he studies it.
“you like, actually made this?” he asks.
“sure did.”
he lets out a quiet incredulous laugh. “why the hell are you not, like, famous or some shit.”
you feel your tummy grow hotter at his praise. “i wish that was how it worked.”
“i’m serious,” he insists. “this is crazy good. like gallery typa shit.”
the way he says it, so sure, so utterly unfiltered, makes your legs feel weak and nimble, suguru rarely commented this much on your work. you hadn’t realised how much you wanted to hear that from someone until now.
he keeps going, pointing things out, asking questions, swearing under his breath when something 'really epic and cool' as he likes to put it, catches his eye.
“this one’s my favorite,” he says, gesturing to a piece tucked half behind the couch, it was a distorted portrait reminiscent of francis bacon. “it’s got an allure.”
you laugh. “you should have it.”
he whips his head over to you in the dim light, and raises his eyes like he's surprised. "really? you'd just give it away? it's so good, i mean-"
"not without compensation, of course." you tease, and you have to quickly grab his hand as he reaches into his pocket to grab for the wad of cash you know is in there.
"what are you-"
"not with money, choso..." you blink up at him feigning innocence, and the switch up from surprise to want is unfathomably quick.
you take his hand from its place in his pocket, and bring it up to cup your face, he follows suit and uses the other to pull your hips against his own.
"well, aren't you a little tease. i wanted to take you out first, y'know?"
"yeah? gonna deny me?" you poke, and the look of pure lust in his eyes tells you before he does,
"wouldn't dream of it." and he's on you, pulling you so close as his mouth works against yours feverishly, pulling surprised moans from your throat at how thorough he's being.
with a breathy sigh into the heated kiss, choso's hands pat their way down to the flesh of your ass, and knead at the fat in such an intoxicating way, it makes your skin bloom with goose bumps.
he's pushing his tongue into your mouth, the ball of metal pierced through his muscle clinking against your teeth as he explores you, your own tongue fighting back and forth for dominance.
you get the cue, the demand in his body language, the way he's growing desperate with each flick of tongue and grab of your ass.
you pull away with a click and push your forehead against his. "w-we should go to my room. now."
he smiles, his flushed cheeks turning upwards. you grab for his hand and guide him to your bedroom, pushing the door open quickly and pulling him inside.
he reconnects his lips to yours instantly, you reply by pulling at his fancy shirt, pawing at the collar until the first few buttons are loose.
he too starts tearing at your clothes, pulling the string of your apron loose, letting it fall to the floor, he makes sure the cash he'd slipped in earlier was still safe in the pockets before nudging it away to the side.
you wrangle is shirt off through messy kisses, and he's got yours unbuttoned to the hem.
"fuck, you're pretty." he sighs, pulling away to take in every inch of exposed abdomen and cleavage.
you smirk, then sit back slowly on the bed. he watches keenly, his pants becoming unbearably uncomfortable as you look at him with that lustful gaze.
you un-clip your bra letting it fall to the side to reveal your tits, and he drops to his knees at the foot of the bed in awe.
"jesus..." he almost chokes, his hands grabbing for the button of your work pants. he slips them off, eyes still fixated on the way you grab and knead at your boobs, the urge to wrestle you back onto the bed and fuck you stupid was becoming all but too much, but he had to restrain, opting to sweet talk you a bit before diving in.
"such pretty tits, baby. y'mind if i touch?" he borderline whines.
your wicked smile eggs him on, and he leans forward, taking the soft flesh into his hands.
you smile as he groans, then dip your hand down to his own belt buckle to help his cock spring free.
moaning as you do so, choso flushes a pretty red as his member slaps his lower abs, becoming shy at the fact you were staring so wide eyed at it.
did it look weird? was he not hard enough? fuck, he felt it. then again, he didn't have sex as often as anyone would assume.
his worries are stomped out when you cover your mouth with your hand, "that... that's fucking massive." you breath airily.
okay, good. that was good.
he smirks and stand up, shoving his pants the rest of the way down. in one smooth motion, he has you pushed down against the bed, your legs spread wide open, you let go of a trapped moan at the sudden manoeuvre.
he's inbetween your thighs in seconds, his face inches away from your pantie clad pussy.
"wanna taste you, baby, s' that okay?" he asks, panting heavily like this was the single most important question he'd ever ask. he takes note of how you nod so eagerly, hooking a finger into the waist band of your panties and pulling them off.
"all yours." you slur, and he wastes no time pressing that beautiful ball of pierced metal right up against your clit. all your fantasies were coming true, it seemed.
he laps at your folds, his mouth working magic on your needy hole. every moan that falls from your plush lips has him hitting that pleasure spot with a faster, more precise motion, trying his best to draw out those sexy little whimpers.
"good fucking girl, you're doing so well." he mumbles into the wetness, the vibration from his tone racking through your core.
"f-fuck! choso— i— i can't!" tears are welling up in your eyes at his unforgiving pace, his eyes clouding over with pleasure as he looks at you from down below.
"just focus, baby, come f'me, yeah? can you do that?" you reply with broken whines and choked up moans, your hands fisting into his hair as your hips grind up against his mouth.
you feel your peak building, growing and tightening so fast you clamp your thighs shut around his head.
he doesn't care that he can't breath, doesn't mind that his only purpose to you right now is to feel good, he want that, needs that.
he flicks at your clit in agonising little circles until you finally come undone all over his pretty, fucked out face.
he moans with you, kissing at your clit as you come down, slowing his pace as your breaths ease from rapid to regular.
"jesus, you uhm.. you really know how to eat a girl out." you breath shyly, hiding your face in the crook of your elbow as he moves up onto the bed, laying down next you with one arm propping up his head.
"you come so prettily, sweet thing. want me t' make you feel like that again?" he smiles, and that coil in your tummy you swear was gone had suddenly re-knotted.
"i- uh..." you're too shy to ask, but it's all you want, and he can tell.
"can i fuck you silly, pretty thing? would you like that?" he asks softly, his hands running up and down your naked, sweaty body.
he takes your arm away from your arms, then rolls over so he's pinning them down as his body hovers above yours.
"you like being told what to do, don't you? prefer being spoilt rather than taking the lead, hm?" he asks in a low tone. your eyes dart all around his face, a guilty sign that told him he was right on the money.
"perfect. just sit there and take me, honey. tell me if it's too much and i'll stop, moan loud if you want me to fuck you harder, m'kay?" he quizzes, your shyer eyes find his as you nod gently, "yes, please." you breath, and he goes right ahead.
his fingers slip into your sopping wet cunt and start to scissor you open, kissing the small gasps straight from your throat.
he rubs at your clit with his thumb, preparing you to take him in.
"y'think you can handle it, baby?" he pants, jerking at the base while his hands work you from the inside. you're bobbing your head up and down unevenly, a strangled yes juttering part your lips through noises of pleasure.
he removes his fingers with a wet pop, and lines himself up missionary with your dripping entrance, ready to slowly sink in until you're twitching with anticipation.
"relax honey, you can take it." and take it you did.
as his tip pushes past your hole with a deep groan from choso's lips, you bite down on your own at the sheer diameter. this was gonna be a stretch.
inch by tantalising inch, he's got you choking out jumbled praise and encouragement as your walls flutter deliciously around him.
"fuck, you're so tight, holy fuck–" he stammers as his tip finally presses against what he can assume is your cervix, based on how you're writhing beneath him.
"okay, baby. m' gonna —oh fuck— move."
you nod with your eyes squeezed shut and your hands gripping his biceps. "o-okay, cho."
that nickname makes him ten times harder, now he's bucking his hips deeper and deeper into your pussy with strangled groans. "keep callin' me that and i'll come right now—" he jokes through pants.
he continues abusing your puffy little hole, using you all up until you're a blabbering mess under this thumb.
"g'na— ohmygosh— i'm gonna come!" you cry, a tear slipping from your eye at the pleasure, choso leans down and kissses it away.
"c'mon honey, gimme one more, good girl, you can do it." he moans, picking up his
pumping pace.
you can't handel this any longer, he's dicking you down you so good, better than you'd ever felt before, you can't help but tighten up on his cock and spasm around it until he too is cumming straight into your cervix. bullseye.
you both go limp, your bones turning to mush after such intense sex.
yet, the second choso registers the way your body tenses, the way your breath sounds a little uneven from the discomfort of the sweat and other bodily fluid, he’s stood. he presses a little kiss to your shoulder first, then mutters something soft you barely catch before he slips out of bed.
“stay right there, baby,” he says, low and reassuring. “i got you.”
you hear drawers opening, the ensuite sink running. the quiet domestic sounds feel surreal after everything you'd just done with a guy you'd known for a week that somehow felt like years. when he comes back, he’s holding a damp cloth, warm from the tap. his expression has shifted completely, all that intensity replaced by a loving look of focus and care.
“okay,” he murmurs, sitting beside you. “gonna clean you up a bit, yeah?”
you nod, too loose to do much else.
he starts slowly with your legs, your stomach, your sides. he’s so incredibly careful, thorough without being clinical, like feeling clean and comfortable was his god given mission in this point in time. when he moves between your thighs, softly wiping through your sticky folds, you make a small whiney sound before you can stop yourself.
“hey,” he coos immediately, pausing. “s’okay. i know it’s sensitive.”
his voice is so gentle it almost hurts.
he keeps going, so much softer now while talking to you the whole time.
“you’re okay,” he murmurs. “i got you. just breathe for me.”
you whine quietly at the sensation, fingers curling into the sheets. he soothes you with words, with touch, like he knows exactly how close to the edge you still are.
“that’s it,” he says. “you’re doin’ so good. i know, i know. almost done.”
when he finishes up, he sets the cloth aside and immediately pulls you into him. you hadn’t actually realised how cold you felt until you’re pressed against his big chest, his massive arms wrapping around you without hesitation.
you tuck yourself into him snugly, like your body already knows where it belongs.
here, with him.
he rubs your back in slow passes, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head. your cheek rests against his dipping collarbone, his heartbeat steady under your ear.
“there you go,” he murmurs. “isn't that better.”
you let out a long breath.
he keeps talking, his calming post-sex voice like a lullaby.
“you were incredible tonight,” he says. “so fuckin’ good. y'hear me?”
you hum softly, too warm and pliant to argue.
“nah,” he continues, brushing your hair back with his fingers. “i mean it. you made me feel real good. i'm real lucky.”
your heart squishes together fondly. you think, distantly, about how no one’s ever done this before. not like this. not with this much loving intention.
you'd thought that was the perfect word to describe this situation; loving.
hell, you weren't really used to living. geto never stayed like this. he never once touched you like you were something to be taken care of after sex. moreso like his friend who happened to be in his bed (which was what it was.)
the thought flickers, brings with it a small pinch of guilt that you don't notice choso clocking. you and geto had agreed to only sleep with eachother, that it would be good to only sleep with a single person... you push away the thought.
after all, right now, choso’s here. his warmth, his voice, his hands. you don't see how he scans over your guilty expression like a lost kid.
“hey,” he murmurs when you look up at him. “you okay?”
“yeah,” you whisper. “just… really comfy.”
he smiles against your hair. “good. that’s the goal.”
he's brushing his long fingers through your hair, tapping his knuckles to a beat against your back, anything to try and keep you fully here with him. he didn't like that look of guilt in your face from before.
“i hope this didn’t mess anything up,” he adds quietly. “with that date i was talkin’ about.”
you move your head just enough to look up at him. his eyes are searching your face for any sign of regret.
“it didn’t,” you say. “not even a little.”
relief flickers across his beautiful features. “good,” he says. “’cause i really wanna take you out. do it right.”
you smile, nose brushing his chest. “i’d like that.”
he exhales, long and content, then pulls you closer.
“get some sleep,” he smiles. “i’ll be right here.”
your eyelids grow heavy faster than you expect. the steady motions of his hand through your hair, the sound of his breathing, the way he holds you like this is exactly where you’re meant to be.
just before you drift off, you feel his lips press softly to the top of your head.
you fall asleep like that, wrapped up in all of him, all of choso.
~
a few days later, beta theta phi.
choso's sitting in the kitchen, picking at a plate of food with a small smile on his usually calm, bare face.
you were a constant in his brain ever since he'd gone home from your apartment with that painting he 'earned' after the best sex of his life. (said painting is now strung up on his wall.) he'd never stopped thinking about you since that night.
your adorable little moans, the way you melted into him as he fucked you so deep, the way your pretty fucked out body moulded against his afterwards.
you were like crack and he was a hardcore crack head, feining for more of your attention.
as he thinks about stalking your instagram for the fourth time that day to see what you're up to, footsteps stomp down the hallway, heavy ones.
toji accends the stairs shirtless with his hair still damp like he’s just come out of the shower. sukuna follows behind like always, a towel draped over his shoulder, rummaging through a bag of chips before he even hits the kitchen proper. showering at the same time? gay ass guys, choso thought to himself.
“what the fuck,” toji says, stopping just short of the island. "why you look like that.”
choso looks up, brow lifting. “like what?”
“happy,” sukuna answers around a mouthful of chips. “it's weird."
toji snorts. “yeah, that’s new.”
choso rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t fight the smile this time. he grabs his plate, forks a big bite then shrugs it off like it’s nothing. “can’t a guy enjoy his food?”
“nah,” toji says, pulling out a chair and sitting backwards on it. “not you.”
sukuna leans against the counter opposite him with his arms crossed. “what’d you do. make bank today?”
choso shakes his head, chewing. “nah.”
“big sale?”
“nope.”
toji squints. “you finally get your dick wet again or something?”
that does it, choso coughs, nearly choking, then glares at him. “the fuck is wrong with you.”
sukuna laughs. “so that’s a yes.”
“shut up,” choso says quickly, pointing his fork at toji. “and don’t start.”
toji grins wider. “that's gotta be it. you’ve been walking around like you won the lottery all day.”
choso sighs. "yes, i'm seeing a girl.”
toji stops and sukuna freezes in the middle of a reach for another chip.
“…wait, actually,” sukuna says flatly.
choso smiles at the two boys and continues. “met her at that blacklight party. she’s really cute. we talked for hours, i visited her work, and i drover her home. you don't get the rest, but i’m taking her out this weekend.”
toji stares at him like he’s grown another head. “you?”
“yes,” choso says. “me.”
“you don’t talk to women,” sukuna says slowly.
choso scowls. “i talk to women.”
“no you don’t,” toji cuts in. “business doesn’t count.”
choso opens his mouth, then closes it. fine. maybe that’s fair.
toji leans back, eyes narrowing in thought. then something clicks. his expression shifts. “wait.”
choso looks at him.
“is this,” toji says, pointing vaguely, “the art girl you were askin’ about the other week?”
sukuna tilts his head, casual. “she’s hookin’ up with geto right now.”
...wait... what?
choso goes dead still.
geto.
like, his friend geto?
the one who's always hanging around with him and gojo on tursdays? that geto?
the one he always calls when he needs help at the gym, that geto?
the guy who's one of his most regular buyers, that geto?
his mind latches onto the man instantly, and starts unraveling his entire being piece by agonising piece. he's tall, jacked as fuck, his hair's always smoothed and shiny to perfection, always tied back just right with no knots or bumps, he's got that sexy confident smile and endearing laugh that reels women in.
he's the kind of man who attracts literally anybody, hell, he'd heard even gojo had a thing for him in high school, gojo!
shit.
he thinks back to the porch. to the way you hesitated when he asked about a boyfriend. the way you said it was 'complicated' and how he’d brushed it off, convinced himself it was nothing serious. how he saw that flash of guilt spread across your face after you two had finished. how you’d smiled when he touched you, how easily you’d leaned into him like there wasn’t anyone else in your head at all.
geto.
holy fuck.
choso doesn’t say anything although the muscles in his neck were contracting with each clench of his teeth, eyes dropping to his plate like the answer’s written there. his appetite’s gone.
a week.
he’s been thinking about you for a week straight.
asking gojo questions about you when they hung out in class, 'm' just curious, man, she's a pretty girl.' leaving out the part where he was eight inches deep inside you just the other night. stalking every single one of your socials to the point he had your first few posts and username memorised.
and now this?
maybe that’s why gojo had looked at him funny. why he’d laughed a little too hard when choso asked if you were seeing anyone. maybe it wasn’t shock, god, maybe it was disbelief.
choso gulps.
toji watches him closely now. “that true?”
sukuna shrugs. “mhm, he told me at that same party you were talkin' bout'.”
...
“you good?” sukuna asks looking a little worried at the man's switch uo.
choso lifts his head up and that bare look finds its way back onto his face and sticks like a face hugger. “mhm.”
toji frowns. “you sure.”
“i’m sure,” choso says, setting his fork down. “it’s whatever.”
it isn’t. but he’s not about to unpack the, 'just found out the girl i'm lowkey falling head over heels in love with is also hooking up with my good friend,' pill right now.
he grabs his keys off the counter and reaches for his leather jacket. “got a few deliveries to run, see y'later."
sukuna opens his mouth because he really wants to say something else, then thinks better of it. toji just watches him go with sympathy laced through the coloured bands of his irises.
choso slips pre roll out of his pocket and lights it up, trying to rationalise all of this. he'd only met you around a week ago, it's not like you guys were a thing. sure, he'd fucked you better than he'd ever fucked anyone in his life, but he shouldn't be weird and insecure about this, he knows that. it's just, he's never really gone for this before. usually it was girls asking him out, of which he'd reject kindly because he was too busy doing anything else.
but with you, that random night out on the porch, it felt like there was a pull he couldn't just toss aside, he wanted you... and he thought he had you, especially after that intimate night.
geto’s on a come-when-you-can basis, might as well take care of that now and try ease up his racing thoughts. nothing like a good interrogation.
he flops down into his M2, engine turning over as his thoughts narrow to one thing, one task, he leaves suguru a voice message.
"yo, suguru, m' coming over."
~
choso kills the engine and sits there for a minute, his fingers resting on the steering wheel like grounding himself before stepping into situation he already knows he won’t enjoy.
he sighs, then steps outta the car, he’s halfway across the driveway when a happy, familiar voice cuts through the noise of the active fraternity, “yo.”
gojo’s jogging down the steps two at a time with his gym bag slung over one shoulder and his hair pushed back. he grins when he sees choso, big arms opening on instinct.
before choso can dodge it, gojo’s got him in a quick, bone-crushing hug.
gojo squints at him, like he’s clocking something off but hasn’t put his finger on it yet. “you headin’ to suguru’s?”
choso doesn’t slow down. “yeah.”
“uh,” gojo starts, glancing back at the stairs like he’s weighing whether to say something. “hey, maybe not the best time, think he's in the shower.”
but choso doesn't listen,
“cho,” gojo calls after him, louder now. “seriously, man, let's hang out first!"
choso doesn’t turn around. he takes the stairs with his heart climbing up into his throat with each step. by the time gojo gives up, he’s already at the top landing, moving down the hallway.
he stops in front of suguru’s door and knocks.
theres movement inside, the sound of water shutting off, then a drawer opening.
the door swings open.
suguru stands there in nothing but a towel hanging around his hips, his hair damp and loose around his shoulders, his skin still flushed from the heat of a shower. water beads along his collarbone and trails down the center of his chest. choso hated how good he looked.
his eyes fall all over sugurus body before he could stop it.
it’s dumb, after all, he’s seen suguru shirtless a hundred times. in locker rooms, during pool parties, it never mattered before, but now it does, because you’ve seen him like this. because you’ve touched this, because you've liked his annoyingly perfect body.
suguru notices choso's ogling and smirks, leaning one arm against the doorframe. “what,” he says lightly. “y’want a workout routine or somethin’?” choso forces a short laugh, “shut up.”
“mm,” suguru hums confused. he steps aside anyway, letting choso in.
suguru’s place is always so precise and neat. his beds always made, desk cleared, shoes lined up like they belong in a sneaker catalogue. it’s never bothered choso one way or another.
but today, he isn’t looking at any of that. his eyes move fast scanning without meaning to. the desk. the floor. the chair by the window. the bathroom door still cracked open, steam drifting out.
then the bedpost.
he spots a pop of pink fabric slung around the wood.. a pair of panties hangs loose around the corner of the frame, looking forgotten. they're pretty, they look your size, and they're unmistakably not suguru’s.
fuck.
suguru follows his line of sight, then sighs softly. “ah, ignore that. keep forgetting to deal with those.”
he reaches out and turns choso by the shoulder, forcing him to face him. suguru’s expression shifts, teasing gone, replaced with something more intent.
“what’s up with you,” he asks. “you’ve been actin’ weird as fuck, cho.”
choso gulps. for a second, he considers lying. saying nothin then walking out.
but he can't, so instead, he digs into his jacket and pulls out a small bag. he presses it into sugurus chest.
“four grams,” he says flatly.
suguru nods slowly, then looks down. “hm,” he mutters. “okay.”
he crosses the room, opens his dresser, and pulls out a few bills. counts them once, then twice, before handing them over.
“seventy-five,” he says. “we’re good?” choso takes it, nodding. “yeah.”
suguru studies him now, really studies him. “you didn’t come all the way over here just for that, normally we meet in the middle."
choso exhales through his nose. “i know.”
“so,” suguru prompts. “talk.” choso hesitates, he's not sure if he sounds insane or not, or if this is totally overstepping some unspoken boundaries, but he can't keep it in.
“are you sleepin’ with [name]?”
suguru coughs out in surprise, “…uh.” he leans back against his dresser, arms folding loosely. “yeah,” he says after a sec. “i am.”
choso nods once, like he'd expected it, “m'kay, are you dating her?"
suguru frowns. “what? no.”
“planning to?"
“no,” suguru repeats. “it’s just sex.” he tilts his head, curiosity creeping in. “why?" choso doesn’t answer right away. suguru narrows his eyes at him. “what, you into her or somethin’?”
“no,” choso says too quickly.
suguru huffs a laugh. “c’mon, man.”
choso’s voice edges colder. “i said no.”
“okay,” suguru says, hands lifting. “just askin’. ‘cause if you are, you should probably drop it.”
choso’s eyes snap up.
suguru keeps going, unaware of the turmoil writhing his friend. “just lookin' out for you, man. she’s really into me. like, a lot. wouldn’t be fair to either of you.”
the strong inside choso's heart break at the sound of that.
he scoffs. “you think so, huh?"
suguru blinks. “what’s that supposed to mean?"
“nothing,” choso mutters, already turning away. “was just curious.”
“cho—”
choso waves him off without looking back. “don’t worry about it.”
he opens the door, pauses just long enough to throw something over his shoulder, his voice very uncharacteristically cruel. “try not to confuse sex with somethin’ you don’t actually want.”
then he’s gone.
the door shuts with a dull thud.
suguru stands there, staring at the wood long after choso’s footsteps fade down the long hall.
his whole body feel shaky, like he'd just been stepped on. suguru did not like to be crossed like that.
he glances back at the bedpost. at the pink panties hanging there, the ones he teared off before fucking you dumb into his mattress... at the faint imprint you left on his space.
he frowns.
why does that bother him? he’s never cared before. he's told himself he couldn't commit to a relationship right now, that you being there for him was always just a mutual sex agreements. a good friends with benefits sitch. so why does the idea of someone else wanting you feel so incredibly wrong?
why does it feel like a rugs being pulled out from under him?
he exhales, runs a hand through his damp hair, then grabs his phone. you name pops up on his caller app and he hesitates only a second before calling.
“hey,” you answer, your voice isn't as excited to hear from him as it usually is... weird.
suguru smiles automatically. “hey, pretty.”
you don't giggle at that, or tease him back, you just hum through the receiver.
he frowns slightly. “what’re you up to?"
“just… home,” you say. “what’s up?"
“i was thinkin’,” he starts, leaning back on the bed. “maybe you come over tonight.” there’s a moment of silence and uncertainty that almost never came when it came to you.
“i dunno,” you say. “i’m kinda tired.”
that’s new.
suguru chuckles then lowers his voice. “c’mon, hun. i really need you.”
you sigh. “need me how?"
“badly,” he says, letting warmth creep in. “been thinkin’ about you all day.”
you dint reply instantly and he rushes in before you can pull away and reject him further. “i miss you,” he adds. “miss the way you feel. the way you look at me.”
“sugu—”
“baby,” he cuts in gently, “come over. yeah?”
he strings the pet names together, calls you sweet. calls you pretty. tells you he’s lonely. tells you he’s been wanting you.
he hears the shift in your breath before you speak again.
“…okay,” you say quietly.
his smile returns, very, very satisfied. “good girl.”
he hangs up, feeling way too good about the skill he has to persuade you. he thinks back on choso, how he'd learn a thing or two about threatening his arrangements.
~
you’re on your back in the long haired man's room before you can really register how you got there...
you feel so, so guilty. you didn't want to be here, but you felt awful for suguru, for fucking someone else when the agreement was to only fuck eachother, and talk about it if you were to screw someone else.
maybe that's why you caved into his pleas, you wanted to make it up to yourself, trying fix what felt like a horrible betrayal in your eyes.
sheets cold against your hot skin, suguru hovering over you, naked and sweaty like he belongs there, him, not choso.
"sugu, i— i wanna talk... there's something i should tell you," but you're cut off by his lips, his demanding, intoxicating lips... the ones working magic on helping you forget about your new friend.
you told yourself you weren't going to melt so easily into him when you got here, that you'd at least try your best to tell him about choso, how you're seriously reconsidering your little arrangement. but it seems he's got other plans, because his lounge is already halfway down your throat ripping lewd moans from your mouth.
he kisses you like he’s reminding himself that you're his. his girl to fuck, to claim without an actual title, not choso's.
his hands frame your face, pads of his thumbs brushing along your jawline as if he’s taking you back, he settles his weight between your legs, torso grinding up against your clothed pussy.
his lips kiss and suck against yours in a careful rhythm, coaxing rather than just taking. it isn’t frantic like he's panicked, no, it’s got a beautiful sense of reverence that drives you crazy and lulls away any former thought of taking accountability from your pretty little head. it's clear, even through your cloudy suguru filled haze, that he’s trying to prove a point to himself with every pass of his mouth on yours.
“fuck,” he murmurs softly into your mouth then your name.
his fingers dip down to your soaked panties, he presses his thumb harsh against your clit, pulling that one moan he knew meant he hit the perfect spot.
he shifts them to the side, then slams them deep into your gaping hole.
with every curl he's pulling such pretty groans from your throat, he doesn't care if his tendons begin to ache from how relentlessly he's bullying his thick fingers into your soft cunt, no, he's running you like this over and over if it meant hearing these addictive whimpers, ones he was causing, not choso.
he pumps them against your fluttering, gummy walls so tantalisingly slowly but so precise, it makes your eyes roll into the back of your head with pleasure. he wasn't as sweet as choso had been, he was rough and chasing that high with expert precision.
"such a pretty fucking girl. you're all mine, okay? you're all mine —shit—." his circles are relentless and binding, but that little monolog seemed to suddenly snap you out of whatever this was.
"suguru— fuck— please, stop it. we need to talk." he breaks away from latching onto your neck, then his thumb retracts as he sits up to look at you. this was what he didn't wanna do. talk about it.
he wanted you to get fucked, realise how good you had it with him, and forget about choso...
"what is it? hm?" he try's his best to stay calm but his distain slowly creeps up on him. "s' this about choso?" he quips.
what the fuck? how did he know?
suguru’s sitting up now, and you're pulling your skirt down over your lower half.
this wasn’t how you wanted him finding out but, “i don’t think i can keep doing this,” you say quietly.
his brows knit. “doing what.”
“this,” you gesture vaguely between you. “us. like this.”
...
he exhales through his nose. “you're serious?”
“yeah.”
his mouth tightens. “let me guess what.” he spits, and you tell him before he can further his sarcastic venture, “because i think wanna see choso.” suguru scoffs bitterly, he knew that was coming but he decides to pry further, “oh yeah? see him how?”
“like.. properly,” you say. “he asked me out. on like… a date. an actual one.”
his face contorts and stirs into disgust, then irritation. “you’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
he scoffs, pushing off the bed and pacing, still half naked. “you barely know him, [name]!”
“i know,” you retort. “but he’s been so good to me, sugu, really good.”
“he’s bad news,” suguru seers. “you don’t need a no good loser like him. he has no prospects, no plan for the future, he's bad!"
your stomach sinks at the quips. “don't say that.”
“say what?" he bites, and you grow redder with anger, “talk about him like i'm so naive kid who doesn't know what i’m doing!"
he turns back to you, frustration spilling over now. “he’s a dealer. he sells drugs for a fucking living, that’s it! no goals, no future, he's sketchy as fuck.”
you shake your head. “that’s not fair.”
“it’s true.”
“you'd have no clue! you don't know anything about him.” you spit back, and he laughs meanly. “oh please. know him? he’s got the personality of a brick wall. what, he buy you drinks and suddenly he’s prince charming?"
your chest tightens. “he listens to me.”
that shuts him up for half a second.
you keep going, voice steadier now that you’ve started. “he shows up. he actually cares about what i have to say. he doesn’t treat me like something he picks up when he’s bored.”
his eyes flash. “that’s not what this is.”
“then what is it?" you ask. “because you’re the one who said it was just sex. over and over again.”
he runs a hand through his hair, agitation spilling from every pore on his smug face. inside his brain, it's a mix of conflicting feelings. suguru likes you, for real, he has ever since high school. not once had he ever thought he'd be with any other girl, just you. but college was for fun, for hookups and parties and no real commitments, so why would he pour more effort into you than he needed? why couldn't you just be his with no strings attached? he wanted you, he loved you, some might say. suguru was not ready to give you up this easily, you were his first.
the thought of you choosing someone else makes his lungs constrict and his brain fizzle and crack until his heart breaks apart at the valves.
“you don’t need choso,” he says again, trying to regain any sort of resemblance of control. “you’ve got me.”
you let out a bitter laugh. “no. i don’t.”
his gaze snaps to you. “what’s that supposed to mean?"
“you don’t get to say that,” you reply. “not when you won’t even call this what it is, you're a pathetic excuse for a man. if you're gonna tie me up like a dog and use me for sex, at least have the balls to let me know that's all i am to you."
he looks away as the veins in his neck pulsate and grow, part of him knows you’re right, but to be honest? part of him really just doesn’t care. he knows deep down he wants you more than that, why couldn't you understand?
“you’re just being weird because for once someone’s actually into me and you can scare them off.” you add, the words tumbling out now.
he wants to spill his guts, tell you all he really wants is you, that he's been enthralled with you ever since high school he's always just been far too immature to really commit, but instead, his eyes narrow. “that’s bullshit.”
“is it?" you challenge.
he opens his mouth, then closes it.
you sit straighter with your heart hammering. “i really like him, suguru. he treats me well. he’s a good person.”
something ugly flickers across his face. that hurt. you were supposed to be his, now you were telling him you really like another guy? you're his girl! you're his girl.
he laughs, low and cruel. “so that’s all it takes, huh? a promise of a date and suddenly you’re spreadin’ your legs like a whore?"
what the fuck? that's not what he wanted to say! he cringes at himself but it's too far gone, he can't put a lid on the rage that's bubbling over the edges of the pot that is his heart.
your breath leaves you in a hurried rush. “what— what did you just say.”
he doesn’t take it back immediately or rephrase, that's the worst part. “you heard me.”
your eyes sting but you try your best not to cry. “how do you even know about choso?” you bite.
his face goes all rigid. “i could tell.”
“tell what?"
“by the way you weren't keen." he says, then adds, "and he came by earlier.”
your stomach drops. “he came here?.”
“yeah,” suguru says. “asking about you.”
the petty realisation floods over you in a wave of rage. “so that’s why you called me." you laugh, gutted. “you didn’t want me. you wanted to get your get back, right?”
his temper flares. “don’t fucking twist this.” geto was usually level headed, even in the most heated of arguments, so you knew his anger was real here.
“you invited me over because your ego got bruised,” you say, voice rising. “not because you care about me or what i want."
“that’s not true.”
“then why did you just say that to me?"
he looks at you with eyes full of distain, “because i shouldn’t have ever let this get this far. you’re just someone i fuck sometimes. that’s it.”
oh.
you don’t cry at that nor do you yell. you just nod softly, like your body's finally understanding what your heart’s been screaming at you for so long.
“m'kay,” you say softly.
you stand, smoothing your skirt down and reaching for your shirt with hands that feel so far away. he watches intently, fuming, not realising the gravity of the bum ass, idiotic move he'd just pulled.
you grab your things without sparing him a single glance.
“wait,” he says, finally hearing the finality in your movement.
you pause at the door, then you step out and shut the it behind you with a soft click.
inside, suguru stands there for around a minute in silence. then, his legs give out and he drops onto the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
“fuck,” he whispers.
he stares at the floor, replaying every word he knew he should of never said. every look he flashed you when all he wanted to do was tell you how he actually felt, that he was wrong and he knew that, but he needed you all to himself. the way the pretty voice he'd always adored sounded when it broke.
he realises, too late, that he really does love you.
he was just too immature to keep you.
~
you needed to call choso.
sugurus number was blocked the second you got home to your apartment, an act you clearly should've done ages ago.
though, your minds not caught up on him anymore, no. it's running miles around choso.
two things were clear right now,
1. he knew about you and suguru.
2. he probably wasn't too happy about that.
and now suguru was out of the picture, you had to tell him the whole entire truth. that you'd gotten rid of him, that you were willing to put every ounce of yourself back into choso, if he'd let you.
you bite at your lip, contemplating if he'd even pick up if you were to dial. you had no way of knowing if he was turned off by all of this or if he'd still wanna give this whole thing a try.
one way to find out, you thought.
you scroll through your contacts until you find his name and hit call before you can overthink it. it rings far longer than you expect, and when he answers, his voice sounds tired, much quieter than usual. “hey.”
“hey,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “um. i know it’s late.”
“you’re fine,” he says. there’s a pause. “what’s up." it's not much of a question rather a statement he has to say to be polite.
you gulp nervously. “there’s something i really need to talk to you about. like, in person.”
another moment of silence that stretches abit longer this time round.
“okay,” he says softly. “i’m in the middle of a run right now.” your heart dips, then lifts when he continues. “i can come by after. if that’s alright.”
relief spreads through you, “yeah. that’s perfect. thank you.”
“i’ll be there as soon as i’m done,” he adds.
“drive safe,” you say.
.
on his end, choso leans back against the seat of his car, his phone still in hand. he sighs to himself, he already knows how this goes.
he’s had around a day to imagine it. an entire day of replaying everything in his mind, of telling himself not to get too attached to this amazing girl he'd sworn on.
in his head, you’re going to sit him down and say you had fun while it lasted, but you’re choosing to fuck with suguru. you’re going to say you’re sorry. you’re going to say it was complicated and now it’s clearer.
he grips the steering wheel and exhales slowly. he finishes the delivery on autopilot, exchanges empty words he barely hears, his mind is clearly somewhere else.
by the time he pulls up outside your building, his chest feels so incredibly heavy.
he sits there for a while, staring at the entrance, telling himself to keep it together, telling himself he’ll be fine no matter what you say.
he steps out of the car and walks up to your door, he lifts his hand to knock, and the door opens before his knuckles touch the wood.
you’re standing there with damp hair from a shower and a serious look on your otherwise adorable face.
you just look at each other, and no one talks.
he doesn't expect you to, but you step forward softly, then gently wrap your arms around his torso.
it’s sort of on instinct, it’s need, and it’s a big relief. he too wraps his arms around your back, pulling you closer to try ease the tension in his soul.
“hey,” he murmurs.
“hi,” you say back into his shoulder.
you pull away and move aside, he walks in, glancing around with widened eyes, your apartment still pulls at his attention even now. it all feels so clearly you. he forces himself to focus when you gesture to the couch.
he sits, hands resting on his knees. shoulders squared. ready for this horrible rejection..
you sit beside him, not too close, not far either, you take a moment before you speak.
“i’m really sorry,” you say softly. “about suguru. about him getting involved with us at all.”
his eyes are darting around nervously but he's still honed in on what you have to say.
“i didn’t mean for him to make you feel weird or uncomfortable,” you continue. “and i didn’t mean to keep things from you.”
you look forlornly down at your hands. “i blocked him today.”
he shoots his head up in surprise, cute.
“i should’ve been honest from the start,” you say. “we had this on and off thing. nothing serious. but meeting you changed that for me.”
you look up at hum, “i like you. a lot. and if you’re still into me, i’d really like to start clean with you. no stupid secrets.”
he looks at you back tenderly, watching over your every feature.
“you’re the coolest guy i’ve ever met,” you add with a small laugh. “and i don’t wanna mess this up.”
for a second he just stares at you. then he smiles, it's big and goofy, and so so bright.
“yeah,” he says, sort of laughing. “yeah. i’m really happy you picked me.”
your heart jumps.
before you can reply, his metal clad hand comes up to your cheek pulling you in closer to his lips, he then kisses you softly.
it’s beautifully gentle and ever so slightly desperate. he's leaving small open pecks like each one's it's own form of praise and forgiveness.
your hands curl into his shirt, grounding yourself in the feeling of him here. choosing you, and staying.
when you pull back, your forehead rests against his. you smile wide, you’re glad you closed one door to open this one.
"so, about that date."
~
the two weeks you'd spent dating choso kamo was seriously the best time of you life.
you wake up in choso’s apartment much more than your own now. his place is fancy, it sits high up in one of those off campus complexes that cost more than they look like they should.
he's got the nice polished concrete floors, floor to ceiling windows with automatic blinds, furniture that fits his dark yet aesthetic so well.
right now you’re tucked into his side on the couch with your legs all tangled together, your heads resting against his chest while the city glows outside the window and he sifts his fingers through your hair. you'd both just come down from a night full of intense loving, choso eating you out for a good hour before completely ruining you just as he had the previous night. now, there was food on the way as he massaged your lowkey back lovingly.
"you okay, honey?"
"more than okay. cho,"
"god, keep calling me that and i'll take you for round three."
this is how it’s been, consistently.he takes you in the most lovely dates, expensive dinners where he never lets you see the bill. not once. you did try at first, bless your soul, fumbling for your wallet, making jokes about splitting it, insisting you could handle yourself. and every time, he shut it down with the same calm tone.
"i got it, sweetheart."
no argument or anything, no crazy big ego. just a nice fact that he could take care of you without blinking.
he takes you to places you’d never, ever pick on your own. spots where the menus only have triple digest beside each item. he watches your face when the food comes out, in awe watching your beautiful eyes light up. he always asks if you like it with a big smile, and he always remembers what you order. when you say you like a certain dessert, what do you know? it shows up again on your door step a few nights later after you tell him you had a rough shift at work.
he never makes you feel small about your money, or lack there of. that’s the part that gets you the most. when you joke about being broke, he doesn’t laugh at you. he just nods like it’s another bit of information about you, not a flaw. when you mention rent stress or art supplies you still need for class, (never with the intention of milking him for money) he listens very intently. a few days later, those things stop being problems. there's an envelope left on your kitchen counter, a new set of brushes delivered to your door. him shrugging it off when you ask.
"you don’t have to worry about that, honey. that’s my job now."
"but i— it's to much money, cho, i shouldn't—" he always shuts you up with a deep kiss.
he comes to the sway bar a lot now, too. he slides onto a stool and waits for you to notice him with a small smile. he's always dressed well and never sloppy. he orders one drink, sometimes only non alcoholic, and stays for hours on end. at the end he tips you like a rich man, which is what he was.
he laughed when you'd try and shove it back at him. he'd lean down and tell you to stop being stubborn.
"i like taking care of you."
it’s not just a suave line, you can tell. he looks so pleased every time you finally accept it.
he drives you straight home after shifts even when it’s late, he says the bus is no place for a girl as cute as you to be that late at night, hell, he even contemplates buying you your own car just to put his mind at ease, then decides it might be just a bit too early in the relationship for that..
every night you don’t have work, he's either taken you out or you're crashing at his place, tonight's no different. you're dressed in one of his oversized paris texas shirts after a few hours of sex, and he's got you sat up in his lap caressing your hips.
dating him feels nice and calm. there's no guessing, absolutely no waiting for texts that never come. he checks in with you without hovering and always tells you where he is. he plans things, actual plans. a museum date because you mentioned a new exhibit in passing, a drive out of the city just to watch the sun drop behind the hills and star gaze without the suffocating light pollution. late night food runs where he lets you talk about nothing and everything while he listens to your every word.
he treats you like you’re worth effort, every single day.
on the couch, he moves around then reaches for the fluffy throw blanket draped over the armrest, pulling it over both of you. he smiles down at you fondly.
"you're so fucking pretty, y'know that?"
"mhm, you only tell me that every day." you smile back, and he laughs, tickling your ribs for the attitude.
you giggle into his chest as you smack the muscle, begging him to stop.
after he's teased you enough, he pressed a kiss to your forehead and smiles into your skin.
"baby." he pulls away and looks you in the eye waiting for you to reply.
"yesss?"
"sukuna's having a birthday party at our frat. i think sigma chi's invited aswell. can you come?" he asks kindly, stroking your head lightly. you nod as soon as he says it, happy to tag along to any function he was going to.
"good. i wanna show you off a little." he announces, slapping your ass half heartedly.
you roll your eyes, but your face is flushed a pretty pink. he laughs, squeezes you once more, then leans back into the couch.
choso has never felt more content than he did right now. he never thought he'd be one for sappy relationships, but for you? god, he'd do this in every lifetime, you were utterly perfect for him.
only thing left is to show everyone else that, too.
~
sukuna’s birthday is exactly what you expect and still somehow more? there's like, literally five beer pong tables lined up in the back yard alone like this was some sorta tournament rather than a birthday bash.
"yeah, he's really into beer pong. it's fitting, i guess." choso laughs
the house infront of you is loud before you can even step inside. sukuna's favourite music flows out the open door, cups are raised and swaying or abandoned on any flat surface. there are, inexplicably, five more beer pong tables set up in different corners of the main living room.
choso’s hand stays firm at your lower back as he guides you inside, the pretty little dress he'd bought you fit exactly how he said it would. it's nice and snug around your ass, and it's short enough to make his eyes widen when you walked out of the bedroom earlier. the expensive designer shoes he'd gotten you still feel new under your feet. you’d protested, of course, told him he didn’t have to do all this, but he told you he wanted to. just like with any other thing he'd gotten you in the past three weeks.
you clock the way a few heads turn as you pass by, and smile to yourself at how good it feels to be on his arm. little did you know, this was his plan all along, to have you looking all sexy and all his as a final fuck you to the guy he knew would be here tonight. choso didn't fight with losers like him, but he could definitely put his money where his mouth was (literally) and show off a little.
“there they are,” gojo’s voice cuts through choso's slightly possessive thoughts.
he’s smiling so wide as he steps up to you two, his freakishly long arms opening wide preparing for your poor boyfriend. choso barely has time to brace before gojo crashes into him, hugging him hard enough to rock them both back a step.
“happy birthday to sukuna, i guess,” gojo says, then pulls back, eyes sliding straight to you.
he looks you over once, it's quick but not rude, then he smiles softly. proud, almost.
“you look really good,” he says, leaning down like he’s about to tell you a secret. his voice gets slightly bashful. “and i’m really glad you finally ended up with someone who treats you right. even if it meant dropping my best friend.”
there’s no judgment in it or awkwardness, just pure honesty.
you laugh quietly and hug him, arms wrapping around his middle. gojo squeezes you back solidly, you're content with his nothing about this changed how much he cares about you.
toji is right behind him with his meaty arms crossed and his eyes observing. he looks choso up and down first, then his sues land on you.
“damn,” he says flatly. “she's a looker.”
choso exhales through his nose a little irritated.
toji smirks, clearly pleased with himself.
“that’s my girlfriend,” choso says calmly. he's good at keeping his emotions in check. plus, it was toji, this idiot wouldn't know any better.
toji pauses, then nods once. “shit, i forget [name]'s the chick you were getting all giddy over. good job." he says, and claps choso on the shoulder before offering his hand. they dap each other up and choso smirks triumphantly.
“c’mon,” choso says, fingers curling around your wrist. “gotta see the birthday boy.”
he guides you through the littered bodies as gojo and toji trail behind you, the beer pong table nearest the back is surrounded by people yelling over a close game. sukuna is there, his pink spiky hair all wet and damp with sweat, roaring with laughter as he cooks shiu and sinks the final cup. (no one thought he was gonna loose, but they all cheer regardless)
you spot suguru at the same time he spots you.
he’s standing just off to the side with nanami and shiu, he spots your arm wrapped around choso's and you swear to god you see his eye physically twitch in distain.
you giggle softly at the sight, and choso pulls you into him tighter, staring the man dead in the eye as he squeezes your waist. what a sexy asshole.
sukuna turns when he hears choso’s coming over, his already large grin spreading wider. “there he i!" he bellows. he always got overly cheery when he was inebriated.
sukuna swallows choso in a big hug and the dark haired boy claps him twice on the back. "god, haven't seen you in ages man! where y'been?" sukuna questions, choso just rubs his neck bashfully and cocks his thumb to point at you. "keeping the missus looked after, y'know how it is."
sukuna's eyes fall onto you and he's surprised. he thinks back to when choso was asking about you that first time and then to when he'd stormed off when he'd told him you were sleeping with suguru. a small proud smile falls over his lips. he always disliked geto anyway, the righteous asshole.
“happy birthday,” choso says. “you're old as hell now.”
“shut up,” sukuna laughs. then drags his attention back to you as you step in for a side hug, very quick and polite. “happy birthday, ryomen." you smile, and he scruffels up your hair fondly.
he glances back at choso, then leans in and mutters, "good pull,” he says quietly. “glad you could wrangle her away.”
choso chuckles, pleased.
you can feel suguru’s stare as shiu and nanami fall back into another game of beer pong without even looking back at the guy. although, it doesn't matter. choso's still making a show of pulling you into him every chance he gets, which you can tell is really ticking suguru off.
sukuna wipes his hands on his jeans as he pulls his attention away from shiu and nanami and back to choso. “you better not of gotten me anything, cho.”
choso just smiles and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small credit card shaped gift wrapped in neat paper. he hands it over casually.
sukuna sighs with half a smile. “you didn’t have get me shit, man.”
“js' open it.”
toji and gojo lean in from their spots either side of you and choso. sukuna peels it open, eyes scanning the card once, then his mouth drops open.
“no fucking way.”
he looks up, stunned. “this is real?”
“mhm. two years,” choso says. “a membership for that fancy gym yer' always whining about.”
sukuna lets out a sound that’s between a laugh and disbelief. “what the actual fuck.”
he pulls choso into another, much tighter hug. “thank you, brother, seriously.”
choso pats his back. “no problem, i love you, remember?” he says, the inside joke making both sukuna and toji chuckle.
then, like it’s nothing, choso reaches back into his pocket and pulls out another card. hands it to toji.
toji freezes. “what’s this.”
“part of his gift,” choso says. “don’t want him training alone.”
toji stares at the card. then at sukuna. then back at choso.
“you’re fucking insane,” gojo says, laughing.
toji exhales a sharp laugh and grips choso’s shoulder. “i appreciate it, man, seriously. holy shit.”
sukuna looks between them, clearly overwhelmed, then clears his throat and tries to play it off. “alright, alright. enough with the heartfelt shit.”
but his grin doesn’t drop one bit.
you watch it all from choso’s side, chest warm in a way that has nothing to do with the noise or the crowd. this is him, he's so generous without making it a big show. loyal without asking for any kind of back credit. he's a solid man in a way that makes everyone around him relax and naturally lean into him.
choso glances down at you and catches you looking.
“you good, honey?" he asks quietly.
you nod, smiling up at him. “yeah. i’m really good.”
his lips curve into the kindest of smiles as he kisses your tenderly on your head, careful to not mess up your makeup.
off to the side, suguru looks away in disgust having witnessed that little interaction.
'read it and weep.' choso thinks to himself.
but he was far from done, one more little display and he'd be satisfied.
so, later on when everyone was a little drinker on the punch shoko had 'accidentally' poured four bottles of vodka in, he has you pressed up against a wall away from the main hustle and bustle, yet up close to where he knew suguru was lounging around.
"cho, people are gonna see!" you squeal, but his hands don’t stop grabbing at the curve of your ass and pushing you harder against the wall.
"good, want them to see." he coos, latching onto your throat and sucking at it softly.
despite your pleas, you were very into this. your boyfriend wasn't always this needy so this show was really doing it for you. you let him claim your throat in bright, blooming hickeys and groaned as he hooked his lips onto yours, shoving his tongue down your throat.
the exchange is heated and passionate, any on looker could tell this was a moment shared between two people who loved eachother deeply, exactly what he was going for.
from behind him, sukuna and toji catch wind of you two and let go of broken cheers, making choso smile into your lips. they both joke about 'not knowing choso has this in him,' which made a few of his other friends add onto the mantra of playful encouragement.
he's living for the way your cheeks heat, the way the attentions making you all hot and bothered. but most of all, he's high off the fact that when he peeks behind him through an open eye, he sees suguru angrily stand from his spot on the couch, and storm outta the house.
mission accomplished.
A/N this is not proofread at all 💔 going back to my roots and writing choso look at me go 🙂↕️ i hope you guys enjoy the lil smau yayy
summary: two years had passed since you first met gojo satoru, and it was two years of having an agonizingly one-sided crush on the white-haired genius. for the most part, you were okay with keeping it down and acting like the nights you spent fantasizing about what it would be like to be his were normal. you were fine keeping it hidden until something between the two of you shifts, and you're left wondering if this crush you have on him is truly as delirious as you think.
genre: 18+, nerdjo, slow burn, angst + happy ending (duh), fluff, eventual smut (nerdjo being a munch), some mention of insecurities but nothing major
word count: 33k (oops)
note: nerdjo bu set in oxford! art credit! @to00fu
jjk masterlist
It began at one of the English department get-togethers.
Two years ago, when you felt like you had to come to every single event in the hopes of striking expeditious luck at one of them. And it’s not that you particularly disliked these events, but they weren’t the first thing you’d think of when it came to how you’d prefer to spend your free time.
The weather was just getting chilly enough where you’d rather stay in your dorm and wrap yourself in three blankets and a sweater, and the year had been dragging on long enough where you’d rather just talk about the wonders of Shakespeare and his sonnets in the confines of your next research paper and not with academics who made you feel inferior.
You had been invited weeks in advance, and yet you still found yourself dreading being here, the more it led to it, and even more when you were in the thick of it. Awkward small-talk with students you’ve seen around briefly and stiff handshakes with male professors who think that they have better places to be were just mentally taxing, and you counted the seconds until it was all over.
Thankfully, it was busy enough that you could slip into the background without many people even noticing you were there, but not so crowded that you could just slip away entirely without somebody asking where the great Dr. Howard’s research assistant had gone. And anyways, it wasn’t too horrible. You had taken to silently recounting Othello in your mind moments before everything changed.
There was a small tap on your shoulder. It startled you at first, and you looked around in your small corner to see a man waiting patiently behind you, a sheepish look on his face as you tried to gather yourself up.
“I’m sorry,” he stammered, and you blinked out of your stupor as you tried to recall in your brain if you had met him before to save yourself from the embarrassment of him having to re-introduce himself, “I didn’t mean to surprise you.”
He looked familiar. His eyes were a deep amethyst, his smile was soft and kind. His dark and shaggy hair was tied behind his head in a small bun, and his ears were adorned with multiple piercings. Although many at Oxford, especially the men, tried to appear as blank as usual, he seemed apt and content with going against the stuffy and old notions.
You must have seemed confused because the man stuttered as he introduced himself.
“I’m Suguru,” he restarted, his hand leaving his side as he extended it to shake yours, “I think we had the same English survey course last semester.”
Your confusion melted away into a wide smile as you shook his hand, his own eyes crinkling around the edges as he grinned back, letting out a breath of relief as you nodded insistently, shaking your head at your own self.
“Right, right, Suguru! I remember you!” You exclaimed, setting your cup down to the side as you watched him tuck a strand of loose hair behind his ear, “You sat a little bit in front of me, right?”
His head ducked down momentarily as he chukked, putting his hands in his pants pockets as he nodded.
“I did,” he chuckled slightly, “Right in the line of fire for when Howard needed to pick on someone.”
Your lips quirk up slightly as you nod, remembering how the professor you work for now used to terrorize your class and quiz random students on particular syllables and grammatical imperfections in the reading they were supposed to have done.
The class was small, as were most major-specific courses you were taking. Although you didn’t have many of your friends in the class, you had gotten a good sense of who was in there and who Dr. Howard preferred to pick on. Suguru, for the most part, did the reading and did his work, so he came out unscathed compared to some of the other students. He sat near the front with some of his own friends, and you had talked to him in passing a couple of times when the class as a whole would band together to compare comments on assignments. He was kind, from what you remembered, which is probably why you felt your shoulders growing less tense the more you two talked.
“That’s her style,” you say, shrugging as you fiddle with your fingers. “It took a while to get used to it,” you admit. Suguru rolls his eyes at your humility, remembering clearly just how much Dr. Howard favored you, but he doesn’t say anything as he lets you continue, “I don’t know if you’ve had Creemer yet, but he’s worse with his cold calls and isn’t half as nice.”
“I have him right now for rhetoric and grammar,” he said with a sigh, shaking his head in dismay, “He’s…sadistic, I think.”
You giggle, nodding feverishly at the statement as you recall your past couple of classes with the hellish professor, an infamous name for many English majors and someone that you try to avoid at all costs if possible.
The party, or gathering, as it said on the invitation, drones on in the background as you look around to see if anybody is looking in your direction. Most of the time, you can do what you want, but seeing that Dr. Howard had warned you before tonight that somebody from the department might want to swarm you to ask questions that you most likely didn’t have answers to, had put you on edge.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” He asked, motioning to the rest of the people with a knowing glint as you politely smile, shrugging your shoulders as your lips press tightly together. Whether it be your shy nature or how you preferred smaller crowds, it must’ve been evident on your face that you weren’t necessarily having the most amount of fun.
“I am,” you answer, wincing at the way your voice sounded warbled, “I’m trying to make the most of these opportunities, I guess.”
Suguru’s head dipped in understanding, taking a sip of his drink as he bit the inside of his cheek, leaning in slightly as he lowered his voice.
“These things drag on for a bit, though, yeah? I’m feeling my fingers prune from how long I’ve held this glass.”
You let out a sigh of relief, sharing the same sentiment as the two of you share a knowing look.
“I…I, um, I heard that Howard chose you to research with her, though, right? That’s gotta be pretty cool,” Suguru asked after a beat, bringing you back to the conversation as his head tilted slightly, and you felt heat rush to your cheeks as you swallowed. He seemed kind, not asking the question bitterly as some other people have.
You nodded again, trying to contain your smile as you leaned against the stone pillar next to you. Letting out a small hum, you swallow again, trying to scope out what sort of place he was coming from.
“It is,” you answered, biting on the inside of your cheek as you were still reeling from being selected from such a wide pool of applicants and such a rigorous interview process to work on her next paper analyzing More’s work through a modern lens, “It’s…strenous, sometimes, but I’m having a lot of fun working with her,” you fidgeted with your fingers, “So yeah, it’s pretty cool.” You say sheepishly.
Suguru smiled at your hidden enthusiasm, the tip of his boot nudging something on the ground. He went to usher you to continue before his eye caught something behind your shoulder, his eyebrows shooting upwards in surprise as his smile grew even wider, his hand raising in a wave.
“Sorry,” he apologetically muttered, and you craned your neck around to see what it was, or rather who it was that Suguru had seen, “I think my friend just arrived.”
That’s when you felt your breathing stop.
The bustling group of students and faculty members almost seemed to part theatrically for the man walking towards the two of you, but you couldn’t even blame them.
He stuck out like a sore thumb, with his icy white hair and strikingly beautiful eyes. His lengthy frame made him nearly a head taller than even the tallest man in the room, and his wide shoulders helped him wade through the bodies as he navigated to his friend. His face seemed stoic, bordering on bored, but you couldn’t help but widen your eyes in shock at seeing the most devastatingly gorgeous man to ever exist. He adjusted his glasses over the bridge of his nose, his lips moving in quiet apologies as he tried to move through the people without bumping into them.
You suddenly became hyper-aware of the fact that it had been days since you had last had a good night's sleep and that the bags under your eyes were most likely even more evident in the dim lighting of the old hall, and how your sweater was lumpy from being shoved in the back of your closet for so long. You swallow thickly as Suguru quickly excused himself as he stepped away and walked a bit away to hug the stranger, exchanging some words with each other as you stood awkwardly to the side.
You watched them silently as they talked for a little bit more before Suguru stepped away, his hand on his friend's back as he, for some horrifying reason, seemed to guide him towards where you were stiffly standing as the two of you made eye contact before you became aware of the way your eyeballs felt in your socket and how heavy your tongue was in your mouth.
When Suguru finally pulled away from the modern-day Adonis, you felt like a creeper and a loner as you wondered whether or not to leave or stand in the corner while they talked, but ever the kind person that he was, Suguru led the man by the back to where the two of you were with a wide smile on his face.
“Sorry about that,” Suguru abashedly apologized, chuckling deeply as he rubbed the back of his neck, “But this is my friend, Satoru,” he said brightly, pushing the man a little harshly towards you as you stared at him silently.
The man, Satoru, gives you a tight-lipped smile, nodding once in your direction as he looks around, looking uncomfortable and shifty. Suguru rolled his eyes, sighing deeply as he patted his friend's back.
You grinned back, swallowing the spit in your mouth as you felt him stare at you once he was done looking at the room, your cheeks heating up. You felt his eyes drift over your outfit, at your posture, and the way your hands were clasped tightly together. This stranger assessed the way you swayed slightly, awkwardly, not knowing how to fill the silence as you tapped the tip of your battered shoes on the ground. When he was done, his chin lifted again, his stare lingering on your blinking face as you glanced between him and Suguru, waiting for somebody to say something before you imploded and left with the lingering scent of your vanilla body spray.
Seeing that he was fine with checking you out, you took the time to do the same. He seemed like one of the generational students of the school, the ones whose parents and grandparents and cousins and siblings all came and went and made something important with their lives. They weren’t hard to detect, especially him, with his steamed jumper and his creased pants. His leather shoes were shining back at you, and though his hair was somewhat messy, it seemed to be classily messy, unlike what you and some other students would call freely messy.
“I force him to come to these things with me,” Suguru explained, but you could barely hear him over the rhythm of heartbeats in your ear as you tried to fly, appreciate the man a few feet in front of you, “Our friend Shoko sometimes comes, but she had things to do tonight.”
The man’s nose wrinkled ever so slightly, his brows drawing tightly together as he glanced at his friend with a look.
“I had things to do too,” he muttered, his voice deep as you felt your heart stupidly tumble at the sounds.
Suguru snorted, shaking his head as he shrugged indifferently.
“Sure,” Suguru replied sarcastically and glanced at you, his brow slightly raised at the way you had gone silent, his lips quirking slightly when he noticed the way you couldn’t stop staring at his friend, not voicing anything as his hand on Satoru’s shoulder loosened, “Just act like you want to be here for twenty minutes, yeah?”
You bit your teeth into your cheek, a finger raising slightly as you pointed to the newcomer's face.
“I like your glasses,” you said brightly, your smile gentle as you fidget with your own, watching the way his striking eyes moved over to you again, squinting slightly as his hand raised upwards, as if he had forgotten that his glasses were even there, “They frame your face really well.” Your head tilts a little as you try to place something, “Where’d you get them? If, if you don’t mind me asking. Mine is so old and dingy, and the rims are basically glued on, and I’ve only had them for a few years.”
“Erm, well, thank you,” Satoru says stiffly, not used to the direct attention and compliments, his cheeks slightly dusted with pink as Suguru watches his friend struggle for words, taking the glasses off as he turns them to the side, trying to read the logo, “These are, erm, from Cartier. But I usually wear contacts, anyway.”
You let out a startled laugh, not a stranger to hearing students at this place don expensive items, but this being the first time you’ve seen one of them bashful about it.
You nod, your smile still there, softer as you take in his slightly awkward nature and let him put the glasses back on before you continue.
“Contacts are more practical,” you agree, even though you’ve always had a phobia of things touching your eyes and would never wear contacts unless somebody forced you, shrugging as you say, “But I’ve always appreciated the look of glasses.”
Satoru gnaws on his lips, nodding quietly as Suguru starts talking about his friend's major (biochemistry, you came to find out), and how long they’ve known each other, but you could only feel your stupid feelings when Suguru stayed, his friend included, and talked with you for the rest of the evening.
That was your sophomore year.
Nearly two years passed after befriending Suguru alongside his small group. He introduced you to Shoko after that night, swearing up and down that the two of you were destined to be near each other. And we weren’t wrong, not in the slightest. You two girls bonded strangely fast, as if you were twin flames that were being fanned out. Suguru and Satoru seemed to mirror the two of you, but the group functioned as a whole, for the most part. You spent so many nights over at their dorms that you could walk around blindfolded and still find your way to the others with no issue. It was fun, it was what you had dreamt of for so long. It was something that you were fine with, more than content with, ending your university career in a couple of months.
Well, everything for the most part, you could consider it as such if it wasn’t for your debilitating and soul-crushing feelings for the stranger you met that night.
It’s been four semesters, and you still don’t think Gojo Satoru has a clue. Which, in all honesty, is for the better.
Although his stoic nature spares nobody, it feels as though you're always on the worst end of it. With his lingering stares that seem to border on questioning why you were even there whenever he sees you, to the way he grows dim and quiet around you, it feels like you’re actively attempting to hurt yourself the more you fall in love with the little things you hadn’t noticed the day prior.
Even worse, you know deep down that such feelings are most likely, under this sun and every other universe, with most certainty and heavy grief, unrequited.
But you’re fine keeping it down.
You were fine until recently.
—
“I’m debating switching majors.”
Shoko declared from the couch, her legs hanging off the side, knocking occasionally on your shoulders as you crane your neck back on the cushion form where you were seated on the ground to look at her upside down.
“To what?”
She shrugged, rubbing at her eyes as she held her neuroanatomy textbook in one hand, her phone in the other as she scrolled through the different majors Oxford offered, as if she wasn’t a semester away from graduating.
“Film?” She read out, and you snorted, rolling your eyes at the prospect of Shoko going into film, “Hm…maybe art history?”
“Gave up on the med school dream?” Suguru quips from the other side of the couch, knowing fully that Shoko was just going on another one of her tangents as she shifted slightly to shove him harshly with her socked foot.
“I’m sure your counselor wouldn’t mind,” you reply, looking at her as she glares, her eyes falling back to her phone as she peers at the screen. She looked boredly a little bit before her eyes flitted upwards slightly, squinting as she read the new notification.
“Satoru said he’s going to be here in a few minutes,” she muttered, reading the next message, “And that he wants you,” she nudged Suguru with her foot again to motion that it was him that Satoru was referencing in the text, “To move to your bed so that he can do his work on his side of the couch.”
Suguru peeked up from his doom scrolling to look at Shoko, his eyes narrowed in a glare as he let out a huff of annoyance.
“His side?”
Shoko shrugged, her knee knocking on the side of your head as you knock it back, the book you were reading resting in your hands as you listened to Suguru mutter distastefully about how this was his dorm and that Satoru had no right claiming his couch, but you heard him shuffle to his feet nonetheless.
You tried not to show any peek of interest when the infamous name was called out, but it was hard not to. It had been two grueling years of mulling over your childish crush, yet the sound of his name could still send pulses to your veins that you were sure were minor heart attacks.
Because it was Gojo Satoru. You wanted to bang your head against the coffee table just hearing it.
Truth be told, you weren’t a stranger to having crushes. It was normal, it was human. Or at least, that’s what you convinced yourself when you were sprawled out on your bed, staring blankly at the ceiling as you tried not to think about the way his fingers ever so slightly grazed your wrist when he handed you some chopsticks earlier at the restaurant.
But your crushes came few and far between, and you preferred keeping it that way. Seeing that you were too terrified to ever admit them, and the few, very few times you have, they’ve backfired horrifically, you try not to catch feelings as much as possible. But there was something about Gojo, something beyond reason, that pulled you to him.
At first, you bargained. You tried convincing yourself that it was just his appearance that was drawing you in, his suave looks that made people’s heads turn whenever he entered a room. But you have seen him at four in the morning with his old band tees (a sight that still made you swoon), with his hair crusted with glitter and his eyes pink with eyeshadow as Shoko attempted to put him in drag. Even then, he was insanely gorgeous, so you knew it had to be beyond that.
When you had finally accepted that it was a mind-numbing and life-ending crush that you were feeling towards him, you finally gave in and decided to admire the tall brute from afar. It helped that the two of you had gotten somewhat closer over the past two years, but out of everyone in the group, he was the one you talked to the least. In your defense, he didn’t have much to say to anybody, and that was just his nature. He spent most of his time studying and researching, and the other time watching, observant as other people gossiped. It wasn’t his forte, and nobody pushed him.
So you took in his quietness and his stoicism, appreciated his god-like looks and his overwhelming presence. That was fine.
What made it even worse was that he was so unattainably perfect in other ways that your crush festered into something that made you scream into your pillows and throw your balls of clothes at the wall as you wallowed in self-pity.
Everyone at this damned university was intelligent, and you had made amends with them early on. But you loved men who were smart, guys who could actually hold a page down and dissect it and make the most of it. And worst of all, Gojo Satoru was probably the most intellectual person you have ever met, and will ever meet. It seemed like his memory was photographic, his mind working twenty thousand times faster than the regular brain as he computed formulas and equations at speeds that you couldn’t fathom. He made biochemistry seem easy, something that you sometimes felt guilty for not pursuing. And sure, it didn’t help that you were on the other side with your texts about Russian classics and books diving deep into the restoration period, but even Shoko, who could rival Gojo at times, would begrudgingly admit under her breath just how stupidly genius he was.
Therefore, when you put those things together, his charming looks, his bookish self, his brooding structure, and just everything else, it made him unattainably perfect.
And that’s when you get the man you’ve been hopelessly in love with since the moment you saw him at that wretched party that wasn’t a party.
So, when Shoko read off his texts, there was good reason why she looked at the top of your head, a knowing look in her eyes as she playfully nudges you again, watching as you threw her a dark glare to just keep it down seeing that she was the only other soul who knew, despite you trying your best to hide it, about your feelings towards her other friend.
“Did you hear that Toji is graduating a semester late?” Suguru asked, leaning back against his pillows, his long legs strewn along his bed as he chewed on some gum.
You and Shoko both hummed, not looking up from your respective tasks, having found this information out weeks in advance.
Suguru groaned in annoyance, his chest vibrating with the noise as you snorted, rolling your eyes as he threw a small pillow at your head. It bounced off the side of your face, but you didn’t look up from the page you were on, too engrossed to hear the door behind you click open and heavy footsteps suddenly thudding through the dorm.
You shuffled against the couch, your back feeling stiff as you tried to get comfortable, not knowing that the man of your dreams was moving around somewhere behind you as he hung his coat up (vintage leather, something you found out as he grumbled about getting it wet when Shoko and Suguru insisted on walking in the rain once), kicked off his shoes, and slung his bag around as Shoko craned her neck to see what he was doing.
“Hey,” Shoko called out, and your eyes widened slightly when you heard a familiar voice grunt back a tired greeting, trying not to look as your ears suddenly sharpened to pick up on the sound of him pulling on his sweatshirt as he rounded the couch, standing at the opposite end as he plopped his backpack on the cushions.
You finally allowed yourself to peek over, your eyes following his figure upwards until they landed on his face, and your fists balled in frustration at how pretty he was even when he was simply existing.
Gojo sent you a small, tight-lipped and courteous nod, polite and curt as he looked between you and Shoko, glancing back at the bed where Suguru was lying, his fingers barely lifting from his phone as he gave his childhood best friend a lazy three-fingered wave.
“Why’re you here?” His blunt question was directed at Shoko, something that held no bite but mere wondering as he situated himself on the soft cushions, his large hands feeling around his bag as he opened up the zipper to get his laptop.
“I thought that it was allowed,” Shoko replied dryly, “Apologies.”
You chuckle softly, flipping the page, trying not to let his signature cologne distract you from the words in front of you.
“How was your lab?” Suguru asked, sounding monotone as his thumb swiped on the screen.
You watched as Gojo gave him a glare, his nose wrinkling, something he often did when he was frustrated but didn't want to ruin his outward appearance, and rubbed at his tired eyes. His hair was messy with goggle indents lining the upper half of his face.
“An offense to my intelligence,” Gojo grumbled, his face illuminated by the glow of his laptop as he clicked around a little bit, “I can’t believe some people have made it this far.”
You flipped another page, not fully having read the contents of the last one, but in an attempt to seem indifferent, tried to keep up with your regular reading pace as if anybody was keeping track.
Watching as he riffles through his bag again, you know, almost like clockwork, what he’s going to pull out. His routine is one that you’ve familiarized yourself with despite your best judgment, and you know that what comes next are his glasses.
Glasses are normal. You have your own pair that you only wear for lectures and outings, but forgo them for times like this because they sit a little too heavy on your nose. But his glasses are something else.
They elevate his face ever so slightly, but so much so that it makes you want to keel over and scream. They accentuate his perfect nose with the perfect crook and his freckles that sometimes sit just beneath the frames. He looks even more dashing, if that was even possible, with the way he looks up sometimes, and the lenses make his eyes seem even more blue.
He took them off for labs and put them somewhere safe. In moments like this, you were reminded of just how truly stunning this man really was.
Gojo unfolded the two prongs, holding them up to a source of light as his nose wrinkled again.
Smudges.
You watch silently as he dives back into the bag, his long fingers searching through his pockets for something you knew you always kept on hand for yourself and deep down, for him.
After a few seconds of not finding the microfiber cloth that you both silently cherished, you gave in, pulling your own bag towards you as you unzipped the smaller pocket, pulling it out stealthily and motioning for Shoko to hand it to Gojo.
He took it, his face going so far to relax momentarily as he went to clean the lenses, his head nodding once in quiet appreciation in your direction as you allowed yourself a nod in return.
Shoko looked at you with a raised brow, and you chose to hide behind your book.
“Was it Lainey?” Suguru asked, looking over at his friend, the name piquing your interest as you cast a quizzical look at Shoko, but she shrugged, watching Gojo as his expression soured. He handed you back your little cloth, muttering a thanks under his breath as his bitter gaze found Suguru, as if he was cursing him silently for bringing up the sensitive subject.
“What do you think?” He grumbled out, his right eye almost twitching as his fingers stretched out, typing something quickly as Suguru huffed out a laugh, noting how you and Shoko were both confused, and his smile only grew.
“You didn’t tell them?” Suguru asked, a gleam in his eyes as he shuffled to sit upwards, his back resting on the headboard, “Oh, this is class. Do you two know Lainey? Lainey Andrews?”
You cast a look at Shoko, your lips pursing as your eyes squinted, trying to recall the familiar name.
“The ginger?” Shoko asked, her head tilting to the side, her hair falling around her shoulder, “Pixie cut?”
Suguru nodded, his shoulders raising as your brows furrowed before your mouth slightly fell open when your head bobbed quickly, snapping as you matched the face to the name.
“Oh, Lainey!” You exclaimed, “She’s really pretty,” you added, remembering her bright green eyes and the spattered freckles that made her look like a painting, “She’s also crazy smart - she’s double majoring in bio and poli sci."
Shoko laughed softly under her breath, giving you a small look because this was somewhat typical of you to know random people, with nearly everyone on campus having had a conversation with you at some point during your four years here.
Suguru raised a brow, clicking his tongue as he pointed his phone at Gojo, seeming like he was already anticipating one of his sly comments.
“She’s also just crazy,” Gojo muttered, looking above his laptop, above his wispy lashes at you and then to Shoko, “She spent half of the lab playing with my hair.”
Your book almost fell out of your hands as Shoko sat up with a barking out a stunned laugh, your hands mirroring each other as they flew to cover your mouths in shock, and Suguru nodded again, his eyes wide as he clicked his tongue.
Another thing about Gojo? He hated being touched. Despised hugs, only suffered through quick handshakes, and shuddered at the thought of someone touching his face. You’ve seen the way he pulls back whenever someone approaches him with open arms, seen the way he tries to brush people off of him. He can tolerate Suguru and his insistent bear-hugs from time to time, can sometimes allow Shoko to swat a fly away from his face, and for some reason, doesn’t grumble whenever you try to fix his ties before events, but whenever a stranger or someone he isn’t close to attempts to touch him, he grows reclusive for the rest of the day.
“I told her to stop, too,” he adds, his big frame seeming to grow in frustration as he thinks back to it, “It was only after I had to shove her off that she got the hint. I forgot my disinfectant too, so I was just…” he shuddered, his eyes fluttering shut as he shifted uncomfortably, and you watched him let out a restrained exhale as he dropped it and went back to work.
But, after studying him for as long as you have, you know that he probably washed his hands and his face a couple of times after that. You know that he also wouldn’t feel complete without some sanitizing wipes and a good shower, so you do the closest thing to that and fish out a hand sanitizer from your bag, an item that you refused to move around without due to your own cleanly nature, which was ironically something else that you and Gojo silently shared, and passed it to him, knowing that he was probably itching till he was able to shower again.
Your friends sometimes joked that you had a Mary Poppins bag, but it came in handy for times like this.
Gojo’s ears perked up at the sound of your rumaging, his eyes almost brightening at the sight of the hand sanitizer, and you pinched it between two fingers before throwing it his way, watching as he effortlessly caught it and began spraying his large palms with the lavender scent.
“Thank you,” he mumbled again, his voice slightly losing the edge it had from before as he passed it back to you, and you smiled, nodding once before you zipped it back up.
You tried to ignore the way Shoko was staring at you.
“Lucky us that we don’t have labs, huh?” Suguru called out, throwing another tiny pillow in your direction, but this time you dodged it, moving your head down slightly so that it would miss. You huff a bit, looking over at Suguru as he shrugged, winking as he went back to his phone.
Suguru was another English major, the reason the two of you got familiar in the first place. He liked to say that the two of you balanced out Gojo and Shoko, but you just thought that it pushed you even further down the list of potential people your pathetic crush could be interested in.
There were a couple of things that you had come to terms with if you were going to crush on him. One was that you had to know in full certainty that nothing was going to come from it. You weren’t going to risk the friendship, no matter how small, by going and confessing and having everything be messy. Two, was that you weren’t going to feel, or at least try not to feel, jealous if he entertained the idea of pursuing something with someone else. And three, was that Gojo Satoru was so incredibly picky when it came to potential partners, that it might be impossible for even the most amazing people to snag a chance.
“I don’t know,” you mumbled, eyes squinting as you tried to make out what one of the characters was saying, “You didn’t have to do that project with Armie.”
Suguru hummed, his brow raising as he thought back to your shared class and the project that paired you up with people you didn’t know, Suguru getting the better end of the stick while you were stuck with someone who insisted on plugging the project prompt into a generator.
“Didn’t you report him?” Satoru asked, his eyes still trained on his work, but the question was now directed to you given the fact that he had sat in on a couple of your tirades in which you would drone on about how the boy was nearly about to graduate and still couldn’t cite sources when he, in one of his brief moments of providing comments, would reiterate to report it to the professor.
You sank into your spot, giving him a suppressed look, one where your eyes met before you shared a glimpse with Suguru. Your friend rolled his eyes from across the room, shaking his head in annoyance as Satoru looked between the two of you.
“She said that she didn’t want to ‘be a bitch’,” Suguru said, restating the words as his fingers move up and down in the air, quoting the statement you had said to him moments before you had to present the assignment in front of the class, shushing him as you pushed him away, insisting that even though you had done the entire project on your own, that it wasn’t worth the hassle to make a report with the professor and potentially have someone out for you, “I said otherwise, but she,” Suguru gave you a pointed look, “Said she’d cut my hair if I made it a ‘big deal’.”
Satoru’s eyes lingered on the side of your face, and you purposefully kept your head ducked and the book closer, so close that it was nearly touching your nose, as you tried to shield away their judging eyes in embarrassment.
“You need to stop caring about what other people think,” Shoko said as she shoved you with her knee, this time just a little bit harder because she knows you and knows what you hide in the fear of making others think something of you that wasn’t good, “I really think your professor would’ve heard your case if you made it.”
You groaned, swatting at her leg with your book as you shuffled away, backing into another corner as you tried to readjust to the new position.
“Yeah,” Suguru added, resting his phone momentarily on his chest, “I think it would help if you were more selfish.”
You rolled your eyes, shaking your head at the prospect.
“I just hate confrontation,” you murmur defensively, gnawing on your bottom lip as you flip a page, “And, plus…you have to give me some credit - at least I told him that he was being frustrating,” you say, pretending to ignore them, your eyes re-reading the same word over and over again until you were confident that they were going to drop this subject, this horse that they’ve beaten multiple times, one that ended with you assuring them that you were going to speak up more until it all looped back again to times like this.
“Speaking of confrontation, did you ever get a refund for that ticket?”
There was a beat of silence before you let out a frustrated groan when Shoko reminded you of the one task you had forgotten to do in the past couple of days, your head falling to your knees as your palms jammed into your eyes.
“No, oh my god, you’re so right,” your voice is muffled as you bookmark your page, your fists clenching at your own mistake as your eyes crack open, “Oh my god, I can’t believe I forgot to follow up on that!”
Shoko chuckled, rolling her eyes as Suguru and Satoru shared a look, them now sharing confusion as you writhe on the floor at the thought of knowing you could’ve saved a couple of bucks had you not forgotten to call up the school of drama help center for accidentally buying an extra ticket to the showing of The Beggar’s Opera. And, seeing that it was Tuesday and just days before the theatre program, one that needed funds, was about to perform, the deadline for your refund was most likely up.
“So does that mean you need me to come with you next Saturday?” Shoko offered, her lips quirking up slightly as your head shot up, nodding quickly as your hands flew to hers, shaking them feverishly.
“Would you? Would you really?” You ask, and her laughter grows, shoving you off playfully by pushing your forehead back to where you were sitting.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she says with a sigh, winking at you before she goes back to her phone, and you settle back in your seat as you gnaw on your lips, thinking back to how on earth you could have possibly messed up so bad when you so usually only buy one ticket for yourself, but you push it aside, thankful that your dearest friend was at least going to make use of it.
You, Suguru, and Shoko shared a small laugh and went on with the conversation, but you heard a low, deep noise, something only you could hear, as Suguru and Shoko returned to bickering about which major Shoko was best suited for.
The sound made you glance up briefly, looking over the pages to see Gojo still staring at you, his lashes fluttering before he snapped back to it and went back to doing his work.
Minutes turned into a few hours, and the room was filled with the occasional story and laughter, but mostly the four of you worked together on different assignments, sometimes looking up as you would recall something from the past couple of days that you were saving to tell them in person.
It seemed like everything was going smoothly until Suguru got a notification on his phone, his face lighting up as he swiveled out of his bed, jumping onto the floor as he tugged his shoes on, not explaining anything as the three of you glanced up, waiting.
“My food’s here,” he said over his shoulder, practically gleaming as he cocked his head in Shoko’s direction, “Come down with me, will you? I need some help.”
You scoff, smiling to yourself as you try to imagine just how much food he had ordered, but careful not to be too loud because you knew he would be sharing it with you all after some choice complaints were heard.
Shoko grumbles, but obliged, lifting up from the couch as she stretches, nudging you playing with the tip of her foot as she throws a pillow your way, walking towards Suguru as he holds the door open for her, the two of them calling out some brief goodbye as they head down to the lobby.
When the door clicks behind them, you’re suddenly aware of the fact that it’s only you and Satoru left, and you let your stare linger on the wall for a bit before you look away, suddenly sheepish when you catch his glance from his seat on the couch.
He clears his throat, eyes flickering from his screen to the book in your lap, the highlighters strewn around you, sticky notes sticking out from between the pages, and he points a finger at it.
“What’re you reading?”
Your brows raise slightly, and your chin ducks down to the book, and you sit up a little straighter as you place a bookmark in the middle of your page you lifting the cover, letting him read the cover as he adjusts his glasses over his eyes.
“Oh,” he says, his voice holding a lithe of acknowledgement as he slowly sets his laptop to the side, shifting slightly closer, “I’ve read this, I think.”
Your head tilts a little, lips quirking a little bit at the sides with a small smile as you look back at the cover.
“You’ve read The Norton Anthology, Volume C before?”
His mouth parts, closing it before he gapes at you, and your grin turns into a big smile, waving it away as you shake your head, shrugging at his stammering expression. He’s so cute when caught in a lie.
“I’m only kidding,” you swear, setting your book down, your knees pulled towards your chest, arms wrapping around your legs, “I’m sure you’ve had to read something like this for one of your previous classes.”
“You’re bothersome,” he murmurs, but his voice holds no bite as you let out another barking laugh, rolling your eyes as he tries not to smile, “I’m only trying to be polite.”
You purse your lips together, giving him a questioning look as he shoots you one back.
“I didn’t know politeness was in your artillery,” you quip, and he scoffs, moving his glasses upwards as he rubs at his tired eyes, resting backwards into the cushions as his legs part, and you try not to let your eyes linger on his thighs.
“I have a reserve for choice people,” he says, opening his eyes back as he looks back at you, yawning as he moves on, “How was your presentation?”
Your smile falters for a second as your stare turns questioning, chewing on your lips as it turns into something sweeter, something smitten because he’s asking about the presentation you had mentioned once in passing the last weekend you had hung out, stressing over your slides and sources, and trying to seem nonchalant as you finger traces little patterns on the floor.
“It was good,” you tell him, trying not to seem too prideful as you murmur, “My professor said it was exactly what he was looking for.”
His face shifts, no longer annoyed as you try not to appear bashful, but his teeth shine as his rosy cheeks pull upwards as he gives you one of those smiles that makes you feel warm and happy and giddy.
“Yeah?” He asks, shifting a little bit as he waved his teasingness off, rolling your eyes as you groan, nodding exaggeratedly as you go back to organizing your highlighters and pens, but he seems intent on pushing this: “Didn’t you say it was the hardest assignment of the class?”
You look up at him from above your lashes, trying not to smile again as you shrug indifferently, done with arranging your stationery based on colors as your knees knock together, throwing a pillow his way that he effortlessly catches.
“I mean, everyone told me that it was really, really hard, so-” But you’re cut off by the door swinging open, and the two of you crane your necks around to see Shoko and Suguru arguing over something irrelevant, food nestled in their hands as they close the door behind them with a slam.
They start telling you two about the delivery fee and the outrageousness that one of the containers had tipped over, but you’re still busy thinking about how Satoru remembered something so trivial, giving them quiet hums as they spread out the food on the small coffee table, and trying to act normal.
Like you have for the past two years.
—
The week passed as it usually does, with papers, readings, and assignments that needed to be completed at an unmanageable rate.
You had expected the usual and mundane things, and for the most part, that’s what came your way. Nights spent in each other's rooms as you finish up your work, spliced with moments where you would all talk, days filled with going to lectures and walking around campus till you found a quiet study spot. Things that you could predict and plan for.
For the most part.
Another thing that your little group would occasionally do was meet up at the end of the week at one of the pubs around campus, most of them serving mediocre food and somewhat better drinks, and offer you all a time to reconvene after a usually stressful couple of days.
The pub was small and quaint, but you enjoyed the warmth and laughter that muddled together to make the ambiance somewhat private. Either Suguru or Shoko would arrive there early and try to secure the usual spot at the booth near the end of the establishment, seeing that either of them didn’t have classes on Fridays, while the other three would meet up outside of Satoru’s biophysical chemistry class and walk there together.
Which is why you found yourself back on that Friday, sitting next to Shoko, settling into your seat as she clambered in after you. Suguru almost pushes Satoru in, impatient to sit down and get back to talking, and you watch as the white-haired man sits in front of you, his hands clasped together as he stares at the wood-grain of the table.
“How were classes?” Shoko finally asks, looking between you and Satoru as she takes a sip from her drink.
You sigh, shrugging as your fingers play with the bottom of your cup, the condensation slipping down as you rub at your tired eyes.
“Fine, I guess,” you say, drinking some water as you wipe at the corner of your lips, “My professor could’ve ended the class, like, twenty minutes earlier than he did.”
She nods solemnly, patting your thigh in solidarity as she passes the bowl of crisps towards you, nudging you to take one to help settle your stomach after having back-to-back classes, knowing how hangry it made you.
“Is this the professor who needs you to see a classical play?” Suguru asked, taking some of the snack as his arms crossed on top of the table, leaning in slightly as you licked some of the salt from your lips, nodding.
“Yeah,” you heave another sigh, elbowing Shoko as you continue, “Which is why I’m seeing Beggar’s Opera next week. I mean, the theatre program did a couple of Shakespeare ones earlier this semester, but…ugh, I just can’t watch another performance of Romeo and Juliet.” You murmur with a groan, resting your chin on the palm of your hand as Suguru hums in agreement.
“You don’t like Shakespeare?”
Your eyes shift over to the man in front of you who asked the question.
Your brows furrow slightly in the middle, lips pulling into a small pout as you shake your head, playing with the ring of water your drink had left as you itch your nose, trying not to focus too hard on the pretty pink color on Gojo’s cheeks because of the slightly toasty feel of the room.
“I do,” you say slugishly, “It’s just that when the only work of his that tends to be popular isn’t The Tempest, I get a little annoyed.”
Suguru snorts, shaking his head as his fingers wag at you.
“That’s not even nearly his best stuff,” he argues, and you roll your eyes, your head tilting badly in annoyance after knowing what this was going to lead to, “I can’t believe you still think that it outweighs Richard II.”
Satoru and Shoko’s eyes bounce between you and your ink-haired friend.
“I’d rather die on the hill of petty magic versus royal family drama,” You quip back, your brow slightly raised.
Suguru huffed, shaking his head in dismay as he lightly shoved your foot underneath the table, a small smile on both your faces.
“Is Tempest the one with the shipwreck?” Gojo asks, his head tilting slightly as his glasses lean on his nose bridge. You nod, grinning at the fact that someone in the group was able to identify such a classic piece of literary work.
You open your mouth to agree, but Suguru beats you to it.
“How do you know that?” He glances sideways at his friend, his brow raised in slight shock as Shoko snorts.
Gojo shrugs, his elbows resting on the table as the fabric of his sweater tightens around his arms, making him look delectable and otherworldly. You have to tear your eyes away from it before it becomes too noticeable.
“We went to the same secondary school,” Gojo argues, saying it as if it were the most obvious explanation in the world, “I paid attention…clearly more than others,” he adds under his breath, causing you to drop your hand to your mouth to hide the satisfied grin from when Suguru deflated in slight embarrassment.
“Oh, speaking of blast from the past,” Shoko shuffles, looking at her phone screen as if suddenly remembering something, “Vi’s coming back for break.”
You watch as Gojo and Suguru stop their silent bickering by messing with each other's stuff as they look up to Shoko. Suguru’s thin brow shoots upwards, his mouth turning into a surprised line as Gojo stares blankly, an unreadable expression on his face as you poke Shoko’s thigh, shaking your head in confusion.
“Who?” You murmur, your eyes squinting as Shoko looks at you, her mouth slightly dropping as she also remembers that you didn’t grow up with them.
“Vivienne March,” Suguru explains, beating someone once again to explain something because he could never hold onto a piece of information for longer than three seconds if he knows that somebody in his vicinity doesn’t know it, “She went to school with us for, what? Five, six years?” He looks between Gojo and Shoko, and they both nod, Shoko unlocking her phone as she goes to pull up the girl's instagram to show you what she looks like, “She’s his ex,” he murmurs as if secretly, pointing at his friend next to him as you feel something in your gut shift, but he clearly doesn’t tell because he leaves that point entirely.
“But I thought she preferred to stay in America till her spring semester was over?” He asks, confused, waiting for you to be done looking, as he waits for Shoko to explain it.
You take her phone gingerly, looking at the girl's account as you carefully click through her posts. You’re greeted with an aesthetic array of photos, some of her friends, some of her cat, and pretty pictures of old brick buildings and fall trees. But your eyebrows slowly move up your face when you see her.
Your thumb swipes through each post as you see her stunning hair framing her face in freshly done curls, her eyes striking and delicate as she wanders around a bookstore. Her outfits are always perfectly curated, and her makeup delicately done to accentuate her already natural beauty in a way that makes a part of you, something you tried to bury and starve, twist with envy at the effortlessness of her perfection.
“Guess she had a change of heart this year,” Shoko says, taking her phone back from your outstretched hand, turning it off as she placed it face down on the table, “She texted me this morning saying that she was ‘gonna be here for December and some of January and that she wanted to catch up.”
“You would like her,” Suguru directs his attention back at you, his words matching the genuine smile on his face, “She’s super bright and bubbly. And she’s so funny. Oh, and she's, like, insanely smart. She graduated from Cambridge when she was nineteen, and she’s doing grad school at Harvard.”
“Hmm, yeah,” Shoko hums, “I mean, she almost came here if she didn’t get the call from Harvard,” she nudges you with her shoulder, “But I don’t know how much he,” she points her eyes to Satoru, watching the way his mouth slightly parts at being called out, “Would’ve appreciated that, though.”
He scoffs, his tongue poking at his cheek as he leans in slightly, his arms crossing the table as Suguru snickers.
“I have no issue with Vivienne,” he argues, his brows pulling into a cute little frown, “She was just…”
“What?” Suguru juts in, Shoko scoffing a laugh next to you as Gojo only peers at him from the side of his eyes, “Madly in love with you? Was going to pick Oxford to be with you? And you were…what, days away from breaking up with her when she came sobbing to us that you have the emotional intelligence of a rock?”
Your eyes widen slightly, looking over at Shoko for confirmation, one she returns with a faint grin. Despite the sunken feeling in your heart, one that you often get whenever you are reminded of the fact that, unfortunately, literally everyone is also in love with Gojo Satoru, you have to control your face not to giggle at the statement.
Gojo makes a noise deep in his throat, the tips of his ears slightly pink from the added attention.
You swallow as you try to grapple with all this information. But, as always, the conversation moves on and you push everything back as you find yourself smiling once again, listening to how Suguru animatedly tells the story of how he bombed one of his essays because he forgot which citation format to use, and you try to not make it obvious how you’d peek over at Shoko now and then and see who it was that she was stalking, probably some girl from her class that she was plotting on.
The music lolls on in the background, the pub getting more packed with students and tired workers, and you find yourself content with listening to your friends tell you about their week, taking small sips from your straw as you grin and laugh as poke Shoko’s thigh whenever a cute guy, devastatingly never as cute as Gojo, walks by the table, and she, gripping your knee whenever a girl her type flashes her a look from over their shoulders.
“I think I’m wanted somewhere else at the moment,” she whispers, leaning closer to your ear as you follow her line of sight to a girl sitting at the bar, her long blonde hair thrown over her shoulder as she steals the occasional glance at your friend, “I’ll be back.”
You giggle, pushing at her to go as she swats your hand away playfully, sending you a wink as you send one back, watching her go as Suguru and Gojo watch silently, sending each other knowing looks before Shoko disappears behind the other booths.
“Well, if she’s going, might as well take this time to piss,” Suguru states, putting his hands on the wood as he hoists himself up, sending a cheeky little smile as he imitates Shoko’s sashay, “Don’t wait up.”
You roll your eyes, trying not to watch him leave as if to draw out the silence that will inevitably follow, seeing that it’s just you and Gojo remaining. Your fingers play with your empty glass as you glance back to him, sending him a small smile as you feel chagrin already seeping into your veins.
He clears his throat, his eyes darting from your face to your arms, his tongue poking his cheek as he swallows. You wonder how much he’s dreading the awkward silence that has the possibility of ensuing.
“Water?”
Your eyes squint at the sudden question, looking down to the long finger he has pointed at your glass, and you look back up at him, wondering if he was stating the obvious or if your feelings for him had made you delirious and unable to compute anything that comes out of his mouth.
“Do you want some more water?” He explains, and you feel your cheeks heat again at your blunder, “I’m going up there to get a refill anyway.”
You nod gratefully, swallowing your feelings down as you glance up at him, handing him your empty glass with ice sloshing around as your smile wobbles.
“I’d appreciate it, thank you,” your voice dips slightly as you grin stupidly the longer you look at his long lashes and his pink lips, somewhat glad that he was getting away so you could less opportunities to screw up, and you watch as his beautifully large hand wraps around the glass like it was nothing, sending you a small nod as he crouches slightly so that the overhanging light wouldn’t hit his head on the way out.
Leaving you alone, you pull out your phone, also thankful to have a little moment to yourself as you quickly try to catch up on the notifications you had gotten in the past couple of hours, as the noise around you mixes, adding a comforting ambience as you lean against the old walls, your head leaning against your fist.
You were so engrossed in your own little bubble that you didn’t notice the figure hovering near the other end of the table, only noticing the man when you looked to the side, thinking that either Suguru or Gojo was back, only for your eyes to widen in shock and surprise to be greeted with an unfamiliar face.
Letting out a small noise, adjacent to an audible gulp, you sit up straighter, looking bashfully at him as you turn your phone off, taking in his slender frame and the rectangular-framed glasses that sit wonkily on his nose as he fidgets nervously with the hem of his lumpy sweater. Ironically, having everything that Gojo has but wearing it so drastically differently that you have to snap yourself out of the comparison.
The boy's hair is slightly parted, light blonde, and his eyes framed with what seemed like brown lashes. His cheeks are dusted with light freckles, and his smile is lopsided as he scratches the back of his neck.
Cute in a schoolish way, you think.
“H-hi,” his voice is high, squeaking and wobbly as he leans on the booth, not knowing what to do with his arms as he uses the back of his hand to push his glasses upwards, “Hi, I just…”
Your head tilts slightly, curiosity filling your eyes as you give him a gentle smile, waiting patiently for him to find his words.
“I’m Kento,” he stammers after a second, scratching behind his ears as a red flush settles over his high cheeks, “I’m sitting over there,” he points to a table behind him, and your neck cranes to see a group of boys his age all staring at his back, “And I just thought-”
He opens his mouth to say something else, but pauses, his gaze drifting to something, or rather someone, coming his way, and you’re too focused on the way sweat dots at his hairline or the way he fidgets with the hem of his sweater to even notice the full glass of water sliding in front of you from the other side of the booth.
Your back straightens as your head whips to the side, eyes widening when you realize that Satoru had returned, his one drink nestled in his hand as his stare bounces between you and, who you evidently had just discovered, Kento.
Blue eyes flicker over your face, a moment's decision faltering in his mind as he slithers into not his original seat in front of you, but next to you, his large frame taking up half of your side of the both as your brows furrow in confusion, lips pulling into a tote as your eyes squint at the way he hunkers in like it was normal.
Is he okay? You try not to have your heart burst out of your chest and flip flop around on the table like a fish out of water at being in such proximity to Satoru, but you don’t even have time to think about that as the rest of your mind falters, trying to make sense of this behavior.
One of his beefy arms unravels from his side as it stretches above your head, resting atop the cushioned seats as he sighs deeply through his nose, taking a sip of his drink as if he hadn’t interrupted anything, and his chin turns over to the boy, waiting.
Kento stammers, even worse than before, as he pushes back his spiky hair with a hand, looking between you and Satoru as you blink slowly, not really knowing what to do, awkwardly lingering in your seat as you wonder if anybody’s going to talk.
“Everything alright?” Satoru asks finally, his voice slightly lower than usual, somewhat taunting but hard to tell, seeing that his face was blank, thick as it almost bounces off Kento’s skull, his cheeks turning into a bright pink as you lets out a small exhale of air, something resembling a shocked laugh at the strange and sudden shift in his behavior.
“I, uh, I,” Kento’s voice wobbles as he seizes up Satoru’s size and his overall presence, a strange look of shock and even awe as you gnaw on the inside of your cheek, not fully knowing what was going on as Kento’s head dips in embarrassment, “I’m sorry…I didn’t know, uh, that you, you were…yeah…sorry…”
His arm raises in a small wave, quickly turning on his heels, the back of his neck almost red as you blink rapidly, letting out a small huff of air as your neck almost snaps towards the man next to you, stammering as you try to find your words.
Satoru looks at you, taking another sip.
“What?”
You scoff, eyes nearly bulging out of your head as you stumble over a slew of words.
“What? W-what do you mean what?” You let out a bewildered laugh, looking across the pub at the boy and his group of friends that almost seem to be comforting him, their hands on his shoulders as he profusely shakes his head, “What the hell was that for?”
His white brows pinch in the middle, as if he doesn't understand your startlement, as if you were the one being crazy.
But you weren’t being crazy. Not in the slightest.
You brushed it off the first time Satoru scared off a guy who was talking to you. You thought it was strange, sure, how in the middle of your lively conversation of John Milton and Paradise Lost that he wandered from the other side of the room, suddenly attached to your side, his height towering over the other guy as he quieted down and scurried away. You just chalked it up to him being bored, despite how annoyed you were.
The second time, a guy was seconds away from putting his phone in your number when Satoru’s voice rang in your ears, and you watched, horrified, as he peered down at the guy's cracked phone screen, scoffing at the fact that he was listening to some stupid band he disapproved of.
Then there was the time when you were at this same pub, getting some drinks for Shoko, waiting at the counter, flirting with the guy next to you when Satoru found his way back to you, as if pulled by a magnet, and asked the guy if he always chose to talk to girls he didn’t know with a fresh hickey on his neck. (That one you weren’t mad at, more so embarrassed).
But it’s happened countless times. At the pub, at gatherings, at galas he’s invited you to as his plus one because he said nobody else could make it, at the library when he came a little too early and a guy from your class was sitting next to you, at the cafe, and at the small party he threw last year.
And if you weren’t so in love with him, you’d be madder than you were. You knew he was just being a protective and caring friend, not wanting you to get hurt, but you knew you’d have to start moving on from this debilitating crush, and he wasn’t making it any easier.
“I just asked him if everything was alright,” he explained, his tone bordering on bored as he pulls out his phone, checking the time as he angles his body slightly to look at you better, and you're somewhat aware of the fact that his arm is still somewhere above your head, “He’s the one that scurried away.”
Your mouth drops open, your palms jamming into your eye sockets as your head hits the table, banging it a couple times as you try to pull away from him, slightly angered, slightly, and very, ever so slightly, internally flustered at something you definitely should be flustered over.
“You…you scared him away!” Your voice is muffled as you groan, not caring much as you shoot him an angry and bitter look.
Satoru’s lashes flutter slightly, his pink lips pulling into a confused line as you shove his knee with your own, realizing that you were, in fact, not joking and were seriously considering the idea of giving that blubbering mess a chance.
“Are you - are you serious?” His thumb jabs in the general direction of where he had gone, “Him?”
You roll your eyes, chest heaving with a sigh as your forehead continues to rest on the cool tabletop, the tip of your nose rubbing against the varnish as you groan.
Deep down, you know that this crush of yours is fruitless and useless. It’s never going to get anywhere, and the only thing it can offer you is more hurt and rejection. You know that you are so far from his type and out of your league that he’d never see you as more than a friend, if that, but you continued to have it because it lit a fire inside of you that you sadistically enjoyed.
That being said, you would prefer, at some point, to have a romantic moment, even if fleeting, and having the man you’ve been in love with for two years chase away the only guy who’s had the balls to come up to you made you irrationally annoyed for some reason that you didn’t fully understand.
“He…he seemed nice,” you argue, your eyes closing shut as your hand shifts, and you rest your cheek on the back of it, your back bent at an angle as you look up at him from your position on the table, “And he was cute-”
Gojo cuts you off with a startled laugh, a disbelieving one as his eyebrows shoot upwards, showing more than the five emotions you usually see him with as genuine shock laces his features, and it only spurs on that angry fire inside of you as you press.
“What? What? He was cute!” Your head lifts quickly from its spot on the table as your body shifts to look at him even better than before, trying not to notice the cute wrinkle of his nose or the frosty irises of his eyes that are looking so intently at you that it could knock the air out of your lungs if you stare long enough, “And I…I don’t know, I think he wanted to talk to me!”
Gojo snorts, his arm tightening around the cushion behind you, his hand dangling off the end, his fingers dangerously close to the side of your ear as you swallow thickly.
“Well, of course, he wanted to talk to you,” his other hand pushes his glasses upwards, the veins on the back of his hand evident, “ I just can’t believe that he’s someone you’d want to entertain.”
You stutter, hurt flashing across your face as it pulls into sour bewilderment.
You’ve barely talked to Satoru for more than a couple of minutes at a time about classes or projects or annoying classmates, and you can’t believe your luck that the first conversation between the two of you that stemmed outside of those points is about this.
“What, what’s that supposed to mean?” Your voice dips slightly, embarrassed, as his own expression slightly shifts at your tone.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly not expecting this to blow up in his face as it did, and he sighs, retreating to his old, composed self as he explains himself.
“Look, I have him in a couple of my classes,” he starts again, lips pulling into a thin line as he looks over his shoulder to Kento and then glances back to you, “He shows up late and never does his work and always asks to most ridiculous questions,” Satoru adds and you try not to have your lips quirk at the sudden revelation, not wanting to give in and let your foolish feeling stake the wheel and guide you to forgiving him, but it’s not use as he continues, “I just figured that…someone like that isn’t someone good for you. Even if he did just want to talk.”
Your mouth dries up, and you try not to let your head burst and remind yourself that he’s thinking about this from a friend's perspective, something kind and caring and companionly, but not in the way you would want from your crush, but Satoru is still waiting on your response so instead you swallow everything down and your lips tote, avoiding eye contact as you attempt to seem indifferent despite your outburst.
“How ridiculous are his questions?” You finally ask, peeking over at him from where your gaze had been training on the ice in your water, and you swear you see a flicker of surprise take over his gorgeous features, as though you were going crazy with the way his blankness faded momentarily and gave way to a little smile.
He sighs, this time lighter, his hand behind you shifting ever so slightly to push at the back of your head, gingerly but in a teasing way as you try not to smile a giddy smile, one that doesn’t reflect the fact that you couldn’t really care about the guy who had come up to talk to you when Satoru cared enough because he didn’t think he was good enough for you to talk to.
“Even more ridiculous than asking if adding ice to rice would help it steam up more than if you used water,” he says, picking up his drink as he nurses it over his mouth, fighting back a smug grin at the way you sputter, pushing him roughly as your cheeks heat up again for bringing up one of your late-night queries.
“Fine, fine, fine, I’ll give you this one!” You rub at your eyes, shoulders hunched, “But you have to stop scaring off every single guy that tries to talk to me! He could be a normal guy who’s going to come up, and you’re going to disapprove of him just because he wears mismatched socks or only writes in pen!”
Satoru snorted indifferently, proving your point that he didn’t seem to care.
“Writing solely in pen is psychotic behavior,” he grumbled to himself, recalling the time one of his classmates had the gall to ask you for your number before he quickly shut it down, inserting himself in the middle of the conversation until the guy gave up and left.
You groan, head dropping back onto the table as you tap it lightly, a quiet thud reverberating in your tiny corner of the room.
“One of these days you’re going to have to come to terms with the fact that the reason you shut people down is different from the reasons I shut people down.” You say, moving your arms upward so that you could set your cheek on it, looking at the empty seats in front of you instead of the man you’ve had a crush on, sputters.
“What do you mean?” His voice drops a little bit, and you angle your head to look up at him, brows pinching in the middle as you let out a little laugh, something sardonic as you shake your head to yourself.
“You…” you pause, stopping, sighing to yourself as you try to control your words before you say something you’ll regret, “You have like…perfect people coming up to you. And if you choose to reject them, that’s up to you, I get it. But last week you turned a girl down because she said that Star Wars was a waste of money,” the two of you share small laugh because you can recall just how red he got, embarrassed but peeved when somebody just offended his entire lifeline, but you continue, “It…it’s just,” you press your lips together as something in your chest clenched, “I don’t really have that luxury. I don’t have perfect guys coming up to me with little quirks, you know? There’s always something wrong with them, even if I don’t see it then. Like they don’t show up to dates or they make fun of my major, or just…only want to sleep with me, and then when they find out I don’t want that, they leave. And any of the sane ones that have small issues, you’re always there to shoot them down!”
You stop, taking in a deep breath as you try to regulate your emotions, refusing to look at him right now as you let some pent-up feelings loose, just grateful that he hasn’t left and decided to let you figure this out on your own.
“Look,” you glance at him, giving him a small smile, “I’m thankful that you care. Really, I am. But…but I just want to experience something…with someone, y’know? At least once when I’m still in university. I’m almost twenty-one, and I haven’t even had my first kiss!” Despite how embarrassing it is, it slips out, and your chees heat up as you hurry on with your ramble, “And if it has to be with something who asks stupid questions or says my name wrong on the first attempt or doesn’t know what my favorite color is, I guess I’m just gonna have to bite the bullet and take that risk. I,” you look away, back to focusing on the leather cushions in front of you as you gnaw on your lip, “I don’t really have any other option.”
Giving it a moment, you let your shoulders sink, going back to playing with the straw wrapper in front of you as you debate whether it would be better to just throw yourself out the window or risk saying something else that you’d stay awake the next couple of nights pinching yourself over.
You heard him inhale exaggeratingly, the arm behind you moving a little downwards in order to hook one of his fingers around the collar of your sweater, trying to grab your attention. You tilt your chin sideways, lips pursed, and attempt not to let his overwhelming presences budge how bitter you were feeling for some reason.
“I think,” he sighed again, gnawing on his bottom lip as he tried to formulate his thoughts, the overhead lamp casting a soft orange light over his face and it made your pitiful stomach churn with desperate want, “I think that if you’re too pessimistic.”
That get’s a dry laugh from you, and you roll your eyes at his statement. Before he’s able to say anything, he gets interrupted by Suguru rounding the corner, sliding into his seat with a wide grin, one that falls when he sees his friend has changed the seating arrangement.
“Why’d you move?”
Satoru paused, tearing his eyes away from the side of your face as he glanced at his friend, his fingers moving upwards as you tried not to look at him and make anything obvious. You hope he doesn’t bring up Kento and your little meltdown, but he seems to read your mind.
“You were bothering me too much,” he mutters, and Suguru lets out a startled scoff, throwing the hair tie around his wrist at him as Sator just flings it to the side. Suguru doesn’t push, though, and starts telling the two of you that he was held up at the bathroom entrances because a couple was having a ‘lover's spat’, his words not yours, and he just had to hear it before he left.
The rest of the night continued as it usually does.
If you could consider the uneven rhythm of your heart as normal.
—
Another week had passed, another seven days of agonizingly slow school work and duties.
It seemed like the days would flicker away at a snail-like pace until it got you to the one day of the week that you actually wished wouldn’t arrive, and would force you to stalk around the limited space of your dorm room as you think about what to wear to the theatre production that’s taking place in thirty minutes.
Your hand was on your hip, feet tapping against the floor as you looked at the two outfits you had hung on your dresser, lips pursed as your eyes moved back and forth between the one that would go better with those pair of kitten heels you thrifted with Shoko, or the dres that you rarely get to wear.
It took a couple more seconds of deciding, but you ultimately picked the more comfortable option, knowing that the university theater was always freezing, especially in October, and that a cute sweater was probably the better choice.
Thankfully, this gave you some more time to fix your hair and touch up your makeup, humming along to the music as your eye kept wandering down to your phone and then to your door, squinting as you turned it over, confused as to what was taking Shoko so long.
Instantly, your eyes widen at the plethora of messages you have from Shoko, a telltale sign that something was seriously wrong, given the fact that she never sent more than two messages at once.
shoko: pick up
shoko: girl ur literally always on ur phone wya
shoko: pls pls pls pick up
shoko: ur making me beg rn pls can u call me back
shoko: pls
You don’t have time to send her one of your stupid stickers, your fingers fumbling around as you look at the five missed calls you have from her, shaking your head in dismay at how it was possible to leave your phone alone for twenty minutes and come back to this.
It doesn’t take more than a ring before she answers on the other line.
“Are you okay?” Your voice cuts through immediately, rushed and worried, your legs bouncing as you hear some people talking in the background, and you can hear the way Shoko snaps at them to hush so that she can hear you better.
“Hi, yeah, no, no I’m fine - hey can you guys just,” she calls out again, hey annoyance dripping form her tone, some shuffling happening over the line as she moves somewhere where the noise is less, “Hey, hi, sorry for the noise,” she starts again and you just hum, eyebrows still pinches together in worry as you wait for her to continue, “I’m really sorry for spamming you, but I have some news.”
The worry on your face melts as you lean back in your seat.
“Yeah…?” you ask, but already predicting what it was that she was stressing out over telling you, but she lets out another exhale, and you could imagine her nodding wherever it was that she was at.
“I’m so sorry but I’m at work right now and,” some clattering happens in the background, the kitchen in great hustle for the Saturday evening rush it usually has at the restaurant she waitresses for, “God, Tommy just screwed everything up with our shifts and I thought he had written me as off for tonight but he wrote me as off for next Saturday and I wasn’t able to fine somebody to-”
You laugh softly, cutting off her rambling.
“‘Ko, babe, it’s fine, don’t worry about it,” you stress, leaning in slightly as you hear some silverware being unloaded, “It’s so okay, your job is so much more important than-”
“No, you’re more important than this - believe me,” she cuts you off this time, and you can see her standing hunched in the corner, gnawing on her fingernails in stress, “And I promised you I’d come with you and I can’t, and now I…I feel horrible.”
A smile creeps onto your lips, and you shake your head.
“It’s fine,” you stress, chuckling at her incoherent rambles, “I promise. The play’s going to be lengthy anyway, might as well take the time to make some money while you’re at it.”
You hear nothing except the kitchen roaring in the background for a few seconds before she sighs, clicking her tongue as she hums softly.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure,” you tell her, hearing her chuckle softly over the phone, the disappointment evident in her voice, and you didn’t want to push her over the edge despite the small flicker of disappointment of having to go alone, “I promise you’re not gonna be missing anything.”
“Look, I know it’s not the same, but I was with Suguru when I found out, and he’s said that he could-”
This time, she’s cut off, but not by you.
A knock sounds over your door.
You sigh, smiling at your friend as you slowly rise, “You guys are so sweet, but you should’ve told him I’d be fine. Really, I usually do these things by myself anyway.”
She groans at your antics, somebody calling her name from the back as she tells them that she’s almost done.
“Shit, I have to go, but promise me you’ll tell me about how tonight goes, yeah?” She sounds hurried, and you make a few steps towards your door as you snort, rolling your eyes as you unlock the brass knob, shaking your head at the thought.
“Tell you about what? Oh, like how Suguru has a horrific attention span and can’t…” You swing the door wide open, but you trail off as your mouth hangs slightly, not greeted by your black-haired and eyebrow-pierced friend,
But Satoru.
Shoko seems to have picked up on your silence as meaning that you finally understood what she was talking about, and you can barely register her sing-songy bye as she leaves, the phone in your hand lying limp as Satoru’s brow raises skeptically at your dumbfounded expression.
Damn you, Shoko Ieiri.
“Hi,” you say breathlessly, almost stupidly, as your hand falls from behind the door to your side, tilting your head a bit as Satoru just stares, hands in his pockets, and you shake back to reality, laughing apologetically as your neck prickles, “Sorry, I…I was just expecting someone else.”
His brow arches even more, and you huff out a laugh.
“Shoko just said that Suguru was coming,” you explain, stepping back from the entranceway as his mouth parts slightly.
“Right,” he nods, his hair falling gracefully in his face as you churn in your spit at the magnificent sight of him in his denim jeans and the navy sweater he was in, “I hope it’s okay that I came. Suguru couldn’t make it.”
You blink, wanting to say that you were so okay with him, but you swallow that done as you shake your head, waving his statement away.
“This is…this is fine,” You stammer to say, your smile wobbly. You hope that he can’t pick up on the way that your eyes are roaming over the way his button-up sits comfortably on his broad chest, or the way his glasses look on the bridge of his nose, “I, uh, I just have to do my mascara, so give me like,” you look at the clock behind you. Your eyes bulge at the fact that you have only five minutes left, “Two seconds and I’ll be done.”
He nods, his head tilting slightly to the side as he looks at your face and his eyes travel down your outfit. His hand raises, a finger pointed at your sweater.
“Nice sweater,” he says, something teetering on teasing, and you look down, suddenly realizing that it’s the sweater he had given you last year for your birthday, the one that you had seen months prior after walking past a vintage store and exclaimed how much you liked it, only to be stumped by the price.
Your confusion melts into a wide smile, your head still poking out from outside your door as you survey the material, not noticing the way his eyes soften just a smidge at your flighty reaction.
“Oh - right, thank you again for getting it!” You say cheerfully, an entire evening or perfection and romance already forming in your head as you try not to appear too excited, pointing back to your room as you duck away, “I’ll, uh, I’ll be back, then!”
Satoru nods, giving you a small smile as you shut the door behind you, your back hitting it as you give yourself a moment to reciprocate, curse Shoko and her blasted antics, and calm your heartbeat down long enough.
This was so fine, you tried to tell yourself,
Everything was going to be fine.
—-
The lobby of the Oxford theater was unusually packed, and you even voiced your surprise when Satoru led you in, your eyes wide as you took in all the students, some looking at the programs, others waiting in line for the bathroom.
“Damn,” you mutter, squeezing past someone as Satoru follows behind you, “I didn’t think it was going to be this busy.”
The walk here had been…fine. You had talked for most of it, which you had predicted, and with the few times Satoru would interject and give some comments on the stories you told him about your week, you feel like you told five times that amount of embarrassing and lame jokes, shutting yourself up once after wincing at how terrible it was. Satoru cracked a small smile, though, a pitiful one, most likely to keep you from shutting up the entire night.
It’s strange, just how different you act around him. In attempts to make yourself seem cooler and interesting, you wind up embarrassing yourself even more. You could have sworn that you never acted like this with Shoko or Suguru, or literally anybody else, even your old crushes, but when it came to Satoru, you seemed to lose the sense of normalcy you had come to know.
But you don’t have time to worry about that, now trying to put your attention on wondering how many of the students here are from that stupid class you’re taking right now, and even looking in the sea of bodies confirms that answer when you see some familiar faces. The concession stand in the corner, the one run by the theater department to raise some extra funds, seems to be swarmed, and your stomach grumbles instantly at the smell of buttered popcorn that wafts through the air.
“Where’re our seats?” He’s standing by you now, and you have to crane your neck slightly to look at him. You sift through your tote, pulling out your wallet and opening it to reveal the tickets tucked inside, and hand one to him while keeping the other for yourself.
“Row H,” you read out loud, “You’re seat 18, and I’m 19.”
He nods, pocketing it before he looks back out into the lobby, his eyes focusing on the wide double doors that led you into the theater, watching the ticket taker check the people’s tickets before looking back at the concessions, remembering how much you were raving on your walk here about how good the snacks were.
“Do you still want some…?” He juts his chin towards the hand-made sign that reads Beggars Snacks!
“Hm?” You look back at the table, and you let out a small laugh, “Oh, yeah, right,” you look through your wallet again, putting your ticket there for safekeeping as you glance back up at his gorgeous face, “Yeah, I’ll be back. You can go find your seat, if you want.”
Satoru opens his mouth and then shuts it, glancing at you and then the doors, and his shoulder straightens slightly.
“Right, well….right,” he murmurs, looking a little torn, his voice drowning out by the roar of sound around you two, but you’re able to make out the low grumble of his after being near him for so long, “I’ll…I’ll see you in a few.”
You smile again, giving him two thumbs up as you turn on your heel, your hands clenching in frustration at how utterly inhuman you seem to act around him, somehow making it seem like it was your first day on this planet.
Peeking over your shoulder, you watch as he leaves towards the entrance of the theater, and you duck your head down as you find your way to the large line leading up to the snacks. Coming here for the past four years has taught you to go for the popcorn, pass on the homemade cookies, and snatch up the little boxes of candy if they have them.
Checking your phone as you wait idly, you text Shoko a slew of messages cursing her and her entire bloodline for blindsiding you like this, hoping she sees them after her grueling shift and only feels worse about leaving you like this.
Keep a tab of the line as it slowly moves, you eye the clock, knowing that the show was going to start soon. It seems to dwindle a bit, as some people in front of you and behind you give and leave, deciding it wasn’t worth it, and after scrolling through your feed a little bit more, you find yourself next in line.
Glancing through the snacks, your stomach protests louder, ravenous after a day fueled on granola bars, a pathetic excuse of a yogurt bowl, and some crisps you had lying around, until you feel your hopes and dreams plummet when you see a small sign at the edge of the table that says only cash.
Fucking bullshit, you think angrily, whipping your wallet out again as you rifle through the confines, who still uses only cash? What medieval system was this? They accepted cards last time, this is entirely-
And you could complain petulantly in your head as much as you want, but your face falls as you search through for the third time, coming to the consensus that you didn’t have a lick of cash on you. The person in front of you is almost done, but your shoulders sag as you begrudgingly step away, shaking your head in dismay as you make your way to the theater entrance, flashing your ticket to the ticket taker as he lets you in with a wide smile.
The ushers point you towards aisle H, and you patiently dispute the hate still inside of you, burning. Waiting as those in front of you find their seats, and it doesn’t take long before you’re able to see a pop of hair standing high amongst the rest of the people in the audience.
You move past a couple of people talking as you move closer, almost skidding when you stop instantly, realizing that Satoru was, in fact, not alone.
From this angle, you could see the girl standing in front of him, a wide grin on her face as she laughs at something he says. Your eyes go to his face, your posture falling even more when you see the little quirk of his lips, a sign that he wasn’t necessarily hating the conversation, and the loss of the popcorn feels pointless now as your stomach churns for another reason.
It was selfish to think that you were the only person who liked Satoru, but it didn’t hurt any less when you were confronted with this fact at least once a week. You knew you couldn’t expect anything from this stupid crush, a theorem forming inside your head that you continued to fall for Gojo Satoru just because you liked the sting of knowing you had no shot with him, and seeing other girls and their gleeful smiles at the fact that you probably had a chance is what maybe hurt the most.
You weren’t ever angry at these girls, understanding them completely, even admiring the way they could flirt so effortlessly, and treated you kindly whenever you were near, but it singed a part inside of you that liked to act that you were in this small fictional bubble that you dreamt of whenever he looked your way.
Like he was right now.
Standing awkwardly to the side, at the end of the row, you sway idly in your spot, looking at the two of them and then around, wondering when the lights were going to start dimming and notify you of when the show was about to start.
You hear your name being called, a familiar cluster of syllables from his throat, and you look away from the painting on the wall to the side as you see Satoru throwing up a hand, trying to grab your attention.
When he sees you finally looking his way, he turns back to the girl, saying a few more words as she nods, her smile still soft as she glances at you, a strange look on her face as she sends you another smile, and you can’t help but return it despite the sinking feeling in your gut.
She leaves through the other end, and you mutter a few apologies as you finally make your way down to where he was standing, ducking your head down sheepishly as you fidget with the strap of your tote.
“Hey,” you say meekly, your cheeks heating as you finally get to him, “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”
One of his hands waved, shaking his head as he looked back to where the girl had retreated with her friends.
“You weren’t interrupting,” he tells you, and your brows furrow slightly because that was a white lie if you’ve ver heard one, “I knew her from my lab,” he he says, scratching the back of his neck as his eyes trace of your face, falling to your empty arms as they squint, the conversation with the girl suddenly feeling his head as he points, “Where’s your popcorn?”
The past couple of moments seem to flee too as you wring your hands awkwardly together, shooting him a tight smile as you try to appear indifferent.
“Oh, they didn’t take card,” you mumble bitterly, “And I forgot my wads of cash back in my dorm, so,” you shrug, laughing it off as you point to the seats, “But it’s fine, I…erm, wasn’t really feeling it anyway,” a lie, since that was all you could talk about, but you push past him as you sit down, setting your tote on your lap as you look at him, waiting for him to do the same.
Satoru peeks at you, his lips pressed into a thin line as he swallows, not doing anything to sit down as one of your brows moves upwards, confused about the mental turmoil that he was going through, which made him reluctant to sit.
“Everything okay?” You ask slowly, shifting your legs, wondering if he was tight for room, but he just nods, tongue poking through his rosy lips as he glances back towards the double doors as he briefly nods.
“I need to use the bathroom,” he mutters, and you nod, lips pursing in understanding as you look over your shoulders, watching as more people start taking their seats.
“Okay,” you sit back a little bit, your finger pointing behind you to where the bathrooms were, “Well, you, you should probably go, like, now. I think the shows going to start,” you say with a light chuckle and check your phone, realizing that there were only five minutes left till the lights turned off, “In a little bit.”
Satoru just nods again, saying spoke few words before he turns to leave, murmuring apologies to the people sitting down as his long legs knock their knees, and you watch him leave the aisle and go before you turn your attention back to the stage, taking the time to admire the props and the set design, trying to think back to the original story and see if it lines up with how you remembering it starting.
When the overhead lights start flickering, and Satoru isn’t back yet, you churn in your seat, looking over your shoulder every couple of seconds, hoping that he doesn’t have to navigate back in the dark.
You send him a small text saying that it was almost going to be lights out when you see his figure in the corner of your eye, watch as he nears your row with his arms full, and you squint, trying to see through the dimness to see what it was that he was holding.
The closer he gets, the more you’re able to see, and it’s only until he’s lowering himself to sit down that you make out the popcorn bag in one hand, and some boxes of sweets in the other.
He says nothing as he shoves the popcorn into your hand, settling in as he looks around the seat, trying to move the armrests up only to see that they’re stuck in place, completely oblivious to your wide-eyed stare as he lets out a big sigh, resting back as his legs spread out a little bit. He opens a box of Maltesers, adjusting his glasses as he looks at the stage.
“Want some?” He finally says, his voice low as he pushes the red box towards you, and your cheeks are almost on fire as you glance at the paper bag of popcorn in his outstretched hand.
“I…” you blink, holding onto the popcorn so that it doesn’t spill, “Here.” You dumbly give him the bag back, assuming that he had only given it to you so that he could sit down more comfortably.
Only now does he tear his eyes away from the stage, tuning out the voice over the announcements, the regular message of turning off your phones and staying quiet, as his elbow pushes your arm back to your seat.
“Can’t have corn,” he says bluntly, looking over at your startled expression, “It’s yours.”
It’s yours.
Here’s another moment you're going to mull over before another minuscule thing he does happens again, and you spend the next months thinking about that.
“Are you sure?” You whisper, already pulling your phone out to Venmo him for it, but Satoru can already tell what you're about to do as he flicks it away, as if it was repulsive to him, and you don’t have any time to argue because the curtains pull outwards and reveal the actors.
You drag a hand over your face, trying not to look over at him anymore as you begrudgingly accept the kind token, trying to relax in your seat as the show begins, a tentative finger plucking out a popcorn as you bring it to your mouth, hoping that the only person who can what the blood roaring in your ears is you.
—
Nearly a quarter in, and you start to realize just how bad an idea this was.
The play itself was great. The actors were delivering their performance in a manner that felt reminiscent ot the campy nature of the original text, and some people in the audience were keeling over with laughter in certain parts.
You found yourself with a wide smile throughout most of it, recalling some of the bits and others jogging your memory, but you were thoroughly enjoying it nonetheless. The issue was, the person next to you seemed to be despising it.
The rare couple of times you peeked over to see his reaction to a couple of things, you noticed his jaw clenched, sitting straight and uptight as his eyes never left the stage. He barely mustered up a smile during the funny portions, looking utterly depleted during the serious bits, and his hands were clasped together, fingers interwoven as he sighed, unamused.
Every time somebody would do something weird, you’d glance his way and would still see the same stone-cold expression on his face. You were aware that the play itself was over exaggerated and strange at times, but that was the whole appeal of it in the first place. But at times, you tried to view it through the lens of someone who didn’t go in-depth into literature and read the nuances of somebody like Satoru, who would rather spend their free time studying and working on their mountain of assignments, not something like this, and you felt your chest getting heavier and heavier with each second.
When it neared intermission, you could’ve sworn you had nearly melted in your seat, your popcorn done as you glanced over at Satoru when the lights finally turned back on, people around you standing up to leave or stretch.
A beat of silence passes before you clear your throat, mustering up a wobbly grin as you jab a thumb to the curtains.
“Funny, huh?”
Satoru blinks, as if coming back to, and you debate if he had been half asleep. The thought makes you sink even deeper in embarrassment.
“It’s, uh,” he ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back as he swallowed thickly, “It’s…interesting. I haven’t really seen anything like it before.”
You pause, chew on the side of your lip, rubbing at your eyes as you try to think of anything else to say. You’ve spent time with him alone, sure, but never in a situation where it felt like you had to defend yourself, your background, the whole reason why you were here in the first place, like you are now.
People bustle around the two of you, and he sits up a little straighter, pushing his shoulders back as his neck cracks a bit.
“It’s raunchy and… theatrical,” you try to explain, attempting to seem unconcerned as you fold the paper bag up and set it neatly on the ground, making a mental note to pick it up before you leave. “But I think it’s really interesting given the period it was written and how vulgar, everything is, and the characters are all super unlikable, which you don’t really see in these kinds of productions, and, well, it’s supposed to be funny and…fun, I guess,” your voice dies down, your lips almost chewed raw as you wait for a reaction, a facade of interest, a pitiful acknowledgement to what felt like your livelihood, but he just nods.
You suck in a deep breath, gaze darting around the theater as you try to look at anything else.
Noticing your sudden silence, his eyes leave the stage for a moment as they rake over your expression, see the way your lips pull into a small, worried line, the crease between your brows, something that appeared whenever you were stressed or confused. His face seemed to melt to mirror yours.
“Is there a reason why they keep calling the daughter a slut?” He finally asks, and your eyes dart back to him, and your cheeks puff, blinking slowly as you nod, embarrassed for some reason as you stammer to find words.
“It’s, erm, well, it’s in the original material, but,” your words mesh together as you try to call back on the research paper you did for this piece, your mind blanking as your cheeks heat, “But I think they keep it in because it’s supposed to be a demonstration of the degradation of women and the differentiation between men who also exhibit premarital interest in the sex…and it’s not supposed to be funny but they repeat it a lot, so you kind of become numb to the meaning of the word...” Your rambling quiets near the end as you shoot him another tense smile, wringing your hands together as your lips tremble, looking away as a last resort to save your dignity.
After spending two years with him, you’ve become familiar with his routine and what he expects from his day-to-day life. What some describe as the prodigal son, Gojo Satoru, if not with friends, is usually found in the back of the library, in his dorm, or somewhere quiet with papers strewn in front of him, with his laptop out, typing away. He sometimes goes to benefits and galas, some to attend because of his parents, others because of his biochemistry path, but his time isn’t usually spent at the theater watching vulgar plays.
That’s what you did.
And of course, you didn’t come here weekly. You had to be here for that godforsaken Literature in English class. But this was a part of you, this play, this environment, these exaggerated dialogues are what you spent your time obsessing over. The history and the meaning, and the importance of English literature and writings are your life, and having someone next to you, watching a personification of it live, felt like inviting them into a piece of your mind, even if they wouldn’t view it as such.
But to you, you who liked to overcomplicate and read into things, saw it as such, and your heart was thumping erratically when you realized that Satoru probably saw this, you, as equally insane for enjoying something like this.
And you hated how much the thought made you spiral, made you think of yourself less than when there was a possibility that this wasn’t what Satoru was thinking at all, but the slight chance, the small probability, is what stirred the trepidation in you.
“Are you enjoying it?”
His question brings you out of your mental fever, and you bite your cheek, wondering what the right answer would be. He’s watching you, waiting, and you exhale shakily, smiling poorly as you swallow back some bile.
“I, I am,” you say finally, “It’s just…I did this huge essay on this last year, and I’ve been looking for a rendition of it, but there’s only this old movie that’s so far been made, so…seeing this live is pretty cool.”
He nods, looking at your stalled expression as you keep your eyes trained on the curtains, not wanting to show your internal thoughts on your ever-so expressive face, and he tries to keep his slight confusion at bay for your suddenly reserved self.
As you try to feign indifference by going on your phone, you can watch him from the corner of your eyes, look around, and uncharacteristically fidget in his seat as he debates doing the same as you or talking some more, which, at the moment, you don’t appear content to do. But the more you try to ignore him, the more it seems like your body has a physical reaction to it, protesting your desire to keep to yourself.
“Did you do anything fun today?” You ask, putting your phone down as you scratch at the inside of your wrist. He blinks, looking a little quizzically at you before he clears his throat.
“Well, Suguru had set me up for a double date,” he explains, and you feel your chest tighten a little bit, “But…eh,” he shrugs, “I wasn’t really feeling it,” he drags a hand over his face, “If only he knew where I’d end up instead, huh?” He nudges your elbow with his, a teasing grin on his face, but blood roars in your ears upon hearing his words.
Gods, the man who despised dates and unaccounted occasions and strange meetings would rather take that over this.
You let out a little puff of air, trying to give him a smile as you feel sweat dot on the back of your neck, your palms clammy as you wring your hands together, looking down at your shoes as you try to bite back the lump in your throat.
He’d rather be anywhere else than here, your mind blares, the unspoken words ringing in the small expanse of your heart.
There’s a strange gurgle in your stomach, one that shifts sharply, and you wince. This is definitely not a part of your internal trade, and you hope that when you shift to place a hand on it to try and calm it down. You turn your phone off, pocketing it in your tote, and the sudden movement makes you jerk in pain. You sit back up, hoping that he won't notice.
But, of course, he does.
He angles his body towards you, brows cinched as your eyes twitch barely.
“Are you okay?” His voice his deep, tinged with worry, his head leaning towards you just a bit so that you can feel his minty breath fan across your warm cheek.
You wave him off, shooting him a horrifically terrible smile as you shift, your head tilting to the side as your stomach makes another alien noise.
“Yeah,” you mutter, almost like a question because even you don’t know if you’re alright, “Yeah, I just think it’s the popcorn on an empty stomach.” But even that explanation made no sense. It seems like your stomach is churning even more with each passing second, and you really wish that he couldn’t tell that every moment is a testament to your battle for control of your own body.
“Do you want some water?” He asks, looking over his shoulder to the doors, remembering that the concession stand was also selling bottled drinks, “I’ll get some-”
But your hand shoots out, gripping the fabric of his sleeve as you tug on it, shaking your head as you attempt to situate yourself back in your seat, your act going well besides the slight crack in your face at a particularly painful jab.
“No, no, it’s fine, I’m fine,” the lights flicker again above you, and you’re somewhat grateful for them, grateful hat you can’t see the obvious fear on his face at the prospect of you being sick near his very hygienic self, “The shows starting, anyway, so just,” your voice dips a little as you try to contain a groan, “Just stay.”
He goes to protest, but your hold on him is strangely tight for someone so riddled with pain, and his mouth parts to say something, but the glare you shoot him nearly shuts him up.
“Please,” you mutter, the embarrassment from several things thick in your voice as you wince, your eyes melting into something pleading as the applause begins, and his face falls for a second, but you look away, weakly clapping along with everybody else.
You feel tears prickly in your eyes.
And you hope he can’t see the shining gloss when you try to blink them back.
—
When the show ends, you’re nearly debilitated with the pain in your abdomen, and the mortification from having watched Macheath’s other wife battle it out with Polly alongside Satoru. They mix into a terrible combination, one that forces you to come back into consciousness in the middle of the theater, the bright overhead lights nearly sending you into a psychosis.
There must have been something horrifically wrong with either the popcorn or the butter they put on it, because, despite your blurry view, you can see a few people in the audience huddled up in their seats the same way as you, despite the play ending.
Satoru cleans up next to you, taking his boxes of candy and your strewn popcorn bag, and sits back up to look at you nervously.
“Are…are you sure you’re okay?” His gentle tone is one that you barely register as your hands grip onto the armrest. You can barely even muster up a hum, giving him a shaky thumbs up as your stomach gurgles again, this time, audibly.
You try to stand, but your knees wobble, and you grip onto the back of the seat as your head sways. You can feel his grip on your elbow, nearly knocking over some people's bottles beside him from how fast he stands up, and your clammy face looks upward at him, swearing that he looks like an angel with the light framing his hair.
“I,” you clamp your mouth shut, swallowing thickly as you wince, taking a few seconds before you start again, “I have to use the loo.” The declaration comes out as a whisper, an ashamed one, and you can’t look him in the face, even if his nods insistently, an arm of his wrapping around the expanse of your back as he tries to steady you
“There’s one near the concessions,” he tells you, his voice strangely considerate and temperate, head leaning down to get closer to your ear so that you could hear him better, “Do you think you can make it?”
You feel like a child, but you only nod, neck and face flaring up in embarrassment as you allow him to guide you through the aisle of people, not looking anybody in the eyes as you make it out, your legs shaking slightly. If it weren’t for him, you’re sure you would’ve toppled down in pain by now.
The walk out of the theater becomes a blur, letting him guide you towards the bathrooms with one of your hands wrapped tightly around your stomach, as if it would ease the pain, and you feel the two of you come to a stop as you stand next to the ladies' door.
His arm around you falls, and you miss its warmth. He looks crossed with different emotions as you use the wall to hold yourself up, wobbling towards the bathroom as you shoot a look over your shoulder.
“Thanks,” you whisper, your eyes widening and then shutting instantly at how much it hurts your head, “I’ll…I’ll be back.” The words slur in your mouth, and you don’t give him any time to react before you leave through the wooden door and book it to a stall.
The moments that follow afterwards are what you’d expect from a case of bad butter.
You kneel on the floor, heaving everything up, trying to be as quiet as possible so the girls in the stalls around you can’t hear, but it’s not a process that you’re particularly fond of and can feel your will to continue weakening as you leave back on the wall, your head in yours hands as you hear the toilet automatically flush.
At least getting it out of your system seems to have made the painful throbs dull down to an annoying little jab, but you feel like the bulk of the damage has already been done. Satoru was sweet enough that he’d try to never bring this up again, but you knew you’d have to live with the humiliation of this evening for a couple of months before you did something else that would top it.
You let your head tilt back and heave a gulp of air, palms jamming into your eyes as you attempt to swallow, your mouth too dry to produce any saliva. If Shoko were here, she’d at least try to make you laugh about the ridiculousness of it all. But it’s just you and Satoru, and you don’t know if you can even look at him for the next week after tonight.
Giving yourself a little more time to calm down, you heave yourself up from your position on the floor, careful not to touch the ground, and pluck your bag off the hook, miraculously throwing it on before you hunched, so as it wouldn’t touch anything too icky.
You wash and scrub your hands, feeling dirty and still a little sick as you splash some water on your face, hoping the cool water will help snap you back. The girls around you talk, some drying their hands, others touching up their makeup in the mirror. One of the girls next to you watches you through your reflection, her face pale and strands of hair wet as she splashes some water onto her face.
“Popcorn?” She asks, and your eyes find hers through the mirror, blinking slowly as your hands grip the counter.
“Yeah,” you take a deep inhale of air, sharing a small smile with her as you turn off the faucet, “Do you want some hand sanitizer?” You offer, going to reach into your tote, but she waves it off, giving you a kind smile as she continues to wash her hands, probably feeling just as bad as you were.
Giving her a small nod as you go to the paper towel dispenser, you reach around for your phone, opening it up as you quickly send a text to Shoko to update her on where you were, nothing too long, just to be safe, and tap the tip of your shoe on the ground, debating what to do next.
You could go see Satoru, probably waiting outside, and awkwardly explain that you should probably walk back, seeing how his germaphobic personality might not mesh with the fact that you had basically deposited your entire day in the theater washroom. You could also try to sneak away and hope that he was standing somewhere that granted you the option of stealth, but you quickly shook that off, quickly understanding how pathetic and childish it was.
After another moment of thought, you ball up the towel and throw it away, pushing the door open with your shoulder as you enter back into the lobby, the business having died down just a bit, and look around bravely for the man.
Spotting the pop of white near the end of the room, you take a few steps forward before you halt, stopping near a wall that offered you a little bit of insight as to what he was doing as you peeked around the corner.
2 - 0, you think sunkenly, watching the way Satoru talks to another girl, his broad shoulders shielding her from where you originally were, and that familiar ache enters your chest as you play with the hem of your sweater.
You could be sadistic when it came to your unrequited feelings; that much you had made peace with. But the universe was horrifically masochistic for the situations it thrust you into.
His face is a little more stiff than before, but still polite and kind as he cranes his neck to look at the girl. Her hair is pulled into a sleek bun, one that you always envied with how clean and precise some girls were able to make theirs, and watched how her hand lingered on his arm, something you could never get away with without his face falling into contained disgust.
It’s unfair to think this way of this stranger, you remind yourself, after all, if you had the guts, you’d try to make a move on him too.
So, in another moment of decision-making, you get your phone out again, trying to contain the little tremble in your lips as you start drafting a message to him. It’s for the best, you try to reason, telling him that you were too sick and didn’t want to give him what you had. You send another message, saying that you were going to make your way back to your dorm and that you hope he had fun, thanking him as much as you could without sounding pathetic for how much he did this evening and for coming.
You also sent him the venmo transfer for the popcorn you were going to make earlier for good measure.
Where you were presented you an easy way to slip out of the building, one of the exits a little bit behind you, as you rubbed at your tired eyes, wrapping your arms around your torso as you prepared for the cold gusts of wind that were going to hit you the moment you stepped out.
People around you were talking in muted voices, laughter ringing around your ears as you ducked your head down, hoping that this time by yourself could give you some moments of peace, even though you knew that being alone with your onslaught of thoughts was going to do the exact opposite.
This campus was always bustling on a Saturday night, so you never felt too alone as you made your way away from the theater, pulling out your headphones as you geared up your phone to listen to some music before you heard a muffled shout from behind you.
Brows furrowing and your eyes slightly shifted in confusion, you, along with some other students around you, looked to see what the sound was.
To your utter horror and stupefaction, you watch as Satoru whips his head around, as if he were looking for something, or rather someone.
You stand like a deer in headlights, hands raised mid-way to your ears to put your headphones in them as you see him check his phone and then look up again, not caring that other people were looking at him strangely as he runs a worried hand down his face, typing something furiously fast as he looks around again.
Finally, it seems like he found what he was looking for when your eyes lock, and he sends you an ice-cold, deathly glare, one that made you glance around as if it were someone behind you more deserving of such a look, but before you can do anything, he’s jogging over to where you were frozen in place.
The closer he gets, the more you can see the agitation and vexation in his microexpressions, things you’ve taken pride in before in reading, now not so much because you were on the receiving end of them.
When he comes to a halt, phone still in hand, his chest rises and falls a little fast, as if he were out of breath, and he runs another frustrated hand through his white locks as he pushes them back.
Your mouth gapes, and you suddenly remember that you were supposed to be “deathly ill” according to the text you had sent him, and try to make your breathing seem more labored, your posture more haggard, but that doesn't work as he eyes you like he knows.
“Where the hell are you going?” He snaps, and you wince slightly at his tone, and he reels, shooting you an apologetic look despite the fire burning inside of him from the way you’ve been acting this night.
“Back…back to my place,” you whisper, voice hoarse, and he hears it instantly, expression melting as he takes the time to really dissect the way your eyes are slightly bloodshot, your lips chapped, your lashes clumped with tears, and he takes a small step back, taking in a deep breath.
“No, I, shit,” he stammers, restarting, “Are you…” His voice comes out as thick and low, and you almost feel it in your bones as he pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to calm his nerves as he gives you a tilted look, “Are you okay?”
This time, he’s not asking because you were exhibiting signs of ailment, but because you had been acting like you were strangers since the moment you saw him tonight. Because your behavior was so off and unlike you, he was struggling to understand if there was something beneath the surface, something that had happened that he wasn’t aware of, that was fueling this shift.
Your eyes seem to waver as you try not to look at him, attempting a nonchalant shrug that is anything but, as you think of how to lower your voice to a deeper register to appear more sick than you really are.
“I feel sick,” you mutter, coughing feigningly as you pull on the straps of your tote upwards, as you clear your throat, trying not to feel the weight of the looks other people were giving the two of you.
A single brow of his raises, one that you know is detecting bullshit as you rub at your nose.
“I’m sure,” he finally murmurs, rolling his eyes at the obvious statement, “I think the entire lobby heard you throwing up your small intestine.” That statement alone almost makes you keel over in shame, humiliation, embarrassment, and disgrace, but he continues, “But…are you…okay? You’ve been…off…the entire night.”
And you know you can’t sidestep this landmine because you know how weird you’ve been acting this evening, knowing that your attempts to make things better have only backfired, and the past couple of hours come screaming back at you, and for some stupid, depressing reason, cause a sting of tears to prick behind your eyes.
Your bottom lip catches between your teeth as your head falls slightly, your stomach still aching, your pride and confidence bruised, and you can still smell the lingering perfume of the girl he had been talking to, another reminder that you probably didn’t smell like that perfume you had spritzed on so long ago.
“I’m okay,” you murmur, looking at the cracks on the ground, your voice shaking and wobbling and so clearly not true that you tilt your head back up to see his reaction, your face crumpling into a little wet laugh when he seems completely unmoved. Upon hearing your little giggle, his anger fades a bit, but is quickly replaced with another emotion when he hears you sniffle.
“Look, you-” he looks down at his phone to reread the text you had sent him, and his confusion seems to grow even more when he reads another notification, “Did you Venmo me?”
You nod again, weakly, and when you look up at him, you see him fighting back a startled laugh, the quiver on his face making your lips pull up into a wobbly smile, your own emotions turning into something strange as you watch him shake his head in dismay, running a stressed hand through his hair.
“Did something happen today?” He asks, not taunting, never taunting, but something you can’t place as you weakly not, a sheen over your eyes as you tug at your sleeves.
“…no,” you whisper, but the two of you know it’s far from the truth because even you can’t hide the way your lips tremble and your hands shake slightly.
He presses his lips together tightly, his jaw ticking as he takes in your sunken form, something he’s never seen before, and chews on his cheek, thinking.
Sighing deeply, he pockets his phone, not able to look at your texts anymore because they made him too nauseous, and moves to be closer to you.
“Come on,” he says after a moment's silence, “Let’s go.”
You peek over at him, your brows furrowing slightly as you huff out a breath of air, trying to contain your tears as you sniffle again. Your bottom lip trembles slightly, and your stomach still has a lingering ache, but there’s something else that’s causing you to be like this, and you don’t like whatever it is.
He’s waiting, his elbow budging yours, and so you heave a sigh, rubbing at your cheeks as you nudge him back slowly.
“Thank you, ‘Toru,” you murmur, and he pauses, his tongue caught between his teeth because you rarely call him by that nickname, rarely use it unless you really mean it, “For everything. And I’m sorry,” you peek over at him from above your lashes, looking back at the ground at your shoe so you couldn’t see his reaction, “I didn’t mean to spoil your evening like this-” But before you can say anything more he raises a hurried hand, cutting you off.
“You didn’t spoil my evening, love,” he says quickly, his tone soft and teetering on worried, the little title slipping out of his mouth like it was natural, and if you weren’t feeling like a pile of shit, you might have fixated on it more, his eyes roaming your anxious face.
But you insistently nod, your lips pressed together as if you were trying your hardest not to let out a pitiful cry in front of him.
“I-I did,” you voice cracks, and you rub at your eyes as some treacherous tears escape, and if only you could truly see the way he looks like he was breaking seeing you like this, “With you getting the popcorn and then me getting sick and then the s-stupid show,” and he winces because he knows you were enjoying the play, could hear your twinkling laugh and he hates it whenever you feel the need to shut down the things you like because you’re worried other people will judge you for doing so, “And…and I wish you had told Shoko o-or me about your date, I would have totally understood,” you try for a smile, your words choked and wobbly and if only you knew what you were doing as you ramble, “I’m just…I’m really sorry for everything." You finish with a quivering chuckle, your heart shaking like a leaf as you finally meet his eyes, hoping he can’t see the little shake in your breathing when you finally do.
He breathes in deeply, and you can hear the gears in his head turning. But you nudge his side again, wanting to leave it at that. You can feel his eyes burning into the side of your face, but you don’t want to look.
And you’re grateful that to some extent, he understands that, even if not fully. He murmurs a gentle come on, his hand gingerly wrapping around your arm as he tugs to next to him, his warmth enveloping you as he leads the way.
—
As much as you insist, the one thing he doesn’t seem to budge on is taking you back to your dorm.
You pleaded with him, begged him not to get him sick, but he wouldn’t listen. It’s almost as if he steered you towards his building, a hand hovering over your back as he led you inside and up the elevator and to his room before you could even have the ability to ditch and run away.
“If you’re going to talk, fine, but don’t think I’m insane enough to leave you alone right now.”
That alone could have sent you into a psychosis if you weren’t so worried about puking all over his bed.
With the way his germophobic and clean tendencies forbade him from going to public restrooms, you’re stunned that he’s even standing near you with everything that has happened this night. He even lent you his old band shirt and trousers from when he was going through a phase.
It was a blur as you spun around his room, rifling through his drawers for towels and soap and things he thought you might want to use in the shower. You stood awkwardly at the foot of his bed, not sitting down on the mattress because you knew how he felt about outside clothes on his sheets, and you said nothing as he handed everything to you, shooting you a shaky smile, one that was tense because you figured he was most likely worried about you staining or ruining one of his clean things. You don’t say anything as he suddenly ducks, his knees hitting the floor as he starts undoing the laces to your shoes, mumbling something about how you bending over might not be the best for your stomach.
He was lucky enough to be in one of the newer buildings, meaning that he had a personal washroom, so he just led you to it and let you know to use the shower and to call out to him if you needed anything. He even had an extra pack of toothbrushes and boxers that he hadn’t touched that he set aside for you.
You watched as he shut the door, the water roaring behind you as it began to heat up, and you silently stripped, neatly folding your clothes as you set them to the side. You took a tentative step inside his very clean shower, letting the steaming water hit you as you stood there for a couple of minutes, reflecting.
Washing your face, scrubbing roughly at the makeup and the evening away, you feel some salty tears bite at your cheek, and you don’t even know why you’re crying right now. Well, in all honesty, you do, and that’s probably what hurts the most.
You’ve never cried over Gojo Satoru before. You’ve never felt like it was so depressingly lost where you’d need to use these muscles and these feelings that you reserve for truly important things, but it felt like tonight was a confirmation and closure all in one. It felt like you slowly came to your senses, realized that despite your wishes, it was fruitless. You just weren’t the kind of girl that he could cherish, at least, not in the way you wanted him to, and you knew it would be selfish of you to ruin any chance another girl could have of him being hers.
It took you a little longer than expected, but you feel like you were slowly gaining consciousness, the reality at hand as you turned the water off, patting yourself dry with the soft towel he had provided you.
You move carefully, brushing your teeth, pulling on the clothes he left you, as you assess yourself in the fogged-up mirror. Your eyes are a little puffy, but you can just tell him from earlier. Your voice is croaky, but you’ll just bite your words back tonight until you can go back to your place in the morning and start distancing yourself from him until your feelings are choked out. It’s time you began moving on, anyway.
Braving the other side, you take a deep breath before you carefully open the door, peeking around the corner until you see him sitting on the corner of his bed, furiously typing away until he hears the creak, looking up from across the room as you sheepishly smile.
He quickly puts his phone away, standing to his feet as he rubs his hands, not knowing what to do as he buffers.
“Was, erm, was everything good?” He motions to the bathroom, and you quickly nod, walking away as the steam from behind wraps around you, your body adjusting to the shift in temperature as your eyes stray to the couch in the corner, pillows and blankets set up in a makeshift bed.
“It was great, thank you,” you say gently, “I’m sorry, again-” But he holds a hand up, cutting you off as he insistently shakes his head.
“Really, it was nothing,” he stresses, his cheeks dusted pink, his glasses discarded on his desk.
You nod again, embarrassed, and smile stiffly, pointing to the couch as you make your way over.
“Thanks for this, too,” you say, but he seems to awkwardly shuffle, his hands behind his back, looking like he wants to say something, and your brow slightly quirks at his odd reaction.
“That’s…that’s for me,” he explains, moving away from his lofted bed as he shows you the changed sheets and the new pillow case covers, what he must have been doing in the time it took for you to shower, “You can sleep here.” He pats the mattress, and you let out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking your head as you move closer to the couch, feeling like the worst person in the world.
“I couldn’t,” you stress, but he’s already moving closer to you, looking like he wants to move you away from the cushions, “I’ve already imposed enough. I’ll sleep here. It’s fine, really, I like couches.”
He opens his mouth and closes it, lips pressed into a thin line.
“You haven’t imposed,” he finally says, as if that’s all he took away from your rambles, and you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose as you wave aside his polite nature and hold your hands up.
“If I sleep on your bed after everything, I’m never going to be able to look you in the eyes again, okay?” You put it bluntly, “So I’ll take the couch, and you’ll take your bed, and it’ll be fine. Okay?”
His tongue darts out, blinking rapidly as if he’s assessing his different options, and he looks at you, to the couch, and then to the bed. He seems like he’s torn, but he figures that the next best thing is to ignore this completely, shaking his head to himself as he moves around you to the cupboards behind your body, shuffling around until he finds what he needs.
“I’m going to wash up,” he mutters, glancing briefly at you as he pulls in his towel to his chest, his new pair of clothes, and you feel your chest tighten at the sudden dismissiveness in his tone, ad if he’s given up with you, and he makes his way to the separate room, “Make yourself comfortable.” He calls over his shoulder before he shuts the door behind him, and you give it a few seconds before you wince, falling back down onto the couch as you pull a pillow to your chest and allow yourself some time to relax before he comes back.
You allow yourself some time to look around, appreciating his tidy room and the mess-free atmosphere. You can smell the lingering scent of bergamot, and you see the warmer on his desk, a candle right under it. The wall that his desk is parallel to is littered with postcards and retro movie posters (mostly Star Wars and Star Trek). There are some polaroids he has pinned up, some with Suguru and Shoko from their years in secondary school, some photos he had taken himself with his camera. His bookshelf, which is nearly leaning over with how heavy it is, is at the end of the couch, and you shift to get a better look at the books he has on his shelf.
You’re so rarely in here, especially by yourself, so you peek around, hearing the water still running, and lift from the cushions, your eyes squinting as you move closer, trying to make out the names on the spines, your curiosity getting the better of you.
Most of the shelves are full of textbooks from previous courses he had taken; therefore, most of them are science-related. Your eyes shift across the spines, seeing some books about botany and a couple about astronomy and astrophysics, a specific interest of his despite specializing in biochemistry. Notes are jammed into the empty spaces, and you make out his cursive on some of them, smiling despite yourself when you pull some of them out, making out his quick scribble from when he was either in class or studying.
The bookshelf itself is insanely tall for no reason, tall enough that you’re sure Suguru or even Satoru, in his sprawling height, would struggle reaching to top, so you have to go onto your toes, stretching your calves as you tilt your head upwards to look at some of the higher shelves, pulling some books out by placing a finger on the top of the spine, careful not to disrupt anything as you let yourself get lost in the names.
Suddenly, in the midst of all the chemistry and biology and Latin names, something familiar catches your eye, a book that was resting on its side on the highest shelf, and you struggle but can wedge yourself up on the edge of the couch to reach it.
The Count of Monte Cristo.
Your eyes widen in spite of your heavy emotions riddling your mind, and you turn it around, reading which edition and publisher it was as you scour through the pages, seeing his little citations in blue ink in the margins. You flip through the pages, each one highlighted and marked for different reasons, similar to the way you read through a book, and you close it shut, feeling like you were somehow intruding on something private as you set it back down in its initial place on the shelf until something else caught your attention.
Familiar titles and authors all paint the top level of his bookshelf, books that have nothing to do with his major or classes or even remotely with something you think he might enjoy reading, and you almost fall as you try to get closer.
A small box at the edge of the shelf piques your interest, and your lips catch between your teeth as you put all of your focus on this task, your nimble fingers moving closer, plucking it from its spot as you hold it gingerly in the palm of your hand, looking back to the bathroom as you hear the pipes groan as he turns the water off, an alarming sound, one that meant that you didn't have a lot of time left.
The box itself is also familiar, this one for more reasons than most, because you remember this box; you gave it to him for his previous birthday. amongst other little trinkets, finding it at a flea market, and thinking he could make some use of it. The wooden grain and the carvings on it were delicate, and your hold is even more careful as you unlock the little latch, the top lifting open as you peer inside.
Your eyes adjust to the sight, something you weren’t necessarily expecting, as what you can only describe as junk littered the inside of it. A ticket stub from a movie he had seen, a dried leaf, candy wrappers, spare coins. You huff a little in disappointment, your nosey nature quelled by the contents within as you rifle around a little more, knowing you should stop and sit down and act like you saw nothing when you feel a glossy texture beneath your fingertips.
Gently, you pinch it between your pointer finger and thumb, pulling it out from beneath all rubble as you hold it closer to your face, your breath catching in your throat.
It’s a polaroid of the two of you.
You remember the night well, a couple of months ago, during the summer. The four of you and a couple of mutual friends had rented a car and had gone up to a cabin, one of the many properties Satoru’s family owned, and had spent the weekend there. Suguru had insisted on setting up a fire and eating around it, and you had huddled up next to Shoko as the night got colder. You remember the voices and the laughs and the squeals as some of the friends, people you didn’t know that well, began chasing each other, and you and Shoko watched, amused. You remember how one of the boys had been carrying a jug of water, one meant for inside, when somebody bumped into him, and he tripped, and the water came falling on you. You remember letting out a small laugh, shocked and forgiving as you assured the stranger that it was okay, shivering, nonetheless, as Shoko laughed uncontrollably.
But above all, you remember how Satoru hurried over from wherever he was, his stare worried that you were hurt, everything shifting when he saw the playful glint in your eyes, the fireplace illuminating your features in red, yellow and orange hues as you shrugged his worries off, his hands on your elbows, steadying you as Suguru took a photo of the moment, of your head thrown back in a laugh and his eyebrows pulled into an anxious line while his lips pulled into a gentle smile, the stars twinkling in the background as he steadied you to your feet.
You distantly recall hearing the click and asking Suguru about the photo, but hearing him say something along the lines of the lighting being too dark, but clearly that was a lie because you were holding the small photo in your hand, staring at it with no problem.
Before you can spend more time thinking about his junk box and what the hell this photo was doing in it, you heard some shuffling on the other side of the bathroom, the door clicking open as you scramble to put the box back, nearly tripping as you jump down, going back to where you were seated on the couch in a flash, appearing to look nonchalant as he stepped out.
You don’t let your eyes linger too long on the way his shirt stretched tightly across his chest, or the way that the water has caused the fabric to slightly stick to his arms. He shakes his hair into a towel, ringlets of water falling as he pushes his hair back. You also try not to fawn too much over his mismatched pajamas, or how his trousers have prints of lightsabers in different colors all over them.
“Hey,” he calls out gruffly, rubbing at the back of his neck as he tosses his towel into the hamper, his feet padding over to his desk as he checks the clock and then his phone for any notifications. He sighs, and your throat is dry, heart hammering in your chest as you realize a grave mistake.
In your haste to put everything back, the careful clutch you had on the photo had appeared nonexistent, and you had, for some reason, made the blunder of still holding the photograph of the two of you resting in the palm of your hand.
His back is still to you, and you swallow thickly, shuffling across the couch as you try to deposit it onto one of the nearer shelfs, hoping that if he were to see it he would think it had mistakenly fallen out or something less drastic, but his ears turn towards your movement, looking over his broad shoulders at the way you scramble to dispose of the film.
“What are…?” His eyes pierce yours, and you sheepishly snap around to look at him, your hand going behind you as you shake your head, acting confused as his head tilts to the side, jumping from your seat at the edge of the cushion to your leg, angled towards his bookshelf.
“I was just looking at your books,” you quickly state, trying to cover your ass as lips purse together to give you a knowing look, a white brow rising so high that it disappears in his hairline, one calling you out on your obvious bullshit.
“Hm,” he hums, taking a step closer to you, his skin still glowing from the shower as he makes his way to where you were sitting, towering over you as his arms cross deliciously across his chest, “Then what do you have behind you?”
You feign innocence, blinking as you shake your head, acting dumb as you shrug.
“I,” you scoff, leaning back into one of the pillows as you shrug, “I don’t have anything behind me.”
“Right,” he drawls out, his voice slightly deeper, intimidatingly so as he crouches down a little until his face is to face with you, his fingers moving to poke at your arms, twisting at an odd angle to hide behind your back, “Then you wouldn’t mind if I gave you some medicine, yeah? Something that requires both hands?”
Damn him.
You shake your head, swallowing as you shoot him a shaking smile.
“Not at all,” you stress, shifting uncomfortable as he nods, his eyes raking over your face one last time as he moves to his desk, pulling a drawer out, his medicine drawer, you deduce, and watch as he pulls out a bottle that seems to promise helping with stomach aches, and he turns it over, reading the label until he seems satisfied.
He strolls back to where you’re seated, holding the medicine bottle out towards you as he patiently waits.
You shoot him a fake smile, biting back annoyance as you shift awkwardly, wringing out a hand from underneath your body, the one that’s not holding onto the photograph, as you take the bottle from his outstretched hands. You stare at it, realizing that he’s waiting for you to open it, and if it wasn’t for the unimpressed look on his face, you’d almost wager that he was amused.
“Something wrong?” He asks, fully knowing the answer, and you shoot him a glare.
“No,” you bite back, your other hand moving slowly, careful not to crumble or tear the film as you place it under your thigh, showing him both of your hands as you twist the cap of the medicine bottle off, “See?”
He nods, still unbelieving of your little tactic, as he takes the bottle away from you. You watch as he moves to set it down on the table, assessing the situation as he moves down in one swift motion, not giving you any time to understand what was going on as he loops one hands under your knees, another across your back as he lifts you up and over his shoulders like you genuinely weighed nothing more than a sack of flour and you screamed in horror at the rudeness of everything.
“Freak!” You shout, your face looking at his muscular back as he chuckles, not seeing anything yet as you try to kick his face, “This is so degrading, put me down!” You scream, horrified and mortified as he pinches your calf that was near his chest.
“Stop squirming,” he chides, but his voice is anything but chiding as he swivels around, your body jerking sideways as your head drops, motion sickness from already feeling a little off from earlier tonight, and you weakly punch his back, groaning.
“I’m going to puke all over you,” you threaten, but he just chuckles, shaking his head as he pretends to drop you, only to catch you last minute, his chest shaking with the sound, and you go to snap at him again,
But you feel it, hear it the moment he sees the polaroid you had taken.
He goes tense, his grip on you tightening a little bit out of shock, and he’s suddenly silent. You wince, turning around, hoping he could take the hint and set you down, and he finally does, carefully setting you on the ground as he bends, picking up the photograph from where it had fallen onto the floor, and staring blankly at it.
Your hands clench, chest tightening as his eyes flicker from it to you, his face unreadable as his jaw clenches slightly.
Nobody speaks for a moment, the room suddenly as tense as it was when you first entered, and you watch as he puts the photograph face down on a random shelf, turning back to you as he sighs deeply.
“Were you…Were you going through my things?”
The question shakes you, and your mouth parts as you clamp it shut.
“N-no,” you finally say, “Well, no, not really, but I guess…I don’t…I was,” your head drops to your hands in mortification as you motion weakly to the bookshelf, “I was only looking at your books.” You mutter weakly, not even able to look at him as you keep your stare trained on the books and their titles.
“I didn’t mean to see it, but…” You trail off, thousands of emotions racing through you as you try to deny it in your mind, sadness from before, anger with yourself, and suddenly feel vexation towards him for no particular reason as your eyes snap to his, “God, why do you care? It’s just a photo! I didn’t…I didn’t mean to look, but I saw that thing I gave you, and I had thought you would’ve tossed it away by now, and I just wanted to see what you’d keep in there and…yeah, fuck, okay, I looked! I’m sorry, okay? But…I mean, you keep it as a junk box anyway, it’s not like it’s…like it’s an heirloom!” You’re trying to ration and reason and trying to justify your clearly immoral actions as you ramble again, a terrible trait of yours, as he just takes it, takes your anger and your slew of words and your hurt as you feel your eyes water for no reason again as you hug your arms to yourself.
He says nothing for another moment, his eyes dark and piercing.
And then he moves.
His arm reaches upwards, up to the shelf, up behind your head to where the box was resting on the top shelf, and he slowly brings his hand down, your heart in your throat as he nearly throws the lid open, beginning to pull everything out one by one.
“This,” he’s holding the ticket stub, “This is from tonight.”
Your hands instantly drop to your sides as the anger fades and utter confusion floods your senses.
…huh?
You had just looked at the box; how did you not notice? But you look closer at it, the date and the row and seat number nearly the same as the ticket stub you had thrown away after leaving the theater in a hurry, and your eyes flee up towards him, his chest heaving as he continues.
“This is from when we went to the beach,” he pulls out a chipped seashell, and you recognize the pattern instantly, remembering the one time the four of you had gone to the shoreline, a seashell you had picked up and thought was interesting, showing it to him before Shoko called you away, but you don’t have any time to compute that as he pulls out the next time.
“This is from the candy you gave me during a study session we had,” he pulls out a wrinkled wrapper, “This is the hair tie you left at my place and forgot,” he has a simple black elastic band sitting in the palm of his hand, but he could very much so be holding your pittering pattering heart the more he continues, his voice quivering slightly, and you’ve never heard him ramble like this, ramble like you.
“This is the leaf that was stuck in my hair that you pulled out,” he admits quietly, holding up the dried leaf from the time you had been walking next to him in the fall, the trees shaking in the wind, giggling at his white hair littered with the colorful leaves, “These are the coins you gave me because I didn’t have any change,” he’s holding up the spare sterlings you had lent him when he wanted some ice cream but forgot his card at home, and your eyes move up and down, a strange thumping sound in your ears because you feel like you’re about to faint, and he slows to a stop, his cheeks flushed and his hands shaking as his hand fills with all of the things you have given him over the past two years, things that a normal person would have thrown away or used or given back.
“This…” his lips tremble as he shuts them for a second, looking unlike the person you’ve begun to know so deeply as his fingers wrap around something, pulling out a neatly folded white napkin, unused, as he takes in a steadying breath, “This is the, erm, the napkin you lent me. From the night we first met.”
The box is empty now, but the room fills with moments in time, moments that you would cherish in the deepest parts of your mind before you went to bed, and pretended like they were fleeting and didn't matter so that you could face him bravely the next time you saw him. Moments that you thought he treated like normal moments in time that would pass and would never be remembered again, moments that you didn’t think he would…hold onto.
Not the way you did.
“It’s not…junk,” he admits thickly, “For me it’s not.”
He stops, taking in a deep breath as he pushes his hair away from his face, carefully putting everything back in the box, including the photograph, as he sets it down, turning back to face your stunned expression.
“Look, have you ever seen me without my glasses?”
You blink. Realizing that he’s waiting on you to answer, you blank before shaking your head slowly, and he nods.
“Right, right, well, I used to wear contacts. All the time. Ask Suguru o-or Shoko but…ever since you said that you like the way glasses look, I…I don’t know, I kept wearing them, hoping you’d…” he trails off, his cheeks completely red, the tips of his ears a bright pink as he ducks his head down, scratching his nape sheepishly, whispering, “Hoping you’d maybe say it again.”
Your eyes go wide, and you blink owlishly, swearing you look fish-adjacent with the way you can only give him this look on repeat as he takes your silence as an okay for him to go on a rare nervous tangent of his own.
“When I was little, my grandfather taught me how to tie his tie. He said that I should learn how to do it by myself so that I wouldn't need any help when I grow up.”
You don’t say anything, and he doesn’t get angry at your silence, but simply offers you a small, worried smile.
“I’ve gotten pretty good at it,” he confesses with a farce laugh, something empty and shaky, "But you always ask to tie them, and…I always let you. You’re the only person I feel comfortable with; the only person who it doesn’t feel like,” he shivered, wincing slightly as if his skin was prickling at the thought of other people touching him the way you do, “The only person who can touch me and I feel…okay.”
“I have a shelf of all the books you’ve talked about,” he persists, motioning upwards, and you slowly look around to where The Count of Monte Cristo was sitting, along with all the other books you’ve raved about in the past, thinking he’d only listen and give you kind comments, not knowing that he had gone home and sat down and read them all afterwards, “I stopped drinking whenever we go out together because you said you don’t really like the smell of alcohol on people’s breaths. I…” he rakes his hand through his hair again, a nervous fidget of his as he looks pleadingly at you, “I have my spot on Suguru’s couch because your spot is right next to it.”
“And our friends tell me that I’m not crazy, that…that I might have a chance,” he motions a shaking hand between the two of you, and you allow yourself this time to blink again, “But, I don’t know,” his head ducks as he chokes back some tears, and your eyes widen even more, your eyebrows up in your hair at this point because you’ve been rendered speechless, “It’s like any time I try to get closer to you, you leave or immediately want to be anywhere else or seem uncomfortable and I don’t want you to feel that way, especially because of me.”
When he looks up, his eyes are glassy, looking like a stormy ocean, and you feel tears prickle at yours, your breath lodged in your throat as you try to pinch yourself, swearing that you were in some vision, but this is real, and he’s not stopping, saying the words you’ve only dreamt of.
“I know I’m not really…the kind of person that you’d usually go for,” he explains, his voice dim, “I’m not good with literary nuances or dissecting medieval texts. I can’t read the way you read, and I’m not good with understanding people the way you do, but…I want to be. I want to be that, I want to be good for you.”
Your mouth is wide open as you gape at him, trying to make sense of the words that you could only imagine as you stared silently at him saying to you, saying them to you here. The two of you don’t say much for a second, your eyes blinking rapidly as your mind travels faster than the speed of sound, and you realize that he’s not lying or trying to make you laugh. He’s not confessing his love for another girl, but instead clutching his chest because it felt like your silence was leading up to a personal rejection, and you can barely muster up any actual words as you surge towards him, stopping his rambling as your arms wrap around his neck, knees knocking against his as your lips slam against his.
Your heart plummets as you feel him still, his arms still at his sides as his eyes widen in shock, and you feel like you’ve completely screwed things up, going to step away before his hands shoot upwards, wrapping around your waist and legs as he hoists you up, his lips moving against yours hungrily.
“You’re so…so stupid,” you mutter in between breaths, his lips parting yours, soft and gentle and fast and desperate as they chase the way you taste, wanting to savor the plushness of yours as you mewl at the way his fingers dig into your soft skin, moving you effortlessly towards his bed as the two of you smile against each other, laughing in the air as your back hits the mattress. He fidgets with his glasses, pushing them up with his middle finger, coming a little loose after everything.
“Yeah?” He murmurs, happy, giddy, his eyes bright and alive and electric as he nips at your bottom lip, his own shining with spit as he ducks down again, pressing kisses to your face, and you feel lightheaded, “Tell me how I’m stupid, baby.”
You groan, lightly hitting his chest as he chuckles lightly, his kisses moving to your cheek, across your nose, as your smile turns bright enough to power the sun for the rest of eternity if it were to die in this very moment.
“I,” you huff, your chest burning and your hands tangled in his hair, fisting his shirt as you bring him in impossibly closer, “I’ve had this…debilitating crush on you ever since I saw you,” you admit quietly, and he pauses, his sunset dusted cheeks turning into a wide grin as he huffs out a laugh and push his face away from your as you turn away in discomfiture, “And I’ve done everything to get you to notice me. I’ve embarrassed myself like, twenty times a day, hoping you’d look my way.”
Satoru raises a slender brow, and you have the urge to pull him down by the collar, pressing your lips to his as he happily obliges, his tongue poking out to tease yours as he turns to an even bigger taunting menace as he pulls away.
“I can’t stop looking at you,” he mumbles shyly, ducking down as he kisses your throat, and you shift slightly to give him more access, your breath catching in your lungs as his kisses turn into him sucking in a patch of skin, licking it over when he’s satisfied it’s going to mark. “I could barely focus on the play tonight because I kept looking over.”
You let out a giggle, curling his soft strands of hair around your finger as he glances up to see your smile, pressing a chaste kiss as if he wanted to taste the way your unabashed happiness felt.
“And I try to sound smarter whenever you’re around,” you admit, and he snorts against the skin of your cheek again, enjoying how plush and soft it was, biting it as you squeal, but it was never hard enough to hurt, just experimental, and he laughs, “And you never even acknowledged the number of times I’d bring up a science-y article I had spent the entire night analyzing just for you to ask me about my stupid book report.” You pout, and he attempts to kiss it off of you, his hands roaming the exposed skin of your waist and stomach, hot against your cold self, and he rolls his eyes.
“That’s only because I was having tiny aneurysms whenever you’d do that,” he reasons, his face morphing into something sweet and gentle and something so entirely new and…yours that you wish you could take a picture of it, “And I wanted you to know that I remembered the things you told me.”
You throw a hand over your face, not wanting him to see the gleefulness on your face, but he just wrings your hands away, slotting his long legs in between yours as he lets out another joyous laugh.
“Come on,” he insists, nudging his nose against your jaw, “How else am I stupid?”
You let out an exaggerated groan, biting your lip as you try to think through your muddled thoughts.
“You…you…you kept only the ridiculous things I gave you!” You argue, and he moves upwards slightly, giving you a pointed look, as if you were offending his lifeline or treasures, “I’ve given so many things and…” But you trail off, feeling his large hand gently wrap around your face, turning it to the side so you could see his room from his point of view.
“Look closely,” he softly urges, and your eyes trail across the walls, the shelves, the tabletops, “This room is full of you.”
And he’s right.
The postcards he has up are the ones you gave the three of them from the time you had gone to Paris with your family over the summer, picking out individual ones you thought each of them would like. Vintage telescopes and microscopes you imagined him enjoying, but never enough to actually put them up. The music box that plays the theme of A New Hope, a simple melody from his favorite movie that you had also gotten for his birthday, sits on his bedside table. The books you had found on sale about plant biology, a little thing you thought he might like, rest on top of his bookshelf.
Your bottom lip catches between your teeth, and he chuckles at your quiet reaction, dipping down to kiss you again, wanting to nudge those sounds from you, even if he has to take them like this.
“Is this why you’d scare off any guy who came up to me?” You ask, but you already know the answer, just wanting to see the look on his face as he groaned, pinching your side as you giggle at his antics.
“I thought I was being so obvious,” he murmured against your lips, his tongue roaming through your mouth as you part it slightly for him, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling, a string of spit connecting the two of you as he pulls away, “Everyone could see how badly I wanted you.”
You shrug, feeling sluggish from his movements.
“I didn’t,” you argue faintly, and he looks up, white lashes fluttering as he grins, kissing the tip of your nose as he smiles.
“Guess I didn’t either,” he whispers teasingly, “Guess we’re both stupid for that.”
You go to fight back, but you let out an embarrassing moan at the way his hands travel across your stomach, pushing your shirt upwards slightly as your back arches upwards to chase the feeling. His hands are large and travel expertly across your body, as if he’s mapped out the small things that make you squirm and the things you itch for, as if he’s spent the past two years studying you instead of his dusty textbooks, and the thought alone makes you shake with anticipation.
“Can’t believe I waited this long,” he murmurs against the skin of your stomach, kissing the plain of it as you shake with an uncontrollable giggle, “Why didn’t you say anything, hm? Did you like tormenting me like this?”
The question makes you stop.
Suddenly, everything from before comes rushing back.
It seems like it sets off alarm bells in your head, as if you had been functioning through a rose-tinted fog for the past couple of minutes, and suddenly reality hits you because…you haven’t told him for a reason. The months and months of pining after him weren’t just because you liked torturing yourself, but because of your frankly very real fears of rejection for more reasons than one.
After a second, you huff, hands clenching by your sides as you feel a surge of feelings, deep ones that you’ve choked on and tried to hide, and he notices the instant way you tense up, stopping his movements as he glances upwards at you.
“Do you want to stop?” He asks gently, tugging the hem of your (his) shirt back down to cover your stomach, and you let out a delicate laugh, a pensive look on your face as you chew worriedly on your face.
Sighing, you rub a hand down your face, sitting upright with your back resting on his headboard, and turn to look back at his desk, feeling the weight of his stare more than before as heat licks at your cheeks.
“What about…what about the others?”
The question rings through the room, bouncing off the walls, and his brows furrow in slight confusion as you still refuse to tear your eyes away from his desk, your hands resting in your lap, and he moves slowly, his large hands encompassing yours, unraveling your fingers, alleviating the tension you didn’t know was building.
“What others?” Satoru asks after a moment, unjudgmentally, tenderly, and caring, patient as you huff out another shaky laugh, shrugging your shoulders as they fall in a heavy drop, your chest rattling with the emotions you had been trying to kill off from the past two years.
You chew on the inside of your cheek, feel his fingers against yours, and your gaze flickers to his before going back to focusing on something to the side.
“This is gonna sound stupid,” you preface, but his thumb presses into the palm of your hand, a small sign that he wasn’t going to judge anything that came out of your mouth because he just showed you that he kept the first napkin you had ever given him.
“But…” you drop your head into your hands, your voice muffled as you continue, “I see the girls that come up to you. O-or your ex. Vi…right?” You peek up, and his eyes are slightly squinted, nodding slowly, as if he wants you to make your point before he says something, “And they’re just so…ugh, I don’t know…perfect? Like, they seem perfect for you. Either they’re stunning, or they’re in your major, or they’re both, or just…so different, and I feel like I’m…not…that.”
He blinks slowly, piecing this together with the fact that he asked you why you hadn’t spoken up sooner, and his lips tug upwards in a little grin, one that makes you want to roll your eyes if not for the storm brewing inside of you, and he tugs you closer, one of his hands wrapping around your waist as he drops his head onto your chest.
“I think you’ve got it backwards,” he says against you, his voice vibrating off of you, and you feel it shake you to your core, his hand moving up and down the expanse of your back as you hand unconsciously move upwards, back to his soft white locks, “Because none of those girls could measure up to my perfect girl.”
You stop, glad he can’t see the large smile on your face as you head falls backwards, thumping against the wood as your chest swells with joy, and when he looks up, his goofy grin could match yours, and you push him away by the cheek, but he just moves, kissing the palm of your hand as you laugh softly.
“You’re so stupid,” you repeat, but he knows you’re only masking the giddiness you feel as he nods against your hand, his eyes shimmering and bright as he sits up a little straighter, nearly encompassing you with his body as he leans closer, his nose nudging yours as the two of you smile against each other's lips.
“You’ve got that right,” he whispers in the small space of air between you, “I’m such a fool for you.”
You decide then that you don’t give him any more time to talk or say something else that could turn your insides to mush, so you tug him down by his neck, his lips curling upwards as they press against yours.
He seems like he’s experimenting with kissing you, as if he knows you’re learning in real time, and has no qualms taking it slow. He lets you take the lead when you want, lets you dart your tongue out slightly, and opens his mouth to welcome you in. When you get a little shyer, he takes the initiative, hands roaming around your hips, pulling you into his lap as you mewl him again. When he could tell you needed some air, he’d pull away, kissing the corners of your lips, your cheeks that he loved so much, the edge of your brows that would pull into the cutest furrows whenever you were confused, and cherished you the way he’d been aching for ever since he saw you at that stupid English department banquet.
You chase the feeling of his skin on yours, the way his fingers feel when they trace your features, the way his hands run up your arms, the way his palm cups your jaw. Your hands seem to have a mind of their own, his as well, as they drop down to the drawstring of his trousers, running up the smooth and hard skin of his abs, feeling greedy as you run a finger down his delicious v-line. You feel him shuddering beneath you, and you grin evilly, your mouth water as you untie his pants, your fingers running over the white tufts of hair of his happy trail, and your shuffle around a little bit to help him as he tugs up the hem of his old band shirt that you donned, and you almost let out a whine when they suddenly stop, lashes fluttering open to see what he was going to do next.
His forehead drops onto yours, one of his arms pulling you closer to his chest, the other still cradling your face, and you see the way his face has gone pink, a light hue that you rarely see him in.
“Just so you know, this, em, this isn’t how I wanted things to go.”
You let out a stark laugh, your hands pressing against his as your fingers curl around his hair, tilting your head slightly to the side.
“Yeah? How were things supposed to go?” You ask, trying not to sound too selfishly drunk on him as he shrugs, his lips pressing together as he divulges you in his own fantasies, things he’d only think about when it was the two of you together and he’d be wanting to confess his undying love for you while you’d be rambling on about John Milton or another one of your other favorite authors.
He looks shy, and you want to bite him, watching him gather up some of the courage you had kissed away as he takes one of your hands away from his arms, playing with your fingers as he pushes some of his tousled hair away from his face.
“Well, I was planning on telling you how crazy I am about you after this whole day I had planned out,” he starts, scratching the back of his neck as he turns a little red, “I had, erm, bought tickets to the museum you’ve been wanting to go to,” he says, his eyes flickering from your face to the side as his head drops, and you nudge it back up as he chuckles, “The one displaying the original copies of those old books you like so much.”
He swallows, taking a deep breath, and then continues.
“And I wanted it to just be us, nobody else. I would have obviously read up on all the authors on exhibit, so I wouldn’t look like a total idiot when, or if, you had come, and I’d spend the entire time sweating and hoping you couldn’t see.” You giggle, and he squeezes your hand, rubbing his thumb up and down the back of it in a soothing gesture. Your eyes drop, urging him gently to continue because you feel like you’re in a dream, and if he stops, you’re going to wake up from it.
“Afterwards, I’d take you to this restaurant I’ve heard is good,” he grins boyishly, tongue poking in between his lips, “And when we were done, I’d walk you back to your place and…tell you that I liked you then.”
You can’t stop smiling, and he can’t stop either.
“Just…just that you liked me?” you tease, humming as he shifts a little, his arms wrapping around your waist, “Not to be…selfish, or anything, but I feel like this way was so much more romantic with your little box of trinkets and your rambling.” He groans, pinching you lightly as you snicker, but he ultimately shakes his head, smoothing over the place he pinched with his soothing touch.
“No, no,” he mutters, his face determined, as if he was recounting everything he had planned to say, “I’d tell you how much I liked the way you look when you start talking about your day,” his thumb brushes across your cheek, running across the soft hair of your brows, “And how much I like the way you care about everything you do and everybody around you. I’d tell you that I really like it when you tell me about the book you just finished, and how much I admire your kind heart. I’d tell you that I…I like how wonderfully weird you are, and how I wish I could be half as interesting as you are on a regular day. I would have told you how you’re always the first person I look for when I enter a room. And…” his shoulders rise and drop as he pulls you impossibly closer, “I would have really hoped that Suguru and Shoko were right about this because I’d be…a little embarrassed if not.”
You hum, pretending to think as you twirl his white strands around your pointer finger even though you feel like you’re on fire and you can’t breathe and everything feels like it’s burning in the best way possible, try not to freak out because the guy you’ve been in love with basically just admitted the most amazing things to you, so you take a steadying breath, your head tilting as you smile.
“And what if I didn’t want you to stop?” You feel heat blossom across your lungs when you hear his breathing hitch, “After…after you’d do all of that?”
He nods, surveying his different options as his blue eyes turn into a slightly different shade, as if they were dependent upon his emotions, and his hands turn a little heavier as they roam across your stomach, up across the skin of your ribcage, and they stop right under your bra.
“Hmm, well, I would’ve have asked you what you wanted to happen next,” his smile is wicked as his face drops down to your neck, leaving wet kisses until he ends up at your collarbone, right at the neck of your shirt as you nearly whine, feeling his teeth scrape just barely over the soft skin, “What is it you want, baby? What else would you want me to do?”
Your breathing stutters, and you arch your back a little, letting his nimble fingers fiddle with the clasp of your bra, giving you enough time to turn him down, but you don’t; you want, no, need, for him to continue.
“I,” your breath lodges in your throat when he opens the clasps, helping you tug the straps down until your old ratty bra, the comfortable one that you were sure wouldn’t matter being worn tonight because you never imagined something like this happening, but he doesn’t care, setting it to the side as he wait patiently, menacingly, for you to find your words, “I’d probably ask you to…to come up.”
He groans lightly, a mix between a guttural moan and a laugh.
“Yeah?” It’s not so much a question, but a confirmation as you nod, shivering when his hands move back upwards, your chest heaving as you feel his nimble and long fingers cup your tits, his fingers running over your nipples as your head falls to his shoulders, “Then what? What would I have done after I came up?”
You go down, you want to say tauntingly, but don’t have the willpower as his thumb flicks over a nipple, and you whine.
“Eh, you’d, uh, I’d, we, would probably end up on…on my bed and I’d probably be wearing something cuter than this,” you try to say indifferently, and he rolls his eyes because you could be wearing faux feathers glued to the entirety of your body and he’d still think you were the most beautiful woman to ever exist, “And I’d probably be a little more confident telling you what I,” you gulp audibly, your cheeks heating up, “What I want, seeing that you wouldn’t have just seen me at my virtual lowest hours earlier.” And he chuckles, and it feels right, feels like this was meant to happen as his hands fall from your breasts, trailing down your stomach as you shuffle a little, moving to lie back on his pillow as he shuffles to, situating his body in between your thighs, waiting for your next command.
Satoru’s grin turns soft, like he knows what it is you want, but needs to hear you say it for him to feel okay doing the thing that’s setting him alight. His hand moves, taking yours into his again and intertwining his fingers between yours.
“… what do you want, love?” His voice is thick, and it settles deep in your bones as your head falls, squeezing his fingers as you sheepishly mutter something, and he barely hears you, nudging you to say it a little louder as you groan in embarrassment, an arm flying over your face as your head falls back, not able to look him in the eyes as you timidly whisper;
“For you, like…to do stuff,” you murmur so quietly you think that your lips barely even moved, “To…to eat me out or….or whatever.”
When he says nothing for a moment, you peek between your fingers and see his cheeks flushed, a shit-eating grin on his face as he sets his chin down on your stomach, his glasses crooked as his brow arched. He moves, gingerly tugs your arm away from your face, and sits down by your side as he presses a chaste kiss to your stomach.
“Yeah….yeah, I think I can ‘eat you out or whatever’,” he says, and you groan ever louder, flicking his forehead as he chuckles, taking your words as the sign to go, go, go, his fingers moving excruciatingly slow as they start to tug the waistband of your pants and boxers (his, again), down, looking up at you for a little assistance, and you lift your hips, allowing him to slide them down fully.
You blink, relaxing that you’re completely bare right now, but he doesn't give you any time to be self-conscious as his pupils seem to blow up with lust, hungrily eating up the way your pussy is glistening with want and need, his cheeks a fiery red as his chest moves in a large exhale, like the air had been knocked from him.
His hand raises upwards to take his glasses off, but you make a sudden movement, as if your body was functioning on autopilot, when your hands wrap around his wrist, stopping him from doing anything else.
“Don’t,” your voice is barely above a whisper, “K-keep them on.”
His white lashes flutter slightly, and he gives you one of his boyish smiles that you love so much, his teeth shining as he presses his lips to the inside of your wrist, nodding slowly as he pushes his glasses back on.
“If I knew that waiting so long for you to tell me that you liked my glasses would have been when I’m about to do this, I think I could have waited another couple of years more.” He says honestly, dropping himself down between your thighs, and your eyes flutter shut, head falling back on the pillow as you feel his warm hands slowly move up and up and up, parting you ever so slightly so he could situate himself better between them.
Your mouth parts when you feel his fingers move on the outside of your lips, collecting the slick, and you hold back a wanton moan, your hands flying up to his hair, tugging him closer. You watch as he pushes his glasses up by using his shoulder to move the frames up, and when his lips suddenly latch onto your clit you actually think you’ve gone insane.
His tongue darts out, moaning like a whore when he finally gets to taste your saccharine taste, his eyes rolling back as he parts your lips, the sound greedy as he moves a thumb to circle your clit, moving down to run his tongue selfishly up and down your pussy for his own pleasure, needing to feel you or else he was going to go mad.
“You taste,” his voice is muffled as he pants against your cunt, using a finger to move up and down the slit, “You taste sweet,” he said it like he was startled, like he had spent hours and hours studying female anatomy and how to pleasure a girl and what to do, but never could have expected this unexpected turn, to taste you and realize that you were sweeter and more delicious than any candy he’s ever eaten before, “Why do you taste so…so sweet?”
You would laugh if you weren’t so turned on, saying some jumbled-up words as he ducks down again, your fingers digging into his scalp as his thumb goes a little faster on your swollen nub, his long pointer finger rubbing at the outside of your pussy, getting ready to push it in.
When he finally does, your walls instantly clamp down on it, and you moan, not expecting the stretch, and he gives you some time to adjust. It’s not like you’re a prude, you’ve at least attempted this before, but your fingers aren’t like Gojo Satoru’s, and you feel like you could come just from this.
“Feeling good, baby?” He questions, and you hurriedly nod, hearing him chuckle.
“Yeah,” you stutter out, your teeth clenched as you feel his finger start to move out, and then your mouth falls open as he starts to slowly pump it in and out of you, a mind-bending pace that has you clenching around him, “Feels good.”
He nods, taking it as confirmation to keep going, and he switches between a finger and his tongue, darting them inside of you. He keeps his pressure on your clit, and you grow impossibly wetter when he leans down to lay a cute little kiss on it, his glasses slowly fogging up.
Gojo Satoru eats you out like you’re his last meal, like he’s been living like Tantalus for his twenty years alive, and finally, the fruit tree doesn’t move from his grasp, and he’s able to divulge like the greedy and sinful man he always has been.
Sometimes the hand that’s occupying your clit moves upwards, pulling his old shirt up and over the expanse of your torso to see your supple skin shake beneath his large palms, and he cups your tits, groaning like a slut when he feels your nipples pebble, and he pinches them between his pointer finger and thumb, twisting a little to feel you squeal, and he grins, softening his touch as he smooths it over, moving back down to your nub as if nothing happened.
You watch from hooded eyes, watch the way his eyes close, like he’s savoring your taste. You see the way he slowly ruts into the mattress, like he was getting off to this, and the thought itself makes you gush even more.
When he’s satisfied that you’ve adjusted to his one finger, he decides to slip another one in, and the size alone makes you whine, the stretch something that causes tears to dart in the corner of your eyes in delicious pain.
“Hmm,” you moan, one of your hands fisting the sheets, the other tangled in his white hair as you guide him up and down, and you can swear you feel him smiling against you, as if your reactions were a symphony to his ears, “It’s not like I really have a metric but…you’re good at this.”
Satoru chuckles, looking up at you, and the sight knocks the air out of your lungs. His cheeks are flushed, wet in the dim lighting of the room, his glasses crooked, and his hair a mess, but he looks positively radiant as his smile flashes bright.
“I hope I am,” his voice is lower than you’ve ever heard it, and it vibrates against your pussy, “I’ve been studying.”
Despite feeling lightheaded, his statement chased you to come to your senses a bit, sitting up on your elbows as you looked at him through furrowed brows.
“Studying?” You parrot, and he nods eagerly, his thumb putting pressure on your sensitive and swollen clit as your mouth falls open in a silent moan, barely able to keep your eyes open as he explains.
“Mhm,” he hums, his nose, the beautiful nose that you want to kiss all over, rubs expertly on the hood of your clit as he presses chaste, sloppy kisses to your cunt, “I read all these posts and books and papers about what the best way to eat a girl out,” his voice is hoarse, licking up and down your syrupy inner walls, his two fingers never stopping their relentless pace as something deep in your stomach begins to build up, “Brushed up on some….anatomy and the sorts.”
You let out a breathless laugh.
Because of course he had.
“You,” your mouth clamps shut when he hits the spongy part deep inside of you that makes your toes curl, your lashes fluttering against your hot cheeks, and you can’t talk correctly but make the attempt to, barely above a whisper as you mutter, “Y-you’re insane.”
He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t deny it as his thumb swirls in figure eight patterns on your clit, his pointer and middle fingers curling upwards, and you can’t really find it in yourself to chide him when he’s making you feel heavenly.
You feel like you’re unraveling at his skillful hands, and it definitely doesn’t help that whenever you have the guts to open your eyes you’re met with the view of Satoru loosing himself in your cunt, as with each second that passed, he was going just as crazy as you were, and it felt like that familiar feeling of an orgasm building, but unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.
It’s almost like he knows, because he seems to go faster, switching between licking and his fingers, and your grip on him tightens, and he moans, welcoming the sting.
“Come on,” he presses, urging, needing you to finish around him, to taste your relief on his tongue, “Come on, baby, I know you wanna come.”
You nod, sweat dotting your forehead, your chest heaving up and down with labored breaths, that knot inside of you tightening as your thighs clamp down around his head, your walls pulsing around his fingers.
It gradually builds, but that feeling suddenly snaps, and you jolt, your back arching, moving into him, his fingers never stopping, his thumb and lips on your clit, suctioning in a perfect way that sends you over the edge. You clench tightly around him, creaming, spasming as you gush, your eyes rolling back in your head as you let out the quietest but sweetest moan, and when you feel your orgasms slow to a dull pulse, you fall back onto his mattress, limp as he doesn’t stop instantly.
Instead, he lets his fingers slow down carefully, as if you’d get immediate withdrawal from the feeling of having him inside of you. He kisses your clit once, then twice, and pulls away, connected by a string of spit, slick and your cum, and when you finally have the energy to wring your eyes open, the sight of him wrecked form eating you out makes you even more wet.
You take a few moments to catch your breath, your chest heaving up and down, your hand falling away from his soft locks as it sprawls across your stomach, and you stare helplessly at the ceiling.
Blinking owlishly, you awkwardly scootch upwards until you’re resting on the back of the headboard, and you watch as he brings his fingers up to his mouth, grinning coyly as he moans at the taste of you, and if you could, you’d pinch him, but you just weakly push him with your foot, looking away abashedly.
“Nasty,” you whisper hoarsely, your voice gone, and he coos, crawling towards you, bringing his face towards yours as he nudges his nose with yours, and you’re weak, giving in as he hungrily presses his wet lips to yours.
You can taste yourself on him, and you mewl, feeling his tongue in your mouth, licking inside of you, wanting you to enjoy what he just enjoyed, and your shaking hands grip around his neck. He pulls away a little bit, biting your bottom lip before kissing it, and he rubs a loving thumb across your cheek, his eyes turning gentle as he peers at you through those ocean eyes through those stunning glasses you adore so much.
You don’t trust your voice, so instead you let your hands unravel from his nape, moving upwards towards the expensive frames, straightening them on his nose, making sure they rest correctly on his pink ears, and he watches silently, reverently, as you push him back gently by the chin, making sure that they looked right on the bridge of his nose.
“Hmm, looks better,” you whisper affectionately, kissing the tip of his nose like you’ve always wanted, and that seems to push him over the edge, quickly wrapping his arms around your midsection as he pulls you closer to him, falling back on the bed as he tugs you into his chest, his head resting in the crook of your neck.
At that moment, you feel it, and your eyes blink rapidly from their hazy state as his hard-on pressed against your thigh.
“Hey,” you murmur, poking his side, but he doesn’t seem like budging, his overwhelming heat and size covering you, his thick arms not moving from caging you to him, and you can’t even wrangle free, “‘Toru, what about you?”
He doesn’t even lift his head, just hums against the skin of your neck, his lips busy leaving hickeys all over it, ones you’re going to deeply regret in the morning but can’t seem to care right now except for the boner you’re sure is deeply uncomfortable.
“What about me?” He dreamily replies, his voice barely audible, and you roll your eyes. From this angle, you can see the way his shirt is riding up, his abs on display, the veins leading downward prominent, and his trail of white hair is calling your name.
You wedge your hand in between your bodies as you press against his cock, the movement causing him to yelp and shudder, whimpering against you as you snicker, sure that now he’s going to give you some more undivided attention.
He sits up a little bit, resting his head on his fist, his elbow on his pillow as he peers down at you, his brow slightly cocked, not looking impressed with being tormented like this after treating you so kindly by giving you the best orgasm of your life.
“Not nice,” he reprimands warmly, poking your side as you yelp, his finger much more sturdy than yours, “You’re not really supposed to grab dicks like that, y’know?”
Your cheeks heat at his choice words, and you shrug, feigning innocence as you bring his hand to yours, admiring the large size a syou play with his fingers, feeling more touchy than usual, and you’re ever so glad that he lets you.
“I’m just saying,” you mumble, flashing him a look that sends a nonexistent punch to his gut, the blood rushing south because you look ethereal like this, “Don’t you want me to…return to favor? Tit for tat?”
He chuckles, his thumb moving across your eyebrow, soothing the furrow as it moves down to rub against your cheek.
“We can do tat later,” he uses your terminology and you giggle, your lips pulling into a bright smile because you’re sitting in a post-orgasm afterglow with your crush, and that stupid theorem you had stressed over doesn’t even matter anymore because the impossible outcome is happening right now and you don’t bother with looking normal because you’re feeling anything but, “I still have a date I need to take you out on.”
You try not to gush like an idiot, your head falling into his sturdy chest, and his hand moves up and down your back, tracing stars and circles and hearts and writing his name, as if he wanted everyone to see the invisible ink that’s bleeding from his fingertips into you.
His finger hooks around your jaw, tilting your head upwards so he can see you better.
“You wanna date me?” You ask breathlessly with dizzingly joy, the question holding no weight because the two of you already know the answer, but he indulges you, his head falling to yours, forehead against yours, glasses sitting perfectly on his perfect face that’s pressing against your perfect one.
“I want to be yours,” he murmurs, vulnerability thick in his voice as your lashes flutter, “So, yeah, I want to date you.”
You giggle again, and you lift your head a little to slot your lips against his plush ones.
“I want to be yours too, Satoru,” you say, and he groans, his eyes rolling back like those were the only words he’s been dying to hear, and he lets out a victorious laugh, something happy and sickeningly sweet because the girl he’s been in love with for the past two years just so happens to love him back.
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